Love Story

Elizabeita entered one of the conference rooms at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and took a seat in the back. Most of the Contemporary Art staff had already gathered, and she noticed a workman touching up some paint on the side wall. Its scent was strong but not unpleasant

“How’s everybody today?” Delores Martin, the head curator in charge of the division,
asked. In addition to Dee, three assistant curators, three collections managers, one research associate and a variety of technicians completed their department. Sometimes, Elizabeita had to pinch herself to believe she’d actually gotten an assistant curatorship at this renowned museum three years ago.

Mumbles of
good
or
okay
or
tired
abounded. Elizabeita liked the people she worked with, including
the two interns from the School of Art in Manhattan.

After some announcements, Delores zeroed in on her. “Elizabeita, I’ve got good news for you.”

“Seriously? We’re getting it?” She’d been working on bringing a touring exhibit of a comparison between Dali and Picasso to the Met.

“Yes, we are. A gallery in Chicago had to drop out because of a fire. We’ve gotten their slot at the beginning
of November.”

“Hallelujah!” Success meant a lot to her.

“We don’t have much time to prepare for this, but I’m sure it will sell out in days. Publicity is already underway. You can expect the setup to begin as soon as the Matisse exhibit ends and is broken down.”

“Great. Will I still be going to the conference in California the week after next?”

“I don’t see why not.” She transferred
her gaze to the person next to Elizabeita. “Ellen, about your project. We didn’t receive a grant we expected from the city. It’s impossible to finance your exhibit before the end of the year.”

Also an assistant curator, Ellen Pratt frowned. “But you said it was on track to be accepted.”

“I thought it would be. I didn’t plan on the cut.”

Elizabeita knew how Ellen must feel. She’d experienced
rejection at work, too. Then again, everybody did.

“Make an appointment to see me and we’ll talk.”

They covered other business, then Dee took off her glasses and leaned forward. “We’ll end with something we need to discuss—the emails our department has been getting.”

For a while now, the staff at the Met had been receiving emails which consisted of a line or two about modern art. The
missives had gone from innocuous statements about its lack of relevance, its nonsensical presentation to branding the style as pagan, blasphemous and sacrilegious. After studying the history of art at Oxford, Elizabeita knew about art fanatics.

“There might be cause for concern,” Delores went on.

“Why?” Ellen asked. “We have the best security of any art museum in the world here. And Director
Davidson is top-notch.”

“We do. Physically.” The museum sported the requisite cameras, guards in every room, motion sensors on each work of art, and vigilant overnight security. “But we may need assistance in dealing with computer issues.”

The collections manager offered, “These emails have been coming periodically for a while now. Aren’t they just from some kook who doesn’t understand
genius or wants attention?”

“At first, we thought so. Then the frequency increased. And the tenor of the messages has become aggressive. Also, a few employees have noticed lurkers around the quietest spaces in the museum. When security was called, they vanished.”

“A lot of people lurk in museums.” This from the research associate. “We call it browsing.”

Elizabeita agreed about the
lurkers. Her favorite patron of the museum, a little old Polish man who took the train in from Brooklyn every week, could be considered one. And he was as harmless as a kitten.

“All I can say is the director wants you to be on the lookout for anything unusual. And be sure to send your emails to him as soon as you receive them so his team can analyze the data.”

Elizabeita’s gaze strayed
to the man painting in the corner. He hadn’t gotten much done. Right now, he was on his haunches doing something she couldn’t see. It was
unusual
to have a workman in a room during a staff meeting.

When the group broke up, Elizabeita took out her phone. As she walked into the hallway, she checked for messages. Three texts had come in, and she moved to the side to read them. One from a professor
she had taken classes from—and more—who lived in London. One from Ana. Another from a guy she’d dated once and didn’t plan to see again. She answered them and then pushed herself off the wall. Right as the workman came out. They collided.

A gallon can went flying. When it hit the wall, the top came off and beige paint spattered everywhere. “What the hell?” he muttered and whirled around. “You
ran into me.”

“I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m sorry.”

“Do you have any idea how long that’s going to take me to clean up?”

She frowned. “Quite a while.”

He glanced back to the wall. “Damn it,” he said under his breath.

“Listen, I can help you. It was my fault.”

“Damn right it was.” He raked her up and down with a disgusted gaze. “Never mind. I can’t see you mopping
up paint in those heels and the suit.”

Hmm. Must be he didn’t know who she was. Not a big shot at the museum, for sure, but she’d started working here after she got her second degree in art and had interned in galleries in London and Paris. She planned to climb the art ladder fast. Now, at twenty-six, she was recommending exhibits and had gotten one approved. She could, if she wanted to, get
him in trouble.

Sofia would kill her.
Sweetie
, she’d say.
Be forgiving of people. You never know if their cat died, if they were up all night at a second job, or if they’d lost everything they’d worked for
.

So she backed up a few steps. “You’re right. I was only trying to help.” Stung, she started to walk away.

And heard behind her, “I could probably leave the paint on the wall, and
people would think it was just another piece of that damned modern art.”

Hmm. He had a sense of humor. Who would have guessed?

Nick Casella enjoyed hard labor, but today his back was protesting as he dismantled several display units that had been used in an exhibit for some famous painter whose work, he thought, looked like a bunch of amoebas.

In the museum proper,
he heard someone say, “Hey, Ms. Ludzecky, can I ask a question?”

Glancing over the half-wall that demarcated his area, Nick saw a group of about ten little ones, not quite kindergarten age, circling around the woman who he’d had a literal run-in with a few days ago. It had been a nightmare cleaning up the spill. But this was his job right now, and he’d do it no matter what.

“Yes, of course.
You can ask anything. Marcus, is it?” “Uh-huh.” He gestured to the painting she stood beside. “How come I can draw as good as that guy?”

Nick chuckled. His view exactly.

“Some people think modern art can be done by anyone. And it would be nice if you tried to do what he did. But that’s the point. You
didn’t
paint it. Piet Mondrian did.”

“It’s just a lotta lines,” another kid put in.

“Let’s talk about the lines. Their color. The shapes they form. Stare hard at the canvas. What do you see?”

Tuning out the dialogue, Nick yanked some nails from lumber. He hadn’t spent much time in art museums, though his mother had tried to help him enjoy the visits as a child. So he’d had no idea preparing for the exhibits was so much work.

A while later, someone tugged on his shirt.
“Hey, whatcha doing?”

Glancing down, he saw some half-pint peering up at him. “Shouldn’t you be with the group?”

The kid shrugged. “It’s okay.” Hell, if the blonde gave him permission…

Nick was in the process of explaining about the exhibits when she came in. She was dressed in a dark red suit, and up close, he could see she wore more makeup than the last time and had scraped her hair
back into what seemed like a painful knot. Why the hell did women do that?

“Seth, you were told not to leave the group.”

The boy said, “I wondered what this guy’s doing.”

She turned to Nick. God, she was a kid, barely out of college. And though not in years, he was an old man in many ways. She said, “Hello again.”

He didn’t greet her. “You should keep better track of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“The kids. They’re not allowed to wander around the museum alone.”

“I know. The chaperones would have caught that this one left, but they were busy with two other kids who were crying.”

“Probably at the ugly art,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Aren’t they a little young for the Met?”

“You’re never too young for art.” She arched a brow. “Who knows what would
have happened to you if you’d spent more time in a quiet gallery like this, contemplating art and life.”

“Honey, all the art in the world wouldn’t have changed my life.” Now
he
arched a brow. “Or my disposition. I gotta get back to work.”

With that he gave her his back, and soon he heard her heels clicking on the floor. Damn it, he shouldn’t have taunted her—again. But there was something
about her that made him testy. Still, he was supposed to be keeping a low profile, which he wasn’t used to. But best he remember that.

Right after work, Elizabeita walked down to Blue’s, a bar near the museum. As it was only five, she snapped up a table and pulled out her phone. Several messages, but none from Al, the guy she was meeting for a drink. After she ordered wine
from a waiter, she scrolled through her messages.

A little while later, she heard, “Hey, am I late?”

Raising her gaze, she smiled at Al Baker. He was an architect and she’d met him through Adam Armstrong, one of the Ludzecky brothers-in-law. His gray suit accented his cloud-colored eyes.

“Nope. I was early.” She was supposed to take the whole afternoon as comp time, but she’d worked
until four.

After he settled in, they sipped drinks and shared their days. All Elizabeita could think was
boring.
She wouldn’t be rude.
Matka
had taught her better than that, though she was sometimes harsh to her sisters’ men, when they misbehaved.
Somebody
had to take them to task.

After a few hours, Elizabeita ended the date—Al seemed as relieved as she—and she took the subway home,
to Magdalena’s condo. Often, she couldn’t believe her sisters were so unselfish, like Magdalena offering Elizabeita the place rent-free when Mags moved in with her new husband.

Changing into leopard-print capris, a long-sleeved black T-shirt with a big white feline printed on it and neon-yellow Sketchers, she unknotted her hair and shook it out. Her whole scalp relaxed. As it was the weekend,
she took a can of temporary color hair spray labeled Peacock Blue and put three streaks in her long blond locks. Her hair wasn’t as light as her sisters’, and she used to highlight it, but lately, she was having fun getting wild with her long locks. There, that was better. She felt like Lizzie again and could stay this way for a few days.

Crossing to the desk in the corner, she stopped short.
Damn, she’d left her laptop at work. She needed it over the weekend, as she had a million details to take care of for the Dali/Picasso exhibit. She checked her watch. Eight. Maybe she’d grab a cab uptown and get it. The Met closed at nine on Fridays, so she’d make it before they locked up and all the security was turned on. She was halfway there when she realized she hadn’t eaten and she’d had
two drinks. She’d get something out before she returned home.

When she arrived at the museum, she went in the employee entrance and headed to her office in the back. All the art staff was gone except one supervisory evening person. She made her way down a corridor and had just gotten out her keys when somebody grabbed her from behind. She opened her mouth to scream, but a big, masculine hand
covered it. Her heart began to gallop in her chest. She remembered the crazy emails. The suspicion of a lurker. If she believed in God, she’d pray.
Think, Lizzie, think.