Page 50 of Theirs to Treasure
I read every article that I could find about the gallery and her. I know her relationship drama and her educational background, as well as her passion for featuring the very best artists, as well as those that are still emerging. The businesswoman has a shrewd eye for talent.
After working my way through that information, I researched every artist she’s currently featuring.
I’m as prepared as I can be for the interview. I just pray I don’t blow it. Though I’ve applied for several jobs, I’ve had few responses.
When I pull open the door, cool air wraps around me, and I sigh in relief. Soft, instrumental music soothes my nerves.
The contemporary space is adorned with vibrant abstract paintings. To me, it’s an oasis in a hustling, busy city.
Because it’s before opening hours, I’m the only person inside, and I take the opportunity to wander around, familiarizing myself with the layout and the works. Most I recognize from browsing the website.
Behind a partition near the back wall, there’s a desk with two chairs in front of it.
I peek my head in, but I don’t see Miranda.
Just then, the phone rings.
Once.
Then a second time, the red light flashing incessantly.
I debate what to do. Then, on the third ring, my heart pounding, I answer. “Thank you for calling Lumina Gallery. This is Harper. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking forWhispers of the Zephyr.”
“By Castellano?” I ask. He’s one of Miranda’s signature artists, someone who draws in a lot of visitors. The painting is exquisite, and I noticed the oversize piece the moment I walked in.
“Do you have it?”
“Absolutely.” Will Miranda kill me for having this conversation? “It’s exquisite, even more breathtaking in person than you can imagine. The colors, the evocative emotion…”
“How much is it?”
I answer honestly. “Priceless, like all amazing art, right? And this one is extra special. Dynamic. I’d be happy to arrange a personal viewing so you can experience the magic for yourself. When would you like to come in?”
“Wednesday evening.”
“I’ll check the schedule and confirm the time, if I can take down your name?” I dig a pen and an old receipt from the bottom of my purse.
“Miranda Ellis.”
I drop the handset, and barely catch it before it hits the desktop.
“Well done, Ms. Pembrooke.”
I turn, and the owner, with her upswept hair and form-fitting black dress is standing behind me, arms folded.
Shakily, I hang up the phone. Then I face her again.
“You’ve done your research.”
“I enjoyed it immensely. Your reputation is impeccable, and the gallery itself is spectacular.”
She offers her hand, and I shake it.
“Have a seat.”
We spend the next half hour chatting, and when she stands, signaling that the interview is over, I thank her for her time.