Okay, got a book coming out this week, so you’re getting a snippet from that one: Waiting for Magic. This is an “arranged date” scene. Kee, the middle Tremaine sister, is a docent at the museum. Her mother has invited Christian Coombs, the curator of the museum, and Kee’s boss for dinner. The Tremaines are major donors, but her mother has a different reason for inviting Christian. She’s always eager to help her children find their soul-mate, someone who also has magic from Merlin in their DNA. Only that way can her children realize their destiny and their magic. I loved writing this scene. Who hasn’t suffered through a date, or even just an introduction arranged with the best intentions, through their mother?
“So, Mrs. Tremaine has been telling me all sorts of things about you.”
Kee looked up at Christian in dismay and glanced around. Kemble and her father were off in a corner, talking business. Her little brother, Lanyon, was providing background music at the piano. Tammy was discussing her mare’s progress learning to jump with Jane, and the two couples with magic were laughing and talking together like they shared a special bond. Which they did. Devin seemed to be drifting from group to group. That left her to entertain their guest. She’d bet anything her mother had left detailed instructions with her family to ensure that happened. And her mother had been talking her up to Christian. That meant he knew exactly why he’d been invited. It was a wonder he even got the courage to show up.
“What…?” She cleared her throat. “What could she possibly have to say about me?”
“Quite a lot, actually.”
Oh, dear.
He was handsome, of course. Blond, blue eyes, chiseled jaw. For a guy who hung around museums he had broad shoulders. They usually tended to be the gaunt, intense type in her experience, with leather patches on their jacket sleeves. Christian’s navy sport coat was designer wool. Along with the crisp lavender shirt, the gray wool slacks, and a steel bracelet made of Celtic knots, it hit the perfect note of casual elegance paired with an artistic nature. Showed just the right amount of respect to his donors without being overdressed, too. She, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to contain her love of color. So her bodice was magenta but the flouncy short skirt that attached to it was more plum. A very vibrant plum. With streaks of silver in it. Which did go with her strappy silver heels and the broad silver belt. But she felt a little overly colored. She glanced to Drew and practically groaned. Little black dress with gently ruffled cap sleeves. Hair swept up to show her diamond earrings. Enough to make Kee want to poke her sister’s eyes out with a fork or something. Why couldn’t she be more like Drew?
Swallowing once, she turned her attention back to the handsome man before her. “Then… then we should talk about you,” she managed. Didn’t Mother always tell her that when she was pressed for conversation topics she should ask about her partner? “Where did you get your degree?” Oh, lamer than lame.
“Yale. School of Fine Art.”
Oh. “Then you’re actually an artist?”
He gave an easy laugh. “Most curators are, but not very good ones.”
Kee was shocked he would admit that. Could people just accept that they weren’t a very good artist? The very possibility frightened Kee.
“When you find that out,” Christian continued, with what Kee considered remarkable calm, “you go on to get an advanced degree in museum studies. I got my MFA in sculpture at Yale, and my Ph.D. in museum studies at Georgetown.”
What dared she say? “So, uh, sculpture. What drew you to that medium?”
He narrowed his eyes in thought. “The gooshy feel of the clay, I think. Reminded me of making a goopy mess in kindergarten.” He shrugged. “Only at the end of the day you had made something out of all that glop.”
Kee couldn’t help a smile. “I can see that.” Kind of surprising, from a curator. They were usually so stuffy. “But you like the historical artifacts too. You’re very drawn to the Anglo-Saxon collection, I can tell.”
“Oh, art is all around us and always has been. In the jewelry and the furniture and the dishes, as well as the painting and the sculpture. One of the reasons I campaigned for the job here is that the museum casts such a wide net in its collections. You’re a painter, I understand.”
Kee swallowed hard, then rolled her eyes in defense. “As I’m sure my mother told you. Mothers don’t care if you’re not really good. Did you get the tour of the house? She hangs everything I can stand to let her keep.”
He actually chuckled. “Yeah. I got the tour.”
“So you saw the many phases of what we might loosely call my growth as an artist.” Might as well make light of it. “Well, except for the abstract expressionism. She relegates that to Father’s offices. I can copy any style. Just can’t come up with anything original.” Why was she admitting something that painful, to scare him away or to make a connection? It was a surprise that there might be a connection. It turned out that they were both failed artists.
“Oh, but nobody can at first. It all needs to get shaken up inside us. Then the subconscious picks pieces of this and that, whisks it around with your experiences, and before you know it you’ve started a new trend.”
“Why didn’t that happen with you?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t original. I just wasn’t very good.” He actually chuckled before he gave a resigned sigh. “You’ve got good technique. It will happen for you.”
“That’s kind, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
“I rather like the Georgia O’Keefe period.” He went crinkly around the eyes. She had to admit that was very attractive.
“Forgive me. I was seventeen.”
“Ancient history, then.”
She pretended severity. She didn’t need a reminder that he was much older than she was. “Very ancient,” she corrected.
There was a little awkward silence.