ten

November 5, 2019

I straightened my skirt, buttoned my navy wool coat, and wrapped a scarf around my neck before walking toward the entrance of The Islet at Portsmouth. I’d managed to get an interview on my first attempt to contact them. The Islet at Portsmouth was an art museum that was well-known in New England. To say I was nervous would be an understatement. Other than my degree and a short internship at the art museum in Nashville, I had little experience. However, the lady I had spoken to on the phone yesterday didn’t seem to mind any of that. It was very likely they were going to hire me to run errands for them. I would take what I could get. Even if it was being a coffee girl.

The heavy door wasn’t made of glass but oak and I would guess it was two hundred years old. Just the weight of it made the place feel intimidating. This was what I loved. It was what I had put all my time and effort into during my four years at Vanderbilt. I could remember my dad taking me to Musee Picasso in Paris when I was nine years old. He was on a world tour, and my mother had stuck me on a plane to stay with him for two weeks of his tour. Anyway, that day had been the beginning for me. I loved every piece of art there and I wanted to study it and soak it in. I wanted more than anything to be able to create art like that but I wasn’t talented with a brush or pen. I was good with a camera, but it wasn’t the same.

I had left the Musee Picasso knowing, one day, when I had a job, I wanted to be surrounded by art. Now, here I was and my heart was pounding in my chest at the idea of getting to do just that. Stepping inside the museum, I let myself relax in the beauty surrounding me. I felt at home here. I always did with art.

“You must be Sailor Copeland,” a voice said rather loudly from behind me. I spun around to see a woman, no taller than five feet, walking my way. “I’m Ambre Dupont Smith and although most of my name is perfectly French, I am not. My mother was born in Nice, France, but she came to the states as an exchange student, married my father who is a rancher in Wyoming and here I am. Now, you will need to assist Albert. That will be your title Assistant Archivist. Sign this paper and I will do a background check to make sure you aren’t a criminal and then you can start. Albert will decide after one week if you are right for the job. He is not easy to work with but he is the best. Keep that in mind when you want to jump out of the top window to get a break from him.”

I didn’t notice the tiny woman take a breath while she said all of that. It was as if she’d said this speech a lot. It seemed memorized and her tone was as if it was tedious to repeat it all. I wondered how many times she had said it. Was Albert so hard to work under that this job was one that remained available? I was positive I could put up with anyone if I was Assistant Archivist. I hadn’t expected a position that amazing. I could deal with a moody or difficult Albert, if it meant I was able to work with the art so closely. I’d tolerated my mother most of my life. She’d prepared me to cohabitate with insanity.

I signed the paper and she snatched it back up. “Very good. Come with me,” she said and spun on her bright yellow pumps. Even though the heels on her shoes were short, they still provided height. It was possible Ambre Dupont was only 4 feet 10 inches. “Albert won’t talk to you much. He rarely speaks. Pay attention to when he does say something because he won’t repeat it. If you ask him to,” she paused and glanced back over her shoulder at me and gave me a pointed stare over her oval turquoise framed glasses, “you’ll regret it.” She finished then stopped and opened another antique wooden door and walked inside.

“Albert, I have your new assistant. Please try and not run this one off. She’s attractive and will do well for our events. We need an appealing face other than your own for the guests. Play nice,” she said to the back of a dark bald head.

Albert remained with his back to us as he worked on a piece in front of him. His shoulders were wide and he was extremely tall. Albert looked more like a lineman in the NFL than an Archivist. He cleared his throat then turned around slowly. His gaze went from my face to my feet and back up again quickly before he frowned. I understood why Ambre had mentioned his attractive appearance. He was tall, dark and handsome. Clichéd but true. His eyes were the color of caramel and his lashes were so thick it was as if they were false.

“She’s young,” he said, shifting his intimidating stare to Ambre.

“Yes and maybe that’s what we need. The older experienced ones leave because you’re an ass,” Ambre told him, giving him her own glare. He towered over the small woman in size, but she didn’t seem to care. How scary could he be if this tiny woman wasn’t afraid to talk back to him.

He looked annoyed. “They weren’t meant to work with art. Had nothing to do with me.”

Ambre placed a hand on her hip. “Yes, it has everything to do with you. Please try and work with Sailor. Don’t send her running away until we see what she can do.”

He looked unimpressed with her words and with me when he turned back around to continue cleaning the sculpture behind him. I only caught a glimpse of it, but I recognized it immediately. I’d seen it in photos but never in person. Once, it was supposed to come with an exhibit to Nashville, but it hadn’t happened. I was so disappointed.

“La Sconfitta,” I breathed in reverence at the beauty. “May I come closer?” I asked, my eyes locked on the sculpture.

Albert shifted his body so that the sculpture was in my view. “You know the La Sconfitta,” he said not really asking.

“Crafted from marble by Andino after the defeat of his land,” I said softly, as if my voice could harm the beauty in front of me.

“She knows her art. That’s a positive. Don’t send her away or I’m calling Katrina. She’s tired of your late nights working due to not having help. If I must call your wife to come straighten you out I will,” Ambre said firmly then spun on her heel and headed out the door.

Albert said nothing while I studied the sculpture. If seeing pieces like this one meant putting up with a moody man, then I would. He could do his worst. I wasn’t leaving. I’d just scored my dream job.

“Why do you want this job?” he asked me brusquely.

I turned to look up at him and held my shoulders back and my head high. “There is nothing I love more than art.”

He said nothing but made a sound close to a grunt then went to a large wooden crate that was unopened. “Loving art isn’t enough. There must be a respect that is greater than even the love.”

He handed me a screw driver. “Get the box opened.”

That was my first order of the day and I was giddy.