Page 122 of Flirting with Forever

“I know it’s not real,” she said, “but I’m not going to say anything.”

Cam didn’t know what to say. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “But…?”

“I know all about it. I know how you got it, and I know who did it.”

She couldn’t mean she knew about Peter and the Afterlife. “What are you saying?”

“I mean, I know Peter or Rusty or whatever your friend’s name is painted it.”

Cam breathed a sigh of relief. “Then why are you going to keep quiet?”

“I know you don’t think I have the best interests of this museum in mind most days, but I’d like to think that I’m a little better than that. If Ball wants to give the painting, and Packard wants to accept it, that’s good for the museum. You heard the people out there. They love it.”

Cam blinked. What had come over her sister?

“And they should love it,” she went on. “It’s a damned fine painting. Exceptional, really. Any museum in the world would accept it as a Lely. Hell, any museum in the world would accept it even though it’s not a Lely. The only trouble is, I know the sitter’s you.”

“Me?” The freight elevator dinged and both women moved a step farther away.

“It’s pretty obvious, Cam. Jacket saw it. I did too. And that’s the real reason I’m going to keep quiet. You just don’t get that sort of feeling from an artist with any sitter. He loves you, Cam. You have a way with men I’ll never have. Even Jacket loves you, and you just dumped him. That painting’s a good, pure thing, and Peter’s love is a good, pure thing. I won’t be a part of ruining either one.”

“Thank you, Stacy.”

Anastasia threw her arms around her. “Which isn’t to say I’m not going to get the directorship, you know.”

Cam laughed and hugged tighter. “I know. Game on.”

Anastasia pulled away. “There. It doesn’t matter that the paint looks too new. It doesn’t matter that the canvas has been stretched too carefully, or that the style is not quite right. No one will ever know the painting is a fake.”

Cam froze. Mrs. Fitcher, the old biddy from the board, gazed at them, mouth agape, from the elevator.

Fifty-eight

Thirty minutes later, Cam slammed the door of Packard’s office, leaving Packard, Anastasia, Dunevin, Ball, and Mrs. Fitcher behind her.

Jeanne stopped the game she was playing on her phone and jumped to her feet. “What can I do to help?”

“It depends. Do you still have that business card for the ‘We Hit Old Biddies’ firm?”

Jeanne nodded toward the door. “What happened in there?”

“Oh, the usual. Even though there’s no signature and no record of it in Lely’s documents—er, the real Lely, I mean, the Lely who painted in 1673—the composition, theme, and color choice point to authenticity. In that case, especially with a situation as sensitive as this, experts usually take a generally positive-but-not-yet-definitive point of view. However, Mrs. Fitcher happened to overhear the museum’s leading expert on Restoration-era art say it’s a fake. Since then, Anastasia’s done everything she can to backpedal, and when Mrs. Fitcher has pushed her, she went mum—”

“Anastasia?”

“She’s really trying to cover for me, bless her heart. It’s hard for me to believe it myself.”

“Hard for you to believe? Traveling through time? That’s hard to believe. Anastasia being kind? That’s impossible.”

“Yeah, so Anastasia’s stayed mum and Ball won’t let anyone, including Packard, who’s getting really nervous, look at it.”

“Now what?”

“Who knows? Either way, I’m still going to be out of a job tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to leave me with the chain-mail Czarina, are you?”

“She’ll change. You’ll see.”