Babysitting the Billionaire(17)
She nodded. “I love his colors, but I also love that this one is all one color.”
“Like your painting.”
Pain shot across her forehead. She frowned. “Not really.”
He squeezed her hand. “Not at all. Do you want to go see the paintings?”
“Not especially.” She tried to explain. “That feels like work to me. But sculpture, or music, that’s just fun. And it gives me more ideas for my work.”
He nodded, though she could tell he didn’t understand. “It’s like this. You see a fantastic painting, a fantastic app, and it could inspire you, but in another mood it could depress you. And then you see a not-fantastic painting, like something the artist just tossed off, but because he’s a famous artist they bought it, and here it is. And it’s crap! And you think, ‘he’s taking up my space here; there’s no room for me.’ ”
He looked at her a moment. “You have a good imagination. But there will always be space for genius. Space for you.”
She blushed, right there in her so-called professional milieu. From his mouth to God’s ears.
They walked under the great Calder mobile, and down the stairs to the passageway between East and West wings so she could show him the water feature. They emerged and exited immediately into the sculptures outside.
He pointed to a giant brown wheel with a metal gear attached to it and metal phalanges caught forever in the act of flailing. “What is that?”
“You’ve never seen one? It’s a typewriter eraser, only really big. The brown is the eraser part, and the brush is to brush away the erasings.”
“And that’s art?”
“Made you stop and think, didn’t it? Filled you with wonder.”
“I’d swap that one out for one of your pieces any day.”
“Bad idea.” She smiled. “Mine aren’t so weatherproof.”
They admired the spider and bird, posed alongside the hare aping the famous Thinker statue, and almost got in trouble for sitting in Burton’s Six-Part Seating.
“Ready for a snack? There’s a little café there by the Metro sign.”
They ordered, and he waited for the food while she went to claim a table. She watched him move from the counter to the condiment shelf and back. He held his shoulders like a gymnast would. In blue slacks and a black golf shirt with a penguin logo instead of a polo player, he looked the part of the tourist, but that stance gave him away. And nothing could disguise the commanding look in his eyes. He was a power player.
“Checking out the merchandise?” He set their tray down.
“I didn’t know they made those pants in anything but tan or khaki.”
“Blue’s not much of a stretch, but I did want to be a bit different.”
“And still a white Oxford shirt, but at least it has those tiny red stripes. It almost looks pink at a distance.”
“It does not look pink.”
“You’re pinking!”
“I do not pink. Drink your coffee, or I will.” She did, and felt again the welcome space in her mind, that heavy sadness from the past few months had loosened this morning. Part of it had simply slipped away. She willed the rest of it to follow.
“Miss May?”
“Mr. Kurck?”
“You are grinning. Art agrees with you?”
“Life agrees with me. Again.” At last.
His knee brushed hers, and then returned to stay. She slid down in the metal chair, pressing more of her leg against him. He adjusted himself in the seat, and her grin grew even wider.
“How about we hop across to the Hirschorn, and then grab dinner at the Native American?”
“Eat at a museum?”
“It has the best food. It closes early, but that’s OK because you have to be in bed so soon, right? Oh, and we have to go into the office tomorrow noon.”
She felt him stiffen and move back in his seat, leaving her. “Why?”
“Don’t you want to meet Markus Edmonson before the big announcement? I would.”
He looked at her shrewdly. “Would you?”
Now it was her turn to blush. “He’s kind of a bear, but that’s because he’s passionate about his work. You’ve got to respect that.”
“I suppose. What is the plan? The schedule for the expedition,” he said to her blank look.
“Don’t you know?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know the dates. It depends on the weather, right? The plan is a big expedition, maybe a video, and some maps. I get to do the maps.” She tried to sound enthusiastic.
“You wanted to do more?”
“More videos, a series. And why not animated films? Or some animation, at least? Cartoons can appeal to adults, too. And, really, we should be targeting kids, anyway, if we want the penguins’ lands protected for many generations.” She heard the strident tones in her voice and stopped talking.