The Art of Stealing Hearts (3 page)

I live right above
the restaurant, which has been my residence for the last year. It
smells like Italian food all the time, but the di Fiores offered this
place to me at an unbelievably good price when I needed a new place
to stay. Just another selfless thing they’ve
done for me. Giovanni said it was so I would never have an excuse to
be late, but I’ve
only ever been late once and I know how much Nona worried every time
I had to leave the restaurant past midnight and take the bus home.
She really is like an adoptive mother, and I am so fortunate to have
been taken in by this loving—if
a little interfering and lot boisterous—second
family.

I can still hear
them laughing below me, a comforting din of voices, and I start
getting ready for bed. Nona and Giovanni’s
daughter Carmella will have closed up the deli she started next door,
joined by her husband Fred and a few other cooks for a late night
snack and wine. I have a standing invitation to join them, and when I
do, they treat me like one of their own.

I’m
lucky. After Mom died, I felt like I had no one. I was so lost and
lonely. And then the di Fiores gave me even more than a job, more
than a family, they gave me another chance at my dreams. Without the
money I made from Giovanni’s,
I never could have paid for college—even
the community college fancy-pants Lydia scoffed at—and
without their support and encouragement, I never would have been able
to continue studying and making art.

I brush my teeth and
stare at one of my mother’s
paintings. A landscape of Oakland’s
hills, the rolling green grasses and trees seeming to come alive and
move in an invisible breeze. This apartment is small, but it’s
homey, just like the apartments I lived in growing up. My dad left
when Mom was pregnant with me, so it was just the two of us and her
single working mom’s
salary, but she never made me feel like we lacked.

I learned tricks
from my mom to spread beauty without bucks. I have a few small potted
plants near the windows for life, and I used lots of bright colors
and fabrics for texture all around the studio. I spit out toothpaste
and place the brush back in its holder, which is shaped like an ocean
wave. “It’s
the little things”—like
my mom always said—and
it’s
something I have taken to heart.

My mom’s
love lives on, and I know what Nona said is true, but I miss seeing
Mom laugh and her smile, the way she lit up when we visited museums
in the city on their free days, how she would stand in front of
paintings or sculptures for hours.

“Look at this
line, Grace, the way it splits the light into shadow.”
She taught me
to find the point of energy in the piece, where all the lines seemed
to flow from or to. “That’s
where the meaning is.”

I slip into my
pajamas and admire all the different prints on the walls, pieces I
picked up in Chinatown and from street vendors at art fairs. Mom
loved art for art’s
sake, not because it was famous. She taught me to trust that if I was
moved, it was enough.

Most of all, I miss
watching my mother work in our living room, an old sheet draped over
our thrift store furniture, the look on her face when she painted:
concentrated bliss. I like to think that’s
the way my face looks, too, when I’m
in the zone. It’s
been a while since I felt inspired. I haven’t
been able to paint since she died, like her leaving stole the joy
from my work too.

My phone dings just
as I’m
getting under the covers. I must have missed a call while I was
cleaning up after my shift ended. I grab it off the night stand and
peek at the glowing screen.

You have one new
message…

I go to my voicemail
and press the play button, my heart in my throat as I listen. It’s
Lydia’s
assistant from the auction house!

“Miss Bennett?
Congratulations. Please arrive tomorrow at 9 am to start your new
position.”

Yes!

I listen to the
message three times in a row, just to be sure I’m
not dreaming, smiling so wide my face starts to hurt. I got it! After
all the work, all the worry, I finally have my break.

I lay back and let
my imagination run riot. First this internship, and then who knows?
With this job on my resume, and enough real-life experience, I could
become an appraiser or buyer at one of the most prestigious and
respected auction houses in the world. No more paycheck to paycheck
living.
Things
are finally looking up for me.

I arrive at the big
golden doors of Carringer’s
early, at 8:30 sharp. No jerk cab driver, no jogging in heels, no
sweat-smeared make-up. This is my chance to show them they made the
right decision. My phone pings just as I’m
approaching the entrance.

‘
Good luck!
You’ll
knock ‘em
dead!’

It’s
from my friend Paige, my roommate-turned-partner in crime from Tufts.
We stayed close after I left, but these days, she’s
working in London and our friendship is conducted via Skype and
texts. Still, I’m
glad to have the encouragement.

‘
Thanks!
’
I type back.
‘I’ll
need it.’

The salty ocean wind
whips through my thin black dress, but I wait a moment outside trying
to get my cool back. I look around at the morning rush hour crowds
and wonder if I’ll
see the body by Michelangelo guy from yesterday. He must work near
here, right?

At 8:45 I heave open
the doors. The lobby is empty, but there’s
a tall, gangly man in a designer suit looking around. He approaches,
looking stressed. “Grace?”

“Yes, hi!”
I extend my
hand. “I’m
so excited to be here.”

“Charmed. I’m
Stanford, follow me,” he
says, opening the door and leading me down a stairwell. “I’m
in charge of the newbies.”

I keep up as he
heads down into the basement. The stairwell is spooky: bare concrete
and metal, nothing like the luxury upstairs.

“Is this where
we get our badges?” I
ask, nervous.

“What’s
that, sweetie?” He
leads me down a dark hallway and flips on the lights. I look past him
into a storage room filled with buckets, mops, spray bottles and an
assortment of rags and sponges. “And
voila! You can go ahead and get started right away.”

Wait, what?

“I think
there’s
been some mistake,” I
say awkwardly. “Are
you sure I’m
supposed to be here? The internship—”

“Lydia left
the instructions.” Stanford
shrugs. “Sorry.
You’re
supposed to sweep the lobby first.”

His phone starts to
ring. “I
need to go. Welcome to Carringer’s!”

He leaves and I feel
the lump rising in my throat before his footsteps fade from the
creepy hallway. I look around. Is this some sort of test? Or a joke?
Why would they do that? No, something is wrong. It has to be.

I retrace our steps
up the stairs to the lobby and then find my way to Lydia’s
office.

I take a breath and
knock.

“Yes?”

The door swings
open, revealing Lydia sitting cozily on the couch having tea with
Chelsea, the shiny-haired girl from the interviews, the one who was
boasting about having the internship locked up.

I stop, confused.
“I’m,
uh, here for the internship,” I
say, feeling like I’m
on the edge of a cliff and about to drop. Something is totally off.

Chelsea laughs.
“What
are you talking about? The internship is mine.”

I turn to Lydia,
ignoring Chelsea. “Your
assistant called me about the position last night,”
I say. I can
hear the pleading in my voice but I can’t
help it. “Listen.”
I play the
message on speaker so we can all hear it, and for once I’m
glad I never delete my voicemails.

“Oh. Dear.”
Lydia
actually looks a little sorry for me. “I
apologize, Miss Bennett. My assistant was supposed to offer you a
clerk
position—filing,
light cleaning, assisting with deliveries, that kind of thing.”

My heart sinks. “So
I didn’t
get the internship?”

“No.”

I have to bite back
a sudden rush of tears stinging in my throat. I knew it! After all my
happiness and celebration, it was just a big mistake.

“Sorry for
taking up your time,” I
say, glad my voice is coming out steady. I turn to leave, but Lydia
stops me.

“So you don’t
want the job?”

I stop. “You
mean, the cleaning job?”

“The clerk
position,” she
corrects me. “It
may not be what you were hoping for, but it’s
a paid position here with the staff at Carringer’s.
And who knows? It could be a foot in the door for you,”
Lydia says.
“You
did say you would do anything, didn’t
you?”

Chelsea smirks. “Did
she?”

“Here’s
a chance to prove yourself,” Lydia
says. “Perhaps
if you can demonstrate you are Carringer’s
material, there may be room for advancement down the road.”

“You might
actually be able to go near the art someday,”
Chelsea adds
smugly.

My mind races. I
want to walk out and leave Chelsea to her snide bitching, but I did
say I would do anything. And I meant it. This isn’t
exactly what I wanted, but it’s
still a job in the art world. A start. It’d
be foolish to turn it down.

“I’ll
take it,” I
say, determined.
Look
for the beauty
,
Mom says in my mind and I nod again. “I’ll
take the job. Thank you.”

I
spend the next nine hours in the filing room, which is where files go
to die. And then they get brought back to life by some poor clerk
like me assigned to organize and inventory all the old auction sales.

Really though, it’s
not that bad. Better than sweeping the lobby, which I’m
sure I’ll
have to do tomorrow. Stacking and sorting files lets me read up on
the artwork, look at photos of some of the most beautiful paintings
and jewelry and furniture ever created, and read up on the auction
house’s
history. I’ve
fantasized about owning an actual Monet or Rembrandt or Rothko. Can
you imagine?

At six, I lock up
the file room and head upstairs to find Stanford. “See
you in the morning.”

“Wait,”
he stops me.
“I
need you to stay late.” He
grabs my arm and steers me toward the main auction hall. “A
caterer messed up and now we’re
short five servers tonight. We need you to cover.”

“I have
another job,” I
protest.

“It’ll
be extra pay, and tips too,”
Stanford
says. “Please?
I wouldn’t
even ask, but Her Majesty is taking this out on me. And hey,”
he looks me
up and down. “At
least you’re
dressed for it.”

I don’t
need to ask who Her Majesty is. Stanford looks desperate, so I sigh,
and nod. “Okay,
I’ll
stay.”

“Treasure!”
He claps his
hands together gratefully. “Can
you start with setup? We need chairs brought out for the auction.”
He points to
a set of double doors at the far end of the hall. “There
are more in there. Set them up in rows like these other ones.”

As I trudge across
the marble floor, I consider just how different this reality is from
my dream of my first day on the job. I thought I’d
be consulting over priceless art, but instead, I’m
hoisting furniture and serving canapés.
Still, I’m
excited by the thought of the auction tonight. I’ve
never been to one before. Maybe I’ll
get a chance to watch, see first-hand how it all works.

The security doors
are open at the back of the auction room, leading to the secure space
where they store the pieces waiting to be revealed for bidding, an
area normally reserved for VIPs and high level staff. I see the
rolling pallet with stacks of white chairs piled on top, but before I
can get there, I hear the soft murmur of hushed voices and the click
of several cameras. A massive canvas sits on its wheeled frame,
surrounded by a few photographers and reporters with small notebooks.

It pulls me in like
a magnet and as I get closer I can tell it’s
a Rubens, the Flemish Baroque painter, one of the most sought after
artists of the seventeenth century.
Holy
crap!
A real-life masterpiece.
The
Judgment of Paris
,
a scene of naked goddesses parading themselves in front of two gods
in the woods, dancing, showing off their beauty in a contest of the
fairest, captivatingly rendered in deep light and shadow.

“Amazing,
isn’t
it?” a
silky voice says in my ear and I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn
to find the sexy British guy from yesterday, standing there looking
just as gorgeous as I remember. He smiles and it’s
like his dimples wink at me.

Don’t
swoon.

“A true
masterpiece,” I
say, hoping that he doesn’t
take my rapidly reddening cheeks to mean I’m
referring to him as a masterpiece, even if I maybe meant him, too.

“A classic.”
He sighs,
content. Then he looks at me. “This
must be old hat for you by now. Seeing such beautiful art up close
all the time.”

I smile. “It
never gets old,” I
say. “Art
is meant to be seen a million different ways.”

He looks surprised,
then he nods at me, appreciative. “I
feel exactly the same way.” Does
he remember me? Or was I just a temporary distraction on his way to
the office yesterday, the flavor of the day for his morning
entertainment?

“This is from
one of my favorite eras.”

“You like the
drama of Baroque, do you?” he
says, squinting at me playfully. “Are
you a drama queen?” Seriously,
is he flirting with me because he remembers our exchange, or is this
just his MO for interacting with women?

“You know your
art,” I
say, impressed.

“I better,”
he says. “I
spend a lot of money on it.”

So he’s
a collector. I gaze at the painting again, the women seeming to dance
right off the canvas, moving with the deep green shadows in heavy
brushstrokes. “I
love the deep shadows and shimmering details, like they could walk
right out of the painting and just…”
I let my
voice trail off as I realize I’m
rambling. “Sorry,”
I say. “I
just get excited.”