Page 14 of Fresh Canvas
“Nice work.” Barbara’s sly whisper resulted in my face flushing so deeply that it probably looked like the red-haired man’s. “That could have been extremely embarrassing for the museum. That’s the authority I’ve been waiting to see. The expertise I would expect my new assistant to have. I mean, if you don’t mind being promoted, that is.” She winked.
I gaped back at her.
PRESENT DAY
The Chicago Legacy Art Museum rose from the corner of Montfoot Road and Roosevelt. Its architecture of paned blue glass and sparkling limestone was stunning. Even after allthese years, the beauty never failed to steal my breath. An expanse of marble steps fanned out from the corner, inviting all to explore its rich history within.
I darted across the road, narrowly missed a pile of wintery slush, and lurched to avoid a collision with an exiting museum visitor. I made my way around a wide truck that backed up close to the steps. Passersby cast venomous glances as they skirted around it too. A team of men were unloading heavy wooden boxes.
I recognized the containers as packing crates for various artifacts and works of art. They must have been getting ready for a new exhibition. I wondered why they weren’t using the service entrance until I remembered how the snowplows sometimes blocked them.
I hesitated in front of the massive reflective doors, chewing my bottom lip. Barbara would know of an opportunity or opening somewhere, wouldn’t she?I tugged the cuffs of my gray blazer.
Maybe I shouldn’t have picked such a boring color.
My dishwater blonde hair had dried in loose waves from my rushed shower. While stopped at a red light, I had swiped on a couple coats of mascara and some lip gloss. But even with the enhancements, I looked like a nervous wreck with zero saturation.
“Are you going to open the damn door at some point or just stand there looking at it?”
I whirled to find a pair of brown eyes blazing at me from beneath a pair of angry eyebrows. The truck worker looked to be in his mid-thirties, wearing a black shirt and slacks. A vein pulsed at his sweaty temple as he balanced a heavy crate. Sure, the box looked heavy, but did he need to be so rude? Even for Chicago, it was incredulous.
“Oh, I see,” the man snarled, “you must not know how a door works. See, if you pull that shiny handle there, the door opens, then you get out of my way.”
I fought the immediate urge to say sorry for blocking the door. Fought the urge to apologize for simply existing.
I was tired of cowering before jerks.
So without a word, I spun, yanked the door open, and stalked into the museum.
His abrasive shout slipped through the narrowing doorway. “The least you could do is hold it open until I…”
Thud.
I smirked, watching the man let out a poetic string of filth and fury. His glare mirrored mine as he reached for the door handle, the box tipping precariously.
Feigning ignorance, I pasted on a baffled expression, pretending to search for the door’s mechanism to open it from the inside. I dropped my arms to my side in mock exasperation before sauntering off.
Take that, you jerk.
My footsteps clicked as I approached the receptionist in the warmly lit lobby. A lofty, arched ceiling mingled the soft voices echoing around me.
“Hello! I’d like to see Barbara Gaines, please.”
The kind lady frowned in confusion. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Gaines hasn’t worked here in over two years.”
My heart plummeted. “Do you have any contact information on how to reach her? I’m looking for a job, and she might have connections. You see, I used to work for her as an assistant, but then I got pregnant and…” Yikes. This woman probably didn’t want my whole life story.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “If you have a resume, I can look and see if you match any qualifications for other open positions we have.”
I fished my resume from my bag, relieved to find the document smudge and crease free. As I handed it across the desk, I heard the door’s suctioning seal pop open behind me. A gust of December wind raised a line of goosebumps across my neck, making me shiver.
The woman put on a pair of glasses and began to scan the resume, so I awkwardly shifted to survey the lobby. The awful, dark-haired man from earlier caught in my periphery, shaking his head in disgust as he set another crate down. He shot a glower at me as he stood, sending another shiver down my spine.
“Your resume is quite impressive, Samantha.”
I forced a smile. “Thank you.”
“With your experience, I’m sure we can find something for you.” The sweet lady hunched over her keyboard as hope surged in my veins. “It looks like our second curator, Mr. Russo, hasn’t hired an assistant yet.”
