Page 61 of Flirting with Forever

Jeanne rubbed her chin. “I’ve got an idea. You know how news used to be objective old men giving us the facts and nothing but the facts?”

“Yeah?”

“But people gave up wanting to hear news? They only wanted to hear fairy tales or WWE smack talk disguised as news?”

“Yeah?”

“Why does your publisher want you to sex up your story? Because it sells better. Which is the same reason those cable news stations have created a new model.”

“So are you suggesting I rewrite this so all my characters are either interrupting one another or shouting?”

“No. I’m suggesting you create your own model. Fiction plus biography. Have it be based in fact. Lord knows, you’ve done the research. But sell it as fiction, or at least a weird hybrid. Campbell Stratford, art world expert, cracks open the world of sex-crazed, egomaniac painters. People will eat it up. Better yet, they’ll believe it’s true. After all, would a nice girl like you lie?”

Cam leaned back. A fictography. In a flash, she saw the whole book rewrite itself. It was a great idea. And best of all, she wouldn’t have to do a stitch more research. Whatever she didn’t know, she could make up! It was beautiful!

“Jeanne,” she said, “I don’t pay you enough.”

“Hush.” Jeanne punched the cushion and pulled the blanket over her head. “It goes to triple time at twenty-four hours.”

Cam’s finger went to her lashes. Most of the last twelve hours had been a highly embarrassing mistake. At least she could salvage something.

“Hey,” Jeanne said. “I can see that.”

Cam put her finger down. “So?”

“So what happened with Lely?”

“Nothing. I found out what I needed to know.”

“Uh-oh. That sounds like a scab worth picking.”

“Not tonight, huh? I gotta lot of work, okay?”

Jeanne made a considering noise. “All right. For now.”

When Jeanne began to snore, Cam turned to her manuscript, inspiration renewed, and began to type.

Her phone buzzed. A text. She picked it up. It was from Jacket.

“Can’t sleep. Looking at the night sky here. Are you working? Should I be worried? Make some noise when you come in, so I can rest easy. J”

She smiled. Maybe Porsches come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe one can be parked outside your house all the time, and you just didn’t notice.

She thumbed her reply, “Will do.”

Twenty-four

Five weeks later

Despite three cups of coffee and an inarguable interest in a number of topics on the agenda, Cam found her eyelids slowly closing during the weekly staff meeting till a kick from Jeanne under the table brought her to full attention.

“The status of the Van Dyck donation?” Lamont Packard repeated.

“Er, the paperwork is done,” Cam said. “Ball’s attorneys have reviewed it. Except for a minor change in the image rights section, they’re on board.” Cam had been at her desk at home every night since she’d returned, hammering out the pages of The Girl with a Coral Earring, then at the museum first thing in the morning to prepare for the exhibit and gala. Everything was going well, but she’d probably need to sleep for a week once the book was turned in.

“Good.” Packard tapped his pen. “And the provenance and authenticity?”

Cam swept a deferential hand toward her sister. Even though Cam had been a big fan of seventeenth-century masters since her early teens, when Anastasia finally settled on a college major during Cam’s senior year in high school, she’d naturally picked—what else?—art history with a specialty in seventeenth-century masters. The decision hadn’t particularly bothered Cam, but a year later, when her parents forbade her to choose the same specialty—“Anastasia’s had a hard time of it. Let’s give her her own space in which to blossom, okay?”—Cam had breathed a hard sigh, decided to outshine her sister in whatever area she chose, and switched to modern art, her second love. Nonetheless, her college thesis was on the influence of Van Dyck on Alfred Sisley and David Hockney, which is why, when it came time to write a biography, she’d returned to the subject with which it had all begun for her.