Page 30 of The Stolen Queen

“Yes, of the necklace.”

“Broad collar.”

“Broad collar. Right.” She refused to let Charlotte know how intimidated she was. After all, she had Mrs. Vreeland’s backing, and had seen firsthand the woman’s power. If Mrs. Vreeland wanted the broad collar, she got it. If Charlotte wanted to be all business, Annie would comply. “I’m happy to bring any paperwork you have to Mrs. Vreeland for her signature.”

“There’s no paperwork. It’s not a formal loan. I do have to let the technician know, and the earlier, the better.”

“Okay, then. When should I pick it up?”

“You won’t be picking up anything. I’ll have one of the technicians bring it to the exhibition hall. When do you need it by?”

“Well, the gala is on Monday, and they’re moving the mannequins in today. So tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?”

“Tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow would be fine.”

“Very well.” Charlotte jotted it down on the calendar on her desk. “I’ll be in touch.”

Annie didn’t move. “I think it’s beautiful.”

“Sorry?”

“The broad collar. I think it’s beautiful. I promise we’ll take good care of it, as it obviously means a lot to you.”

For the first time in their conversation, Charlotte’s expression softened. Annie held her gaze as something—fear, maybe pain—flitted across Charlotte’s face.

“You’re Little Red Riding Hood,” Charlotte finally said.

Annie wondered if she’d misheard. “I’m sorry?”

“You have a red coat. I’ve seen you here before.”

“Sure, I’m in the museum a lot. I loved the Met even before I got hired. My dad, before he died, used to bring me to the museum, andso sometimes when I’m nervous or upset, I come and stare at these super-old things and it calms me down.”

Super-old things?Why was she babbling on about what a mess she was? This wasn’t professional at all.

“I do that as well.” Charlotte spoke so softly Annie almost didn’t hear her.

Several of the other staff members flew in through the door, talking loudly and laughing, and the moment was broken. Charlotte gave a curt nod and turned back to her photo, and Annie slipped out, relieved she’d at least accomplished what she’d set out to do.

By eight o’clock that night, Annie was exhausted but also exhilarated. She stepped into Mrs. Vreeland’s office to ask if she was done for the day.

Mrs. Vreeland took a long drag on her cigarette. “The yellow is wrong for the fans.” She held up one offending feather. “You don’t understand yellow. Only Matisse and I understand yellow. First thing tomorrow, you must return and get it right.”

Annie’s heart sank. Maybe she wasn’t as adept at reading Mrs. Vreeland’s cryptic orders as she’d hoped.

“And as for those…”

Annie followed Mrs. Vreeland’s gaze down to the floor. She’d worn a pair of Mary Janes in the hopes that they would be fashionable yet walkable, but they were scuffed up and dirty after seven hours of wrangling stuffed peacocks and tromping through puddles.

“I shouldn’t have to say this, Annie Jenkins”—Mrs. Vreeland paused for effect—“but everyone knows that unshined shoes are the end of civilization.”

Chapter Ten

Charlotte

New York City, 1978

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