Sofia’s gaze sharpened. “You know we don’t print flyers.”
Alesha had left out the fact that while Vasquez Coffee had flourished, the savings and loan had the same fate as other Black-owned small businesses in the 1960s. They closed when their customers moved on to bigger and whiter financial institutions. Alesha enjoyed reminding anyone who would listen that the Vasquez family had abandoned their lone Black investors as soon as the Abbotts had opened their wallets. The bank closure had bankrupted the Thomas family, and according to Sofia, Alesha had been “trying to claw her way back to relevance ever since.”
Theirs was an old beef that predated Rachel, and despite her last name, she didn’t want to be put in the middle of it. “Excuse me. I’m going to get another drink.”
“Stay.” Alesha grabbed her arm. Rachel tried to pull away, but her aunt’s grip was fueled by intergenerational spite. “Did you know Rachel curated exhibits for the Museum of Modern Art?”
Sofia turned surprised eyes to Rachel. “Is that true?”
No, not completely. Rachel’s time at MoMA was a summer internship drafting exhibition outlines for shows she wasn’t around to see. It was also sixteen years ago. She hadn’t worked for another gallery since. But Sofia’s tone was starting to grate. Her brows were too high, signaling disbelief.
“It is true,” Rachel said, and name-dropped six of her mentors who were only famous in New York art circles. Sofia’s eyes got bigger and her mouth rounder with each one. Rachel prayed Sofia didn’t have them on speed dial. By “mentors” she meant listening to them speak on panels in crowded lecture halls.
“You attended Howard, right? So did Lyric.” Sofia spun around and waved at a tall, tawny-skinned Black woman with waist-length locs. Rachel’s former classmate looked the same as she did sixteen years ago. Ethereally beautiful and effortless—like she had gotten dressed by wandering through three different closets, pulled out the worst pieces, and reconfigured them into mixed-media art. This was Rachel’s punishment for being a liar. Not only the humiliation of being outed as one, but being outed by an accomplished, gorgeous woman who had also been cryogenically frozen in time.
Sofia touched Lyric’s arm. “I want you to meet our local First Lady, Rachel Abbott. Rachel and her husband are hosting the art gala.”
Lyric offered her hand with a blank smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Rachel’s spirits soared at the possibility she’d been forgotten, but crashed again when Sofia said, “She also attended your alma mater and studied… art history, wasn’t it?”
Rachel braced herself for Lyric inevitably asking which year she graduated, and Rachel would be forced to admit she hadn’t. Her father died during her senior year, and she’d left school three credits short of her degree. Then the conversation would spiral with Lyric realizing she was that Rachel, the one who left in a cloud of scandal surrounding her final project, and Sofia’s nose would be sky-high again, while Alesha added public embarrassment to her long list of Rachel’s failings.
“Oh?” Lyric’s expression didn’t change. “DC is such a small world sometimes,” she said. “But you must be excited about hosting this year. Sofia has a wonderful theme planned. Spectacle. It should make for some interesting interpretations.”
Rachel exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “Agreed. I bet the featured artist is excited to work with you.”
Sofia and Lyric exchanged glances. “Actually,” Lyric said, “I received a job offer in London, so I won’t be here to work on that collection.”
“We’re devastated,” Sofia said, with a hand pressed to her chest. “Thankfully, she’s offered to help us find a replacement.” She looked at Lyric. “I just found out Rachel curated for MoMA. She might know someone who could help at the last minute.”
Maybe it was the dress. Or the murder flower whispering in her ear. They drowned out the rational parts of her brain that reminded her that it had been more than a decade since she’d held an actual job. Inflating her résumé at a party was one thing. But working with a respected artist would immediately expose her as a fraud. Even Alesha looked wary. Sofia was still eyeing her like a show dog performing tricks. Lyric looked idly amused, like she’d turned on a reality TV show. Rachel couldn’t tell whether she was rooting for her success or failure.
“I can do it,” Rachel said. “I’m hosting anyway, so I’m happy to work with the artist. It’s for a good cause.”