Beach Wedding (26 page)

“As I was saying,” the woman in charge continues, pausing
to glare at me again, “I am Lydia Forbes, head of personnel. As
far as you’re concerned, that makes me lady fate herself. For
one of you, this internship will change the course of your entire
life.”
Thanks for the reminder.
“The rest of you
will continue searching for the elusive pearl to launch your career.”
I think I might hyperventilate, but the rest of the candidates in
their expensive clothes nod along as cool as robots.

Lydia continues as she paces the room. “In front of you, you’ll
find descriptions and photographs of ten objects that represent the
types of fine and decorative arts typically auctioned off here at
Carringer’s. You have exactly thirty minutes to identify and
appraise each piece, and then you will be interviewed.”

My pulse races like I’m still jogging, but there is excitement
mixed in with my extreme anxiety. I get to look at beautiful art. And
even though I’m nervous, I also know that all those years I
spent studying my brains out in order to get my arts degree (while
still holding down a full time job) are finally going to pay off.

Lydia stops in front of me, drums her French-tipped nails along the
edge of my table. “Each of you has an excellent resume, but
only one can be the best.” She gives me a little sneer as she
walks away, and I feel like my heart might pound out of my chest, but
I know I can do this. Mom would tell me take three deep breaths and
then go. I hear her voice in my head: “Everything slows down;
you can focus.”

Lydia’s sharp heels sound like cat claws on the floor. “Your
time starts now.”

This is your dream, Grace
. I take three deep breaths and dive
in.

“Last summer I went to Italy for six weeks, but now Rome feels
so provincial, you know?” a snooty-looking brunette with
perfectly straight, shiny hair sitting next to me says.

I’ve been in the salon—too luxurious to be called a
waiting room—outside Lydia’s office for nearly an hour.
Art adorns the walls, each piece worth at least a hundred years of my
salary. Worry knots in my stomach as I hear more and more of the
other candidates talk about their family compounds on Cape Cod, and
all their mutual friends from boarding school and Ivy League
colleges.

It’s like a window onto a completely different world. They even
use the word summer as a verb, as in “Where did you summer?”
which is how this conversation next to me got started. The only
places I’ve ever “summered” were on the patio with
my mom, lemon juice in our hair for highlights, with the occasional
trip to the community pool.

“Oh, Chelsea,” girl number two says. “Just because
the guy you laid in Florence never called you back doesn’t mean
Italy has been ruined.”

“Please, Angelica, you’re only going abroad because your
daddy said you couldn’t laze around his Hamptons house again
this year.”

“He forced me to apply for this internship too,” Angelica
pouts. “Some old buddy of his knew someone here, blah, blah.”
Blah blah
is how this girl refers to connections I would kill
to have. She has no idea how lucky she is. “Daddy thinks my
Yale degree makes me a genius, but I know I failed that assessment
just now.” She pats her blonde hair-sprayed bun. “I
didn’t even know what that rod thingy was! It looked like a
broken curling tong to me.”

I try not to think about how unfair it is. The art world is like this
everywhere, all about who you know and which circles you run in and
how rich your family is. I don’t have a celebrity neighbor or a
trust fund so girls like this will never take me seriously, but
hopefully that won’t matter in my final interview. I know I
aced those test materials.
That “rod thingy” was a
17th century German scepter, not a salon accessory,
I have to
force myself from saying out loud
.

Lydia’s assistant with the clipboard appears as the Armani
asshole from earlier exits her office. “Grace Bennett?”

I stand up and enter the room. My hands are sweaty, my throat tight.
I sit down in one of the chairs across from Lydia’s
glass-topped desk. Unlike the rest of the building, this room is all
high-tech and glossy-looking, with only a pair of antique Chinese
cloisonné vases as decor.

“Ms. Bennett,” Lydia says, leaning back in her white
leather chair. Her perfectly coiffed hair doesn’t move as she
looks me up and down. “It says here on your resume that you
studied at… Montclair Community College.” She drawls the
last two words with clear amusement. “I was unaware that one
could receive a fine arts degree from a community college.”

“Not all of them offer the program,” I say, my heart
sinking at this immediate obstacle. “I was lucky to find
Montclair Community College after I had to drop out of Tufts.”

“You got into Tufts?” She looks surprised.

“I attended for a year on a full scholarship before…a
family emergency called me back home.”

Lydia waits for an explanation, but I don’t tell her anything
more. Mom getting sick, her death, it still hurts too much to talk
about, and soon enough Lydia slides her reading glasses to the tip of
her pointed nose and looks at the next paper in her folder. “You
did very well on the assessment.”

I let out a breath I’d been holding since entering the auction
house. “Oh, that’s so great to hear.”
I knew it!
“I just love art so much—the Baroque era is my favorite,
the movement in the paintings, the energy and life in such dramatic,
vivid detail—but any true masterpiece hits me, right here, you
know?” I touch my heart. “It’s like a real physical
response, and I just want to be around the beauty, the craft, the
history of the art you have here.”

Lydia removes her glasses, almost smiles at me. Maybe this isn’t
such a long shot after all. “Many of the other applicants also
did well,” she says. “Tell me why you deserve this.”

I take another breath. Where do I even begin? “I would work so
hard if you give me this opportunity, Ms. Forbes, harder than anyone
else. I understand what an opportunity this is, and I don’t
take that for granted.” Not like the trust-fund kids outside, I
silently add. “Day or night, whatever Carringer’s needs.
I want this job, and…honestly, it’s everything I ever
wanted. I know I would be really good at it, and if you just let me—”

“Thank you, Miss Bennett,” she says, cutting me off. She
stands abruptly, so I stand, too, my skirt sticking to the back of my
legs. “That will be all.” She gestures to the door, where
I see her assistant has been standing still as a statue during the
entire interview. My cheeks burn.

A little flustered, I thank her as I walk across the room. “We’ll
be in touch,” Lydia says as I exit and am flung back into the
sea of rich kids and their designer duds and college connections,
feeling like the biggest fish out of water ever. What just happened?

Chelsea and Angelica still sit in the same place, chatting and
laughing. They’re not nervous at all, and I wonder what it must
be like to not have to try so hard. To have daddy pull strings for an
interview, and have your life served to you on a silver platter. As I
walk past, Lydia’s assistant calls a ridiculous name that
sounds like “Grandelwile Brandyblerg” and Angelica says,
“Oh, he’s supposed to be really good. And his mother is
on the Board of Directors here.”

“I’m not worried,” Chelsea says breezily. “You
know my dad is one of their biggest clients. My name is already on
the paperwork.”

Angelica rolls her eyes. “Why did I even bother?”

Chelsea sees me watching them and smirks. “None of you should
have bothered. This whole thing is for appearances.” She looks
me up and down and clears her throat loudly. “Speaking of
appearances…” Next to her, Angelica giggles.

My heart sinks. Tears begin to burn behind my eyes and I wFalk away
fast, quickening my pace even though my feet are blistered and sore.
I have to hope that that spoiled, shiny-haired, smug girl is wrong.
That this whole day wasn’t just a formality like she thinks,
that I have a chance.
Mom, I did my best.
I cross my fingers
as I head back out into the city streets.

What happens next? Grace and St. Clair’s story continues in
THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS
by Stella London –
available September 30th
!