Free The Objects of Her Affection by Sonya Cobb Page A

he said, lacing his fingers with hers. “You’re beautiful.” Sophie searched his face for hints of flattery, but she didn’t need to: Brian was the most resolutely sincere person she’d ever known. She ran her fingers along the lapel of his tuxedo jacket, feeling the cautious gratitude that comes with too much luck. Brian turned and led her inside, gallantly preceding her through the heavy revolving door. As they crossed the polished stone floor Sophie walked on her toes, not trusting her wine-stem heels.
    “Help me keep an eye out for Howard from Prints and Drawings,” Brian said. “He promised to introduce me to this woman Mrs. Weber—she was best friends with Fifi Belmont, Wilder’s other granddaughter.”
    “Wilder’s the guy—”
    “Who had the Saint-Porchaire candlestick. I’m hoping I can get Mrs. Weber to tell me some stories about the family, maybe introduce me to some of Wilder’s descendants. I realize how far-fetched it all is, but I have to try.” Sophie marveled at the way Brian’s work filled every moment of his life, every crevice of his mind. He never stopped thinking about it. She remembered feeling that way, just out of college, when she’d been obsessed with the three-dimensional galaxies of hypertext; and later, when writing code began turning into something of an art form. But then, when she started freelancing, the work had gradually become less about exploration and creativity, and more about paying the bills. She wondered when, if ever, she might rediscover the joy in it.
    They emerged into the soaring central hall, which echoed with laughter and jazz. Redwood-size columns rose to the roof and dwarfed the partygoers below; a trumpet solo bounced brassily against the stone. At the top of the grand staircase a towering statue of Diana alighted, weightlessly balanced on the toes of one long foot, her strong fist punching her bow forward, the other hand a knot of knuckles pulling the string taut. She was lightness and strength and beauty and danger, the museum’s guardian huntress overseeing every opening and cocktail party.
    Sophie and Brian wove through the gathering crowd toward the bar, where they met Brian’s boss, Ted. Tall and thin, with long ears and sagging eyes, Ted had worked at the museum for decades, and, it seemed, would be there forever, pacing its corridors long after taking his last shaky breath. Now he was thrusting glasses of wine into Brian’s and Sophie’s hands, his eyes darting over their heads and into the crowd.
    “Mr. Burnett is here,” he said, using his head to point. “I really think you should say a word to him tonight. Plant the seeds for the Lyon auction.”
    “Got it,” said Brian. “What about you—can I get you a drink?”
    Ted shook his head vigorously, making his jowls tremble. “Oh dear no. Thanks. I saw Mrs. Paul scurrying around here somewhere. You should thank her for approving the Milan purchase. She needs to hear from the whole department—make her feel really special.” Then, giving Brian a pat on the shoulder, he prowled into the crowd, sniffing out money and egos with his long, nervous nose.
    “Why does he need to come to every single one of these things?” Brian muttered into his wineglass.
    “Sorry,” Sophie said. She knew how much Brian despised the predatory chitchat that was required of him at these parties: the tissue-thin flattery and weightless smiles, all designed to flush large checks out of jeweled clutches. He was terrible at it, or so he thought, which actually made him good at it. Museum patrons—particularly the women—were disarmed by his scholarly reserve, his devotion to the objects, his blithe, detached air in the presence of elephantine wealth.
    “Let’s dance a little before you go to work,” Sophie said, setting her empty wineglass on a passing tray. She pulled Brian onto the dance floor, where they leaned into each other and shifted vaguely from foot to foot. When did formal dancing dissolve into