The Cloisters(6)

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” said Patrick. “Get some coffee”—he pointed at the carafes—“then we’ll head up to The Cloisters.” He scanned the room, tall enough to easily note everyone in attendance. “Rachel isn’t here yet. But I’m sure you know a few of the other associates, right?”

I was about to explain that I didn’t when Patrick walked off, throwing an arm around the shoulders of an older man in a worn tweed jacket. I could feel a prickle of sweat working its way down my side; I clamped an arm against my body to arrest its progress.

This was why I had arrived early, of course. So that I wouldn’t need to break into a conversation. When you were the first to arrive, people had no choice but to talk to you. By the time a group gathered, I would have been happily ensconced in a circle of similar early arrivals. Instead, I hooked my thumbs into my backpack straps and looked around the room, trying to pretend I was looking for a friend. Although it was a welcome breakfast, it was not, I realized, a meet and greet. Looking at the circles of associates, the familiar way they spoke to each other, it was clear they had already had opportunities to get to know one another in various ways over the last four years—symposia and lectures that led to dinner parties and boozy late-night musings. I inched myself closer to a group so I could at least hear their conversation.

“I grew up in LA,” one girl was saying, “and it’s not what people think. Everyone assumes it’s all celebrities and juice cleanses and woo. But we have a real arts scene. It’s thriving.”

People in the circle were nodding.

“In fact, last summer, I worked for Gagosian in Beverly Hills and we had both Jenny Saville and Richard Prince give artist talks. But it’s not just big galleries,” she continued, sipping from a hand-blown glass tumbler.

I used the pause to edge my shoulder into the circle and was grateful when the girl to my left took a step back.

“We have experimental spaces and community arts projects too. A friend even runs a food and contemporary art collaborative called Active Cultures.”

Now, I could make out the girl’s name tag: Stephanie Pearce, Contemporary Painting.

“When I was in Marfa last summer—” began another member of the circle. But the sentence died on their lips as Stephanie Pearce turned her attention to the entrance, where Patrick was in close conference with a girl whose hair was such a pale shade of blond, it could only be real. Across the room, the girl looked squarely at me before pinning a strand behind her ear and whispering something to Patrick. Whatever he responded caused her to laugh, and the way her body shook, all flat angles with a hint of softness, made me acutely aware of my own.

When I was younger, I used to imagine what it would be like to be that beautiful. All women do, I think. But breasts never arrived, my face never caught up with my nose. My dark, curly hair was more unruly than romantic, and the uneven freckles that spread across my face and arms were darkly colored from summers spent in the eastern Washington sun. The only thing I had to my credit were a pair of large, wide-set eyes, but they were not enough to make up for all the other plainness I enjoyed.

“Is that Rachel Mondray?” the girl next to me asked. Stephanie Pearce and a few others in the circle nodded.

“I met her during my prospective student weekend at Yale,” said Stephanie. “She just graduated but has already been working at The Cloisters for almost a year. She was hired after spending last summer in Italy at the Carrozza Collection.”

“Really?” asked someone else in the circle.

The Carrozza Collection was a private archive and museum not far from Lago di Como that was invitation only. It was rumored to contain some of the finest examples of Renaissance manuscripts anywhere in the world.

“Apparently the Carrozza offered her a full-time job after graduation, but she turned them down.” Stephanie Pearce looked at me and added, “For Harvard.”

While Stephanie talked, I watched Rachel make her way across the room. There had been rich girls at Whitman, of course. Girls whose parents had private planes and vacation homes in Sun Valley. But I’d never really known those girls, only known about them—rumors of impossible lives I dared not imagine. Rachel didn’t need to be invited to join our circle, but rather materialized within it, naturally.

“I haven’t seen you since spring, Steph,” Rachel said, looking around at everyone. “What did you decide?”

“I ultimately chose Yale.”

“You’ll love it,” said Rachel with such warmth it seemed she meant it.

“I’m going to Columbia,” the girl next to me whispered.

I couldn’t help but envy the people around me, their futures—at least for the next few years—secure in blue-chip graduate programs. Briefly, I worried that someone might ask me about my plans for the following year, but it was clear no one cared. A fact for which I was both grateful and ashamed.

“Ann,” said Rachel, reading my name tag. “Patrick told me we’ll be working together this summer.” She stepped across the circle to give me a hug. Not a limp hug, but a tight one that allowed me to feel how soft she was, how citrusy she smelled, with notes of bergamot and black tea. She was cool to the touch, and again I felt the sweaty areas of my body come to attention, the coarseness of my clothes. When I tried to pull away, she held me for a beat longer, long enough for me to worry that she could feel the anxiety, imprinted hot and slick on my skin.