My Hunger (Inside Out #3.4)(10)

“Where is here?”

“At the gallery.”

“If the detective shows up or calls you, keep your mouth shut. Tell him to call me.”

“Right. Hurry the f*ck up with that meeting.” I end the call and head toward the door. I’m about to enter the building when a flurry of activity occurs to my left. Turning, I find myself accosted by a female reporter with a cameraman.

“Mr. Compton,” the pretty blonde says, “I understand you have one dead employee and one arrested for counterfeiting art. I assume the two are related?”

“You know what they say about assuming,” I comment dryly, pushing open the door. “It makes asses out of pretty reporters.”

She grimaces. “So they’re not related and you’re just, what, unlucky?”

“I’d say you’re the unlucky one, or just the unwise one. People who call and schedule interviews do better than people who sideswipe me.”

“You won’t take my calls.”

“Eventually I’ll take someone’s, and it won’t be the reporter who started my day out on the wrong side of the door.” I enter the gallery and lock the door behind me.

Bright white floors gleam beneath my feet and a memory slams into me. It was near closing and I’d heard our salesperson Mary in a conversation with a customer. Something about the unknown female’s voice had compelled me to seek her out. Rebecca. I remember the moment I first saw her, her green eyes alight with excitement, her long brown hair windblown and sexy. I couldn’t look away, and I’d known she was special, that she belonged here. That she belonged with me. Damn it, she’s supposed to be here now.

Forcefully I shove aside the thoughts and reenter the present. Somehow I’m standing still. Out of myself. Out of control. Setting my feet back in motion, I push through the entryway to the offices and my attention turns to the reception desk where our receptionist, Amanda, is taking a message on a call while the often flippant but always efficient accounting manager, Ralph, is kneeling at a drawer to remove a file.

I lean on the wall and watch them, wondering when they’ll notice me. Amanda groans as she finishes the call and three more lines begin to ring, shoving her hands through her long brunette hair. “This is insanity,” she wails. “They won’t stop ringing. The press and the questions are driving me nuts.”

Ralph grabs the lines one after another and quickly takes inquiries, then puts them all on hold. “All press,” he says. “Focus on putting them on hold and getting to customers and the talent who support this place.”

“Ralph, you’re not hearing me. They won’t stop calling.”

“There’s an ancient Chinese saying about the press,” he tells her, referencing his heritage.

“What is it?” she asks. “And it better be good.”

“I don’t remember. I’ll ask my grandmother.”

Amanda growls at him, “Ralph, this is serious.”

“It says,” I interject, “that if you put the press on hold, leave them on hold.”

They both whirl around to face me, all but jumping out of their skins, a feeling I understand too well right now.

“Mr. Compton,” Ralph says, straightening fully. “We weren’t sure if we’d see you today or not.”

“I’m hoping to get a plan of action in place here and return to New York in the next few days.”

Amanda answers another call and puts it on hold. “Another reporter.”

“I wasn’t joking,” I reply. “Put them on hold and leave them on hold.” Considering Mary was arrested for trying to pass off counterfeit art and Sara resigned from her job to pretend fairy tales come true with one of the richest artists on the planet, I add, “Put the phones on the answering service and just check them for important calls once an hour. I don’t want an intern in here who could say the wrong thing. I assume I have a stack of messages?”

“All on your desk,” she says, giving me a concerned look I really don’t need right now. “How is your mother?”

“Recovering and hopefully going home on Thursday.” I glance at the two of them. “We’re going to keep the gallery shut for the next two weeks except for private showings, and that includes all scheduled events.”

“Oh, good,” Amanda breathes out. “I was afraid we’d have to deal with reporters in person.”

“We will, but not until I’m here to do it myself.” I glance at Ralph. “You’re picky and obnoxiously honest about people. Go through the sales resumes and prescreen. Send me your top ten by e-mail. I’ll look them over for the future.”

“Obnoxiously honest,” he repeats. “I’ll try to live up to that observation.”

“See that you do.”

Amanda clears her throat and surprises me with, “Speaking of Sara, can we ask her to come back when she returns from Paris with Chris Merit? She’s so good with people, and, well, the questions about Mary and Rebecca are awkward.”

I glance at Ralph expectantly and he quickly says, “I’m handling the Mary questions for Amanda.”

“How?”

“Nonanswers and more fortune cookie quotes.”

I arch a brow and he happily supplies, “Confucius says there are answers in silence. Confucius says speak not, listen not.” He shrugs. “Whatever pops into my head. It works. They ask what the saying means and what I’m trying to tell them, and forget what the question was.”