“Oh, yes,” Amelia said. She was beaming now. I’d never heard her sound so delighted. “When people outside the expected demographics are really into her, too, it just proves how broad Taylor’s appeal is, and how deep her talent.”
I stared at her. It hadn’t occurred to me that an accountant could have opinions on music. Though perhaps that was just me being overly judgmental. “You’re a Taylor Swift fan?”
Amelia shrugged. “I mean, what’s not to like?”
“I agree,” Frederick said, with an enthusiasm that stunned me. “Taylor Swift, who was born in West Reading, Pennsylvania, in 1989, has won eleven Grammy Awards from the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences.”
Amelia stood up and, still grinning, smoothed her hands over her wrinkle-free skirt. “Let’s go into the kitchen and fangirl together,” she proposed to Frederick.
Frederick’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon, but . . .” He glanced at me. “Fangirl?”
I leaned over a little and murmured, “It just means to get excited about something.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll get another glass of Malbec,” Sam suggested. “I won’t be able to contribute much to the conversation, but I always enjoy watching Amelia in her element.”
Frederick cast a helpless glance at me over his shoulder as Amelia guided him back into the kitchen.
With Amelia gone, the only person left for me to talk to was David. He looked up at me with a smile of recognition.
I swallowed, my nerves from a few minutes ago racing back now that the twin distractions of Frederick and Taylor Swift were out of the room.
“Cassie.” David motioned to the empty spot on the couch beside him. I took it, feeling both eager and terrified. “Nice to see you. It’s been a while.”
“Nice to see you, too.” I started fidgeting with the hem of my skirt as I tried to decide whether I should just tell him I’d submitted something for the art show, or if I should be more subtle about why I wanted to talk with him. “How are things going?”
“Busy.” David laughed, and then—perhaps realizing that’s exactly how Amelia answered that same question a few minutes ago—he rolled his eyes. “Busy is such a bullshitty small-talk nonanswer of a way to answer that question, isn’t it?”
I stifled a laugh. “Maybe?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah. Well, in my case, at least, it’s true.”
“Getting ready for the art exhibition?” Might as well get it over with.
“Yeah, actually.” His smile grew. “I’ve never been involved in a juried show before from the administrative side of things, but it’s a lot more work than I expected it to be.”
“I can imagine it would be a ton of work.” I swallowed, then mustered up my courage to ask for the information I really wanted. “Are you seeing a lot of good submissions?”
“So many.” He shifted uneasily on the couch beside me. “I think the committee has made its final decisions on who to invite.”
My heart was suddenly hammering so hard inside my rib cage it felt on the cusp of breaking bone. I set my wine glass down on the coffee table in front of us; my hands were shaking too badly to trust I wouldn’t spill Chardonnay everywhere.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” David was looking at the beer in his hands like it was the most interesting thing in the room. “Cassie, I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you this, or if I’m supposed to wait to let the committee get in touch with you, but seeing as we’re both here . . .”
He trailed off without finishing his sentence. But I could tell by the way he wasn’t meeting my eyes that whatever he’d been about to say next, I wouldn’t like it.
I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the worst. “I promise I won’t tell them that you told me.”
He nodded. “Everyone agreed your piece was terrific, but the committee decided your take on the Contemporary Society theme was too abstract and attenuated to accept into the exhibition. A classic painting subverted with such modern materials just wasn’t what they were looking for.” He paused before adding, “I’m sorry, Cassie.”
Time seemed to stop. All the noise of the party fell away as what David had just told me slowly sank in.
“The judges had mostly finalized their decisions before we got your application,” David continued. My despair must have been written all over my face because he reached out and gently put a hand on mine. “You know how it goes with these things. Unfortunately, your piece didn’t grab them enough for them to change their minds.”