If he notices my discomfort, he doesn't show it. His expression is impassive, unreadable. “Which brings my curiosity back to what we've already covered. Why not ask what wage you will be paid?"
“I have enough of an idea of the going rate to know why this has to be a summer job that I don’t do this full time.” A pinch of irritation and defensiveness sneaks up on me. "And you walked away before I could get the opportunity."
He laughs and it surprises me more than anything else he has done thus far. "I suppose I did." He turns somber quickly and considers me for so long and so intently that I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. What is he thinking? What is he about to say? I am being judged and I know it. I tell myself that I don't know him well enough for his opinion to matter, but like his approval, it does. He is of the world where I so yearn to belong.
"Perhaps," he says, "I didn't want to give you the chance to decline."
"I can certainly see you as a man who prefers to do the declining yourself," I say before I can stifle my reply.
He laughs again and sits up, scrubbing his clean-shaven jaw. "You don't pull any punches, do you?"
I shake my head. "Not today."
His smile widens and it is a gorgeous, handsome smile that could melt chocolate. "Let's see how true that is. Your top three Italian artists are whom?"
I sit up straighter, my blood pumping, immediately alert. My answer is immediate. “Present day — artist and sculptor Marco Perego. Pino Daeni for his soft romantic characters. Contemporary Italian Master artist, Francesco Clemente who is one of the most illustrious European trans-avantgarde artists today.”
He arches a brow. “No Da Vinci?”
“He’s in a class by himself and is the expected answer that tells you nothing about my personal tastes."
His eyes light and I think he might be pleased with my answer.
“Damien Hirst," he says, throwing out the name of a famous painter.
I am in my element, and I reply easily. “He’s in his forties and already one of the most acclaimed contemporary artists alive. He’s worth an estimated one billion dollars. In 2008 he sold, through Riptide which your family owns, the full exhibition Beautiful Inside My Head Forever, with 223 works for $198 million, breaking the record of the most expensive auction by a single artist.”
A smile lingers on his mouth, the same mouth that I keep looking at with ridiculous obsession, and this time, I know I see the glow of approval in his eyes. I am warm again, energized anew. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t been before this moment with this man.
“Impressive, Ms. McMillan."
I smile, not even trying to suppress my pride at his words. “I aim to please.”
"I must say, I'm getting that idea, and I like it." His voice is low, laden with silk. "I like it immensely."
Without warning, the air crackles with a charge that steals my breath. His eyes have darkened with something akin to a predatory gleam. My body responds without my permission, tingling with awareness that I don't want to feel, but yet I do. I am frustrated with myself for being affected by a man I will not dare cross a line with. A man who is dangerous to me, who might well have been dangerous to Rebecca.
“Excuse me, Mr. Compton,” Amanda says from the doorway. “But you have a call.”
“Take a message,” he replies, never taking his eyes off of me. And despite my vow, I am transfixed by their color, by the intensity of his stare.
Amanda delicately clears her throat. “It’s Mrs. Compton about the auction that begins in an hour at Riptide.”
Mrs. Compton? The spell is broken and I gape. I know I do. I can’t stop myself.
He sighs and flicks Amanda a look. ”I’ll call her back in five minutes.”
“She’s pretty clear she wants to talk now.”
His tone grows sharper. “I’ll call her back.”
“Yes,” Amanda says, looking flustered. “I’ll tell her.”
My new boss returns his attention to me as Amanda disappears. “Mrs. Compton would be my mother,” he explains, definite amusement in his eyes now. “And just to be clear, the only woman I let boss me around. Unfortunately, as the manager of Riptide, she excels at it."
“Oh,” I say, surprised, and suddenly he is not nearly as intimidating as before. “Your mother.” I smile yet again. He’s a control freak. I know this already, but I think he might not be as bad as I'd feared. I didn't miss the hint of affection to his tone that tells me he loves his mother. I’ve always thought that says something about a man. "Her skill at bossing you around has nothing to do with that maternal bond, then?" I am teasing him, and it just happens. I can't stop myself.
"Perhaps it just might," he admits, and I am pleasantly surprised at the very human admission, the tiny bit of vulnerability he allows me to see with it.
He taps the folder. “There's plenty of reading for you to do in the folder. Amanda will get you set up on the computer and then there will be online testing. Pass them and we’ll talk about just what your role will be here. If you can play with the big dogs, and interact with Riptide quality transactions, I can assure you that money won’t be an issue.”
My heart races with this news. Could this really be happening? Could I really have the chance to make art my life? “I’ll get right on the tests.”
He leans in closer. “I see something special in you, Ms. McMillan. I’m hoping you’re going to prove me right.” Without another word, he pushes to his feet and leaves the room. I stare after him, my teeth worrying my bottom lip, my heart in my throat. I didn’t manage to get an answer about my salary, but I tell myself he’s alluded to a sizable package. Most importantly though, I am frustrated at myself because I haven’t asked about Rebecca. You will, I promise myself. When the time is right, you will.
Chapter Eight
Thirty minutes later, I have managed to claim my new office, on loan from Rebecca of course, which I refuse to let myself forget. Amanda has already logged me into the computer and headed back to her desk. I am now alone, with the door shut, ready to start to work.
I pull up my new email and I have a message waiting from Mark, or rather, Mr. Compton. I wonder if he intends to stay that formal with me, but then, it appears he has with Amanda, so I would assume that to be the case. I click on the email.
Welcome Ms. McMillan:
You will find a link to a number of tests below. Each is a timed evaluation to ensure you cannot use the internet for help, though I'm sure you would never consider doing such a thing.
May the odds be ever in your favor, and mine as well.
Mark Compton
I laugh at the reference to Hunger Games, and I am shocked but pleased that my new boss has a sense of humor. I feel silly now to have been so intimidated and affected as I was by him during our meeting. Logically, I know I was responding to this fascination I have with this world, this deep desire to belong here, that wasn’t about him at all. It was, and is, about me, about my past, about ghosts and skeletons I'm being forced to face just by sitting at this desk. And the journals, I remind myself as the soft scent of roses I now associate with Rebecca teases my nostrils.
I pull open the drawer to my right and find a lighter and set the flame burning on the candle. The flame flickers with life and my gaze falls on the brilliant rose colors on the wall. I picture Rebecca sitting here and somehow I feel as if she is over my shoulder, but it is not frightening. In fact, I feel almost comforted, as if the dancing fire from the wick is a sign she is alive and well. I feel hope that she will return, and perhaps I will have a place in this world as well. Do I dare believe I can chase this dream and really make a living at it? Excitement and hope expands within me. I want this so badly it hurts and it frightens me. I know why I have never tried and one of those reasons, money, seems to be resolved with the inference I will be paid commission on my sales. The other reason though, is dauntingly big. If I fail, if I must go back to my old life, it will destroy me.
“You have to try,” I whisper to the empty room. “You have to.”
New resolve forms and I shake off my fears. If I am to stay here, if I can prove I’m worth keeping around, then I need to get busy. I quickly dig into my testing and though the questions are challenging, I am pleased at the ease at which I complete the first few exams. I’m just finishing up a fourth, and stretching, considering seeking out a caffeine escape--this time one that is supposed to be cold--when I hear a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I call, not sure why my stomach flutters in anticipation of my visitor, but the feeling isn’t completely unwelcome. It’s been a long time since every piece of my day has felt like an adventure.
An Asian man in his late twenties appears in my entryway. "I'm Ralph, the accounting dude.”
"Ralph," I say, with a nod, and I barely contain a smile at both his ‘dude’ reference and his red bow tie and crisp white shirt. There is something friendly about this man that I like instantly.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he says, clearly reading the meaning in my smile. "I don't look like a Ralph. My folks wanted me to fit into the American mold but they weren’t American enough to know ‘Ralph’ isn’t exactly a cool name. But I like that it’s unexpected. It disarms people right off the bat, and like you, it makes them smile."
"I like that,” I say, smiling even bigger now. “I think you should be in sales. You could make that work for you."
He snorts. "And deal with all the arrogant rich people that come in this place? No thanks." He softens his voice. "Mark is all I can handle."
Laughter bubbles from my lips. "You'll have to share your secrets to that little trick."
"I'll buy you coffee sometime soon and tell you all his secrets."
"I'll take you up on that."
He waves and departs, pulling the door shut behind him, and I return to my testing. An hour later, the material has turned daunting and my mood has shifted from energized to frazzled. I can see why I might be tested on random collectible items, if I am to work with Riptide, but wine, opera, and classical music? I know absolutely nothing about these non-art subjects and I decide now might be a good time to find out how lunch works around this place.
I head to the lobby and find Amanda behind her desk with a tall, pretty young African American girl about her age standing with her. "Hello Sara,” this newcomer greets. “I'm Lynn, and I'm interning here this summer."
Lynn is dressed in a cream colored suit, and her hair and makeup is impeccable, but her personality is casual and warm. I chat with her, and Tesse, also an intern, and girl who been at the hostess stand the night of the gallery event I’d attended, joins us. I'm pleased that I like everyone I’ve met. I feel good with these people. Unfortunately, Mary, a pretty, and rather robust blonde salesperson closer to my age, is so busy she can only wave and give me a quick greeting.
“So, Amanda,” I say when I am finally alone with her again. “Is it common to be given testing on wines and music to work here?”
She nods. “We have so many events that Mark uses the testing to determine where we can best service the clientele. In fact, we have a wine testing Wednesday night.”
My stomach knots. Could wine really be my undoing?
“Excuse me,” a woman in dark-rimmed glasses says, appearing at the desk. “Can someone help me with a Chris Merit piece, please?”
An image of Chris standing in front of me, holding his jacket around me, makes my belly do a flutter. “I would be happy to help you,” I offer, suddenly very eager to visit his display again.
Amanda looks shocked, and I assume that means I’m not allowed to be on the floor yet. I pretend not to notice and head to the sales floor.
An hour later, the woman has left with a six-figure purchase that has me glowing with excitement, and I am glowing with the rush of having made a sale.
Ralph winks at me as I pass his office, which I’ve now discovered is next to mine, ah, Rebecca’s. My stomach growls and I realize I haven’t eaten anything and a glance at the ridiculously expensive, absolutely fabulous antique clock in the hallway says it’s two o’clock. Jeez, how did that happen?
I turn back to the reception area to ask Amanda if I can run out, and find myself toe-to-toe with Mark. He is taller than I remembered and I crane my neck to meet his stare. “Ms. McMillan,” he says tightly, and I am immediately aware of his displeasure. Why is he displeased? I just brought in six figures to the gallery.
“Mr. Compton,” I say.
“Why have you not completed your testing?”
“I was, ah, helping customers.”
“Did I tell you to help customers?”
I wet my lips nervously, and his gaze flicks over my mouth. It’s unnerving. He’s unnerving me again. “I just thought-”
“Don’t think, Ms. McMillan,” he says tightly. “Do as I say.”
Old, familiar feelings spiral down my spine, feelings of inadequacy, of needing to please--a moth to flame that is sure to burn me alive--surface. I reject them and straighten. “I took every test I’m capable of taking. I don’t know wine or opera or classical music. I’m sure you’ll find the job-related ones to be exemplary.”
“All the test are job related,” he corrects, “if you wish to operate at a higher level, which I understood you to say, you did. Did I get that wrong, Ms. McMillan?”
There is a crispness to my name that was not there before, and I am remotely aware that I am in front of an open office that is Ralph’s, that he can hear and see everything.