Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“I prefer the Museum of Fine Arts,” Diana says, shifting the conversation.
My errant remark is already forgotten.
The night whirls on.
The following evening, Margaret picks a Tom Ford dress with a Loulou chain bag by Yves Saint Laurent, along with Chloe heels. We attend a tasting hosted by the Boston Landmarks Commission. The chef, an up-and-coming name in the Boston foodie scene, tries to lure me into a flirtatious conversation, and my grandmother puts a stop to it right away.
“Lainey, come take your seat.”
Wednesday evening, we’re invited to a small concert at Diana’s home. She’s managed to pluck a quartet of musicians from the Boston Symphony Orchestra to play just for her and her invited guests. To enjoy the music, we crowd into her sitting room as waiters pass around hors d'oeuvres and signature cocktails. For the evening, Margaret chose a custom Valentino cocktail dress and Valentino heels that bite into my feet every time I take a step. I’m sandwiched between my grandmother and Diana, so even if I wanted to talk to the few guests in attendance closer to my age, I can’t.
Thursday night, I’m granted a reprieve. I stay up in my room reading a romance novel I have to hide from my grandmother. It’s not that she can forbid me from reading it, it’s that I don’t want to suffer the discomfort of a disappointed glare or reproachful shake of her head if I can avoid it. When the sun has fully set, Jacobs, my grandmother’s head butler, knocks on my door to deliver a tray of tea, and I tuck the book deep under my covers before I tell him to come in.
Friday is different, a day I’ve been looking forward to for months. Tonight’s event has nothing to do with my grandmother or her friends; it’s for my work.
Every week, I’m allowed eight hours of consulting work at Morgan Fine Art Gallery, usually on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. My grandmother arranged the position for me; she and Mr. Morgan are old friends. I’m not even aware of exactly what I get paid, if I get paid. For all I know, it’s a volunteer position, but I love it either way.
It allows me to utilize my extensive knowledge of the arts, applying my undergraduate degree in art history and my graduate degree in art management and curatorial studies. Every day is different. At times, I work directly with our signed artists, helping to curate and design their exhibitions for the gallery. Other days, I assist clients in helping to select works to build out their collections. I enjoy the logistics of packaging, transporting, and displaying art. Back-end or front-end—no task is too tedious or bothersome in the gallery. If I could, I’d be there seven days a week.
For the last month, I’ve been working with one of our artists named Aaron Pavlicek as he’s prepared for his contemporary art show that opens tonight. I really enjoy his work. He incorporates paper, fabrics, dry pigments, gold leaf, and found materials to create collages with depth and presence. He doesn’t shy away from color either—something I love in an artist—and I suspect he’ll be a raving success with the right collectors.
I’m practically giddy as I walk through the gallery that evening, surveying his pieces. I already have a few favorites that I hope will sell first. The doors only opened a few minutes ago, and already people are filtering in as waiters clad in black and white ensure everyone has a drink. A group of art critics and collectors crowd around Aaron near the front door. Mr. Morgan—his main dealer—stands by his side, fielding questions and ensuring Aaron doesn’t overdo it. With artist interviews, less is more. It’s better to let your art do the talking.
Aaron catches my gaze across the room and winks playfully. My cheeks heat, something that can’t be helped with as little experience as I have dealing with men. It’s sort of pathetic at my age. A man could merely look at me with intent in his eyes and I’d melt into a puddle on the floor. It doesn’t help that he’s handsome and roguish with messy blond hair and a scruff-covered jaw. All month, he’s been making it obvious that he would like to take me out to dinner if only I’d agree to it, and all month I’ve made it clear that I don’t like to mix work and pleasure, though that’s not really the truth. The reason I’ve turned him down is simply that Aaron is not for me. My future has already been arranged.
A man and a woman stand in front of one of his pieces and I stroll over, careful to approach in a mindful, gentle way so I don’t come across like an overzealous salesperson.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask with a smile.