The Boss's Proposal by Kristin Hardy Page A

and Sherwin at the gala. They liked her work.”
    â€œI’m not convinced she’s the best choice.” Dylan shrugged. “She’s not all that well established. I like the idea of metal sculpture but what I saw at the benefit was mostly Calder knockoffs.”
    â€œIf you take a look at her portfolio, she does far more than mobiles.” Max kept her voice cool,resisting the urge to leap to Glory’s defense. This was not the place for personal feelings. Of any kind. “It makes sense to stick with Glory. BRS has used her on at least five projects I can think of in the past. Besides, we’ve got most of her part of the proposal set.”
    â€œIf your Mindy is as good as she sounds, she can pull together a CV and some photographs on a new artist by next Friday,” Dylan countered. “And using Glory Bishop because you used her before is the worst possible argument. The last thing we want to do is walk in pushing an artist they’ve seen already all over town. It’ll make them question whether all of our ideas are tired.”
    â€œMake up your mind, either she’s not established or she’s overexposed,” Max said tartly.
    â€œMaybe she’s both,” Dylan shot back. “I’m not going to—”
    â€œEnough.” Hal’s voice was sharp. They both subsided and looked at him. “Have you met with her or reviewed her portfolio?” he asked Dylan.
    â€œNot yet,” he admitted. “I’ve been focusing on the building.”
    â€œThen do your legwork. Go out to her studio, talk to her, make a decision. But you’d better do it fast because you don’t have a lot of time. Anything else?”
    They looked at each other and shook their heads.
    â€œGood.” Hal turned back to his computer. “Then get to it. The clock’s ticking.”
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    â€œJust how far out of town does she live, anyway?” Dylan grumbled as he drove up the narrow country lane. Overhanging oaks dappled the pavement with shadow. Split wood fences lined the road on either side. Beyond lay green pasture and in the distance, a white farmhouse.
    â€œWe’re almost there,” Max told him. “You’ll know when.”
    And then he saw them, a trio of exuberant white figures standing out in the field, except that they were doing anything but standing. Cartoonishly proportioned with outsized heads and hips and tiny feet, they looked like dancers caught in an instant of celebration, pirouetting, rising on one toe, or throwing their arms out ebulliently, their long hair streaming.
    â€œYou were asking before about whether we danced in the moonlight to celebrate the solstice,” Max said.
    â€œI was thinking more of live people.”
    â€œThey’re alive, too, just in their own way.”
    Closer to the house, he saw more sculptures, this time abstract, freeform pieces of metal and stone, or stacks of geometric shapes in primary colors, sharply vivid against the summer green grass.
    He turned into the drive, rolling to a stop in the graveled yard that lay before the clapboard farmhouse.
    The scene was bucolic, with the red and white barn, the fences, the green of the pasture and theenormous oaks that stood at the edge. Purple and red pansies nodded in the flower boxes on the porch railings and a marmalade cat lay curled up on the cushions of the glider. A pair of red hens scratched around in the dirt.
    It was the perfect farm scene, except for the incongruous sight of a figure in a welding helmet and fireproof apron cutting into the bottom of an overturned water trough with a blazing torch.
    â€œThe artist in residence, I presume?” Dylan asked.
    They stepped out of the car and into the warmth of the afternoon.
    â€œGlory,” Max called and shut her door. When Glory didn’t respond, she gave an earsplitting whistle.
    Dylan whipped his head around to stare at her. “Was that you?”
    Max grinned.