Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (new books to read TXT) 📕

“Absolutely.” In fact, her editor had been very excited and just last week had slipped a story in Publishers Weekly—“Art historian Campbel Stratford wil turn the art world on its ear with her upcoming ‘fictography,’ The Girl world on its ear with her upcoming ‘fictography,’ The Girl with a Coral Earring”—that mentioned the museum and her position there.

“Good. Keep it up. Keep it positive. Keep getting the word out about the Carnegie. Can I tel them that’s part of your plan?”

“Sure. Definitely.”

Packard shut the case and paused. “What about Jacket?”

Cam shuffled a little. Being connected with an artist had always been a tad uncomfortable when it came to museum politics. Jacket had been wil ing to help whenever he could, but it would be unethical, unfair to him and just plain weird for her to promise that he’d do anything. “What do you mean?”

“He’s back, yes?”

“You should know. You invited him.”

Packard laughed. “Yes, he was kind enough to do a piece for the show. But I think it would be in your best interest for me to let the board know if Jacket is going to be a permanent addition to Pittsburgh.”

Wel , the question was about as opaque as he could have made it. Nonetheless Cam felt her cheeks grow warm.

“Yeah, um, we’re exploring the topic.”

“I apologize. I know the topic’s uncomfortable. Hel , it’s uncomfortable for me to ask. But if you happen to come to a decision in the two weeks before the next board meeting, please let me know. It’l help.”

“Ugh.”

“I know, I know. What can I say? That’s how the world works. On a personal note, however, may I add that I’d love to see you happy.”

“I’m noticing you’re not saying, ‘I’d love to see you with Jacket.’”

“I’m the father of four daughters. I would never presume.”

Now Cam laughed. “Thanks, Lamont.” She spotted Jeanne at the door, pointing at her and miming a telephone. “I gotta run. I’ve got a cal .”

“Tel Jacket I appreciate the help.”

Cam hurried to the hal .

“It’s your agent,” Jeanne said. “She says it’s important.”

Cam shook her head and gazed out her office window. This couldn’t be happening. “What are you saying, Julie?”

“I’m saying they checked the outline. They can’t buy it.”

“They already bought it. We signed a contract. It’s been announced.”

“They want out.”

“I ain’t gonna let ’em.”

“You’l have to.”

“Why? What could have happened to an outline they loved so much they asked me to finish it by January fifteenth?”

“It’s not your plot.”

“If it’s not the plot, what is it? The title? For God’s sake, they can change it.”

“No, I mean, it’s not your plot. It’s the plot of another story.”

“What?”

“In the executive meeting, a new editor read the outline and said, ‘Wel , I hope she has Molière listed as a cowriter, because this is the plot of The School for Wives.’”

Cam’s heart jumped into her throat.

Julie added, “I, of course, pooh-poohed it when the publisher cal ed, but then she started listing the paral els.

Orphanage girl named Agnes. Lecherous old man who waits until she’s grown to bed her. Triangle love interest named Horace. Cam, the entire love story is exactly like the play, and some of the phrases you use in the outline … my God! They’re practical y word for word.”

Cam felt like she’d been punched. She’d been had. Oh boy, had she been had. Peter fed her a line. He’d fed her more than a line. He’d fed her an entire goddamned play! It couldn’t be a coincidence. But why would he do it? Things were starting to add up in an ugly way. Peter had worked his magic to get her to pose, then he’d done his brooding leading-man imitation to get her into bed and then he’d careful y fed her the plot, characters and lines of a play instead of a story about Van Dyck.

She didn’t know why or how, but it felt like the most manipulative thing a man had ever done to her. She was breathless with hurt and fury.

“Hang on.” She went to Wikipedia, typed in “School for Wives” and hit ENTER.

“Molière’s masterpiece, The School for Wives, was first staged on December 26, 1662,” the entry started. She staged on December 26, 1662,” the entry started. She scanned the plot.

Shit.

“Cam?”

“Yep. Got it. Pul