It was a wonder my body wasn’t levitating, I was so filled with giddy, pinch-me joy I could fly. “I’m honored you hold me in such positive regard, sir.”
Mr. Strickland steepled his fingers on the mahogany desk. “Which makes this especially hard to let you know I’ve just added another candidate to the pool.”
My ego dropped back to ground level, and I clutched the metal frame of my chair to stay upright. “What?” Maybe I hadn’t heard that correctly. “I didn’t get the job?” After that big glow-up? You didn’t all but tell someone they were perfect, only to follow up with “but I want to keep looking.”
“We had a lot of wonderful applicants from all over the country, and in the end it’s now between you and a woman from Chicago. She’s worked at the Museum of Contemporary Art and really energized their exhibits and programming.”
“And you don’t think I could do that? I’ve been here for four years. I’ve only called in sick once, and that was because I had to get my appendix out, and I worked from home immediately after I came out of anesthesia. I moved to Sugar Creek permanently for the chance to work at this museum and grow…and I don’t understand why I’ve been passed over for the last two openings.”
“You haven’t been passed over this time.” He regarded me over the top of his glasses. “The candidate from Chicago also seems to have a knack for bringing in donors.”
Oh. There it was. Mr. Strickland wanted someone who could be a top-notch curator and bring in cash, as if it were her job. Which it was not. “If you gave me some time, maybe I could pitch in more in that area.”
“I’d recommend that. But there’s something else, Annie. I’m going to be honest with you.”
So the glow-up wasn’t honest?
Mr. Strickland’s bald head shined in the humming fluorescent lights above as he drummed a hand on the desk while he organized his thoughts. The man could drag out a sentence with turtle speed and infuriatingly awkward pauses. Our staff meetings could easily be cut in half if the fellow didn’t pause and ponder with such lengthy abandon. “There’s something missing in your work. It’s taken me a while to put my finger on it, but it’s passion.”
“I love my job. I couldn’t love my job any more if I dragged it to Vegas and married it.”
His eyebrow lifted at my tone. “It’s clear you love what you do, but your connection to the art is sometimes…lacking. You’ve done some smaller exhibits, and they’ve been good. But there’s a personal connection that’s missing. And if the curator doesn’t have it, then our patrons won’t have a chance to connect either.”
“My idea of a suffragist exhibit is full of passion. I care about women and democracy, and reminding our community, especially younger patrons, how hard the fight was for the right to vote. This is a great idea, and you know it.”
“Definitely. And I hope to use it. But I don’t think you’re the person to oversee it.”
“I don’t understand how I could get any more passionate.” Ugh, I hated that word. Were we museum employees or characters from a romance novel? “What is it you’re looking for? I can work on it and make it happen. I’ll take classes, I’ll dive back into research, I’ll—”
“It’s a disconnect. When our patrons see your exhibits, I need them to feel. Art is a visceral experience, and it’s layered. What you bring me is surface level.” He leaned back in his seat, the leather crunching beneath his lean weight. “Annie, my grandfather was an author.” This I already knew, as we’d traded celebrity family stories. His grandpa was a celebrated novelist, while my mother was a world-renowned painter. “He used to say to me, ‘Find the heart. They won’t care about the story unless you find the heart of it.’ I think you need to do the same.”
We’d progressed from demanding passion to doling out fortune cookie platitudes. “Find the heart.”
“Yes. That’s it exactly. You love the museum, but you hold its work at a distance. I need you fall in love with a project, let it break your heart a little, and put it back together in a way that connects.”
“While I’m also courting potential donors.”
“That sounds like a great plan.”
My mother’s voice played in my ear as Mr. Strickland spoke.
You’re too good for that small town, Annie.
You should let me get you a job at the Guggenheim, Annie.
Why are you still stuck there, Annie?
“I’d like to fine-tune my exhibit proposal and resubmit,” I said. “Sit down and really explain it well.”
“My schedule is packed for the rest of the year, but how about we talk again at the Christmas party? I will continue reviewing you and my other candidate, then I hope to have a decision by the end of December.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Strickland.” Without a cue that we were done, I rose anyway. I was seconds away from bursting into tears and getting passionate about being passed over. Again. Nothing was going right, and I didn’t get why my life was suddenly a torrential downpour of disaster.
I’d failed. Once again, I was on the losing end.
How was I supposed to find the heart…when everyone kept breaking the one I had?
Chapter Eleven
“Honey, it’s okay.” Selma patted my hand like a doting mother, the rings on four of her fingers clanging against one another. “Strickland doesn’t know greatness when he sees it. Nobody loves this museum like you do.”
I sniffled and took her outstretched tissue, the fourth since we’d sat down for lunch in the small break room. “He said I need to find the heart.”
“And he needs to find better ties and a personality, but do we run him down for that? No, we don’t.” She returned to her salad. “At least not to his face.”
“I knew I had this job in the bag. It’s more than my turn, you know? Bringing in this other candidate at the last minute is him just putting off the inevitable of not promoting me yet again.” My lunch sat untouched, a sterile collection of carrots, cheese, and a few slices of ham from the museum cafe. How was I supposed to eat my feelings with this low-carb crap? What I really wanted was fried chicken drenched in gravy, bread soaked in butter, and pie with a meringue that defied gravity. If it didn’t clog the arteries on its way to soothing your soul, it simply didn’t count.
“When the time is right, God will open that door.” Selma’s husband was the Spanish pastor at the Sugar Creek Community Church, and she could whip out a Bible verse or bust out a prayer like nobody’s business. She could also cuss fluently and had a yen for slasher movies, so I always appreciated her colorful balance. “It hurts now, but one day soon you’re going to look back and see that this particular job at this particular time wasn’t right. Something better is coming. I believe that.”
“I’m glad you do.” Right now I couldn’t see past the hurt and humiliation. If I’d stayed in my old life would the results have been the same?
“Annie?” Chief stepped into the break room, interrupting my third rehash of my meeting with Strickland and another round of tears. “Your husband’s here to see you.”