"Zeegezicht bij Scheveningen" (View of the Sea at Scheveningen) by Vincent Van Gogh (1882), stolen 2002, recovered 2016 - value unknown

Chapter Eighteen

Damar's Landing wasn't exactly close.

It wasn't so out of the way that a daily commute would be unreasonable, but it was a sizable distance from the inner workings of the city. It was far enough, in fact, that it nestled into one of the few patches of green on our section of map. I relished the drive every time, as the journey took me out of the valley and twisted through picturesque landscapes. It'd been too long since I ventured this far west. Somehow, despite living relatively close to the ocean and loving the beach, I rarely found myself wandering the sand. Either I was too busy, the day was too hot, or the area was too crowded. The excuses were admittedly flimsy.

The Whitehill estate was near the coast, blanketed by fresh, salty air and flanked by wide-reaching palms. In the front, multiple expansive lawns were home to various native plants thriving under a gardening team's gentle hands. Behind the house a generous incline dropped down to a thin stretch of beach, allowing a wide view of the cold Pacific water. Aloe Vera and mixed shrubbery gobbled up any available space among the wildflowers cushioning the hillside.

The expensive view was unmarred by neighbors, who were too far away to be of any bother. By all means, the mansion sprawled further than one would think possible given the location. The architect had been a master of property manipulation, leaning into the natural advantages of the spot. Even by my family's standards, by anyone's standards, Damar's Landing was lavish as a result. Elegant in its wealth and bold in its beauty, the property totaled six and a half acres of sheer opulence. In fact, inspiration for the museum had been drawn from the overall architecture and style of the Whitehill home. Both locations proudly exhibited broad entrances, towering columns, ample windows, and mighty facades as eye-catching main features. It was the tinier details where the differences shone; Damar's Landing found subtle ways to stay true to the classic Mediterranean style common in Californian designs. From the ornately carved door to the charming display of reddish-brown roof tiles, Geraldine's home was a work of art.

As beautifully luxurious as the description of the house sounded, or how palatial it may have looked to mere pedestrians, the reality was even more sumptuous. Nothing could do a house like that justice. Seeing was usually believing, but this house strove to bend the limits of belief—it felt unreal even if one was walking through the threshold.

"Thank you, Camila," I said, thanking Geraldine's head of staff as she ushered me in.

"Miss Eleanor! Where have you been, amapola?" She exclaimed loudly. She fussed over me like a mother hen and shooed me further into the house.

Geraldine was the Queen Bee, but Camila was the right-hand lady of the castle. She'd been employed by the Whitehill family for over forty years, having continuously accumulated favor and mutual fondness before earning privileges far beyond the usual constraints of a hired role. She was Geraldine's most trusted friend. She'd helped raise the Whitehill children, chased the troublesome grandkids when they'd arrived, and had dutifully supported Geraldine through the momentous loss of her husband. With an iron-strong will, her gray-edged hair always tucked into a neat bun, and plenty of attitude to offset what she lacked in height, Camila gave no damns and took no shit. Though Geraldine ran an impressive empire on her own, every kingdom needed a great advisor to balance the scales when the wind blew.

"Well, I..."

I faltered under Camila's glare. It was accusing, but it was a very different type of accusation than the ones I'd faced elsewhere. It was more personal, more familial, than I was comfortable standing against.

"Foolish! The whole lot of you, foolish as fools can be," she clucked disapprovingly. "First, there's all this nonsense with the painting, and then I hear you left the museum. Not to mention I haven't seen you in weeks. You haven't stopped by, haven't called the house, nothing! What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry, Camila. I really am."

"Pride has no right tearing apart families. You better understand that, young lady." Camila wagged her finger.

Then she abruptly turned, waving for me to follow to the rest of the house. I assumed she was bringing me to the kitchen.

"I'm glad you're here," she continued. "I missed you. You know, I understand how hard this is on Gerrie, but she's grieving in a way that's not healthy."

I swallowed, looking down at the tile beneath us as I followed her. I was hardly four steps in and already overwhelmed. I secretly wished she wouldn't continue, praying for a reprieve I shouldn't need, but Camila kept on.

"Of course, the painting was a gift from her late husband, so we all know it's a big deal. Oh, poor Artie. He'd hate to see so much grief brought to her. He bought it to make her happy, but now the biggest piece of him she had left is gone. Stolen! Poof! Just like that. Damn thieves. How much loss is one woman supposed to shoulder in a single lifetime? They didn't just take the painting, they took her whole damn heart! If I get my hands on them, the feds will be arriving for a different reason, mark my words."

Camila's curses, some in another language, kept filling the house. I couldn't raise my head. It hung to my chest, each tear that threatened to fall as heavy as the old ornamented clock on the mantle. But lord, how did we get here?

How did sins find the sinners?

"Cancelling family dinners, turning her son away, disbanding the book club. Visits Artie almost every day, too. She's been there all morning."

Camila suddenly stopped in her tracks. I skidded to an abrupt halt behind her, swiping moisture from my cheeks before looking up. Camila had a strained look on her face as she looked out the window.

"I hadn't realized she was back," she muttered. "Oh, Gerrie."

She kept walking, changing her course to head to one of the patio doors. I glanced out the same window as I passed; I was only briefly able to see Geraldine with her back to us where she sat alone on a garden bench. I scurried after Camila. I followed her through the top level of the patio, past the pool that tumbled down to another level, and past the fountains and scattered outdoor furniture. We headed beyond the second patio and tennis court to the gardens, where beneath the trees and flanked by flowers aptly named 'birds of paradise', was the Darling bench.

I'd never met Geraldine's late husband. I'd never gotten the chance; he'd died shortly before I was introduced to the powerhouse family. Still, his legacy lived on, identifiable in more than just the museum or his business empire. I'd heard stories. I'd heard tales of the love they shared, the sunsets they'd watched from that spot, the slow dances in the sand. I'd heard of their love—and knew it was the kind regaled in stories, seen engraved on tombstones, and felt in the soul.

I'd never experienced anything like that before. To me, it was a touch of wind on my knuckles, a snowflake on my chin, or a whisper in my ear. There were moments that reminded me it was real; fleeting specks of time that promised it was out there. I was warned it could be chased, but never grabbed. Felt, but never caught. Built, but never bought. While I didn't always know what everlasting love was, or what forever truly meant, in those moments I had a precious glimpse of it. I learned that death was only a minor inconvenience; nothing but an inconsequential hiccup in the story of forever.

It was the 'Darling bench'. Artie Bartholomew Whitehill had requested the seat inscribed to mark his loving words, for when his lips could no longer form them—'to my darling, my artist, my love'.

Geraldine sat tall on that worshipped seat, her back straight and regal. Her hand brushed the engraving in gentle strokes. She overlooked the water, and on the beach below I could see a few scattered people enjoying the break in the rainy weather. A dog nipped at the waves, a kid poked a clump of kelp, and a couple strolled hand in hand through cold, frothy water and lumpy, wet sand.

"Gerrie? When did you get back?" Camila called when close.

I trailed after her, hesitant and nauseous. Was I wanted? What would Geraldine say when she saw me? How could I look her in the eyes? Coming to the bench after everything that'd happened felt like unholy desecration. My presence could be an insult of the highest degree.

"A little while ago. It stopped raining, and I thought I—" Geraldine cut off abruptly as she turned over her shoulder, her eyes falling on me.

I froze.

It felt like I'd entered the territory of the only judge, jury, and executioner that mattered. It didn't matter what the Board said, what Graves said, or even what the FBI said. It didn't matter what crimes had or hadn't been done—what mattered was whether she was willing to forgive me for them.

"Geraldine, I..." I tried, but my chest seized. The words were strangled, painful. "I'm sorry," I choked.

My words hung in the air, thickening the already heavy post-rain haze. Camila settled on the bench next to Geraldine, but Geraldine's eyes stayed on me. Then she turned around. I couldn't breathe.

I was about three more agonizing seconds away from tossing myself off the cliff before she finally spoke.

"Well? Are you going to keep standing there, or are you going to come sit with us?"

I didn't reply. I didn't need to. Though I scolded myself for my crumbled willpower and continued desecration, my feet yanked me forward until I sat on Geraldine's other side. And for a moment, we sat in silence—even when the world didn't. The dog barked and followed when the waves receded, then always hastily fled when the water chased back. The couple eventually broke apart. One stayed close by the dog, and the other chased the child, who howled and squawked in gleeful protest. Even from here, the shrieks of laughter and barks of silly canine antics pierced the air.

Geraldine's hand was cold when she put it over mine. Her fingers were thin with age but still strong as they squeezed my own. Emotion rattled in my chest. Our eyes stayed forward, whether on the waves, the family, or the horizon, but we didn't need to look at each other. Our mouths remained closed, lips tilted, pursed, or flat, but we didn't need to speak to each other. We only needed to be right then. The rest could wait.

"Mrs. Whitehill?"

You have to be kidding me.

He was like spilled ink. I couldn't wash my hands of it; it splattered on everything I touched. I looked over my shoulder, half expecting to see nothing at all and confirm my mind had finally given way, but I saw him. He was there. Oh, boy. He was really there. Hell, Simon Gatz was always there.

Damn him.

"Mr. Gatz. Right on time. Thank you for coming." Geraldine's empty fingertips trailed over the carved bench one last time before she stood and strode to meet him. She shook his hand, and gestured back to the house. "Shall we?"

He nodded. Geraldine led the way; she didn't spare Camila and I another glance. I was momentarily speechless. I watched them like a silent movie I couldn't believe had been released to the public.

"Who let him in?" I finally muttered, eyes stuck on their receding backs. My jaw had unhinged in disbelief, and my teeth had begun to ache from the cold gusts of coastal wind rushing into my open mouth.

"Probably Gene. He's been puttering around front all day," Camila responded. "I keep telling him not to touch the Morning Glories, but what does he keep doing? Touching the damn Morning Glories! His brain's as knotty as the garden hose."

I didn't reply immediately. I would not be telling her she was older than the aging gardener, nor that I agreed with Gene that they'd needed to be trimmed. Camila wasn't as far behind Geraldine in years as she liked to insist, either, but it seemed the age gap mattered less and less the older they got as both dwindled and thrived in their golden eras. But that wouldn't be said aloud, either. I liked my peace when I could get it.

Geraldine and Simon had disappeared into the house. A tugging urge to eavesdrop was making my fingers itchy and my feet restless. "What's he here for?"

"Museum debriefing, I suppose. Who knows?" Camila shrugged before she stood with a grimace. "Damn bench is aggravating my arthritis. Don't tell Gerrie I said that. Coffee?"

Irked by Simon being at Damar's Landing and remorseful over the time I had lost after the theft, I accepted Camila's offer.

She soon puttered around the kitchen, the room a ridiculous size for any single elderly woman living by herself, and tossed unknown spices in a pan. I trusted her, and even if I didn't, I lacked the expertise to guess what she was throwing in. I'd learned long ago Camila was best not questioned.

"It's odd that he's here." My fingers drummed on the counter before me where I slouched haphazardly on a bar stool. A cup of coffee was plunked down by my hand on the Calacatta marble.

"It's odd that you're still on about it."

"No, it's not!" I protested. "I'm just saying, why have a meeting here? It's her house. She doesn't know him. It's weird."

"Mi amapola, what is with you recently?" Camila asked, turning disapprovingly over her shoulder from where she stood at the stove. "First you act like you've lost your head with your job at the museum, and now you're acting strange about this man. Is there something we should know?"

Yes.

"No, nothing like that. He hasn't done anything wrong, and nothing's happened. I just think it's... it's," I struggled before finishing lamely, "...odd."

"Yes, I heard that the first time."

"You know why I left the museum, Camila. I was asked to."

"Don't act like I haven't seen the news," she warned. "I read the tabloids like everyone else. Your name was big on the chirper!"

Chirper? AKA Twitter?

"If you ask me, I think you should be fighting back instead of whatever this giving-in acceptance crap you've been doing lately is," Camila continued. "You wanna talk about odd, let's talk about that."

"I wouldn't know anything about my name recently. I've locked my accounts. I'm tired of seeing the same things about me."

"Pride has no right tearing families apart," Camila said, repeating her words from earlier. She turned from the stove and made sure I was listening. "The Whitehills are a proud family. That doesn't mean they're always right."

I knew of their pride. It matched their honor. It came with a high cost of loyalty, and for once in my life, the impossible had happened. My pockets were empty.

"They're doing what's best for the museum, Camila."

Camila muttered more curses, more laments of my foolishness, but eventually turned back to the stove. I pressed cold fingers to my mug and found myself staring unseeingly out the large bay window. My mind was as tangled as the kelp on the beach, or as knotty as Gene's garden hose.

"Ms. Camila?" a voice asked from behind me.

Why couldn't I shake him loose? Why couldn't I run far enough away that he couldn't corner me with those bright eyes and even brighter soul? Every time I saw him, I felt drawn a little closer. And that was a dangerous, dangerous thing.

I mean, sure, he was attractive, and that was obviously at play. He was aloof in a way that didn't scream 'too-cool' or uncaring, and he effortlessly exuded confidence with a quiet strength. He had a sense of attention and a skill of perception that was just known. Something about it all combined to be unshakeable. I'd barely talked to the guy, but the heady mix of looks and enigmatic energy was apparently more than enough for me. It made me want to probe, to peel apart the layers of self to see if he was as great as I fantasized he would be.

It also made me want to run far, far away. Sometimes it was better to simmer in what could have been, than burn in what ultimately was.

"Come in, Simon. No use hovering in the doorway like a rubbernecking moose," Camila called back. Simon came in, but I kept my eyes on my coffee, and on Camila. I didn't know how to approach a 'rubbernecking moose'.

"Geraldine asked me to check with you before I left, ma'am."

"Yes, here you go."

I watched, just as dumbstruck as I was before, as Camila shoved coffee and a brown bag of food into Simon's arms. They were feeding him, too? So, what, I'd lost my place as the honorary member of the family, and they were turning to the security guy to be my replacement?

"This is unnecessary, ma'am," Simon started, beginning a polite rebuttal of her kindness, but I tuned out the rest with spite. He was waging a losing battle. Cherished guests left Geraldine's house with either food, flowers, or both. I used to leave with my arms full of warmth or color to bring home. Now, I would leave just as empty as I had arrived, both physically and emotionally. There was no use drawing it out. I discreetly stood from my stool as they began a back-and-forth and made my way over.

"Boy, if you don't take this food—"

"I have to be going. Thank you, Camila," I said quietly, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek in farewell.

"Drive safe, amapola," she said, before starting in again on Simon.

I slipped out of the kitchen, but faltered in the foyer. I didn't know if I should find Geraldine to say goodbye. I had no idea where she was, or if I had the courage to do it at all. I'd made it through the day, had made it to Damar, but I still didn't feel right facing Geraldine. For now, it was enough to know she was alright.

Well, perhaps she didn't quite fit the criteria of 'alright', but could anyone blame her? She was holding it together well, all things considered. I didn't know if anything but time could ease her wounds. Deciding I was alright with being a coward, I called out a low farewell and hurried through the door. It was a brisk retreat outside, away from the heaviness of sorrow and the stifle of mourning. I could breathe a sigh of relief when salty air flooded my lungs.

I paused to wave to Gene where he worked by the flowerbeds, not realizing what the lost time would cost me in my escape.

"I'm surprised to see you here."

No, really. No, I'm serious. It was too coincidental—too unbelievable. He was following me. He had to be. He'd escaped Camila so fast; I wondered if he was trying to catch me before I left.

If so, why?

I stood by my car, hand poised on the door. I fit back on the mask of falsities before glancing back. "I'm full of surprises. And I could say the same about you. Casual company of the Whitehills now?"

Simon shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets as I watched. He loped gracefully down the steps, framed by the faultless background, but somehow, he still held his own against the bearing might of Damar. He was as agile and confident as a panther slinking down from its perch, apparently unbothered by my drawled snark.

"Geraldine requested I meet with her anytime there's major developments or changes made to the museum. My team has made improvements to current security, and I have a few plans to propose for further protection. Loss is preventable. This is just where she prefers to meet."

"Oh." My fingers tightened, my joints whining in disapproval. I soldiered on, "Well, that's great. I'm glad to hear you're making progress. It would be terrible to lose anything to a copycat."

"Or the original thief, back for more."

It was my turn to shrug. "Maybe. But at least now, Geraldine knows she won't lose anything else. Not with you and Riverwide on the case."

"Yes. That's the hope," Simon agreed. His eyes hovered on Gene's tottering figure in the side garden before carefully finding mine again. "I'm sorry the Widow hasn't been found yet."

I hadn't been ready for that. I needed to consider my response before I spoke. I had to evaluate my surroundings and my present company much like he always did. So I took that moment.

The weather was still gloomy, but weak sunlight broke through the somber clouds, sinfully gracing Simon's strong features. It made him look touched by the heavens; kissed by the same celestial beings that'd inspired the Greeks to create and explore, to map the stars and the seas, to tell of legendary heroes and villains. The same heroes I imagined would've looked much like him.

"You said you did research on heists like this one."

"Yes," he confirmed, "but not only the ones that seemed similar. A lot can be learned from the differences as well. I never walk into a job unprepared."

A niggling idea was worming its way into the forefront of my consciousness. I knew I shouldn't listen. It was a rather awful idea. A horrid, unwise, idiotic, ill-advised, reckless, senseless, inane, dumb, dim witted, nutty, awful idea.

Yet I was known for those, lately. They were starting to become my trademark.

Whether driven by guilt, or some unshakeable intrigue, or the damn sunlight draping his lean frame like a blessing from above—I offered something I shouldn't have. I took a deep breath, and found his eyes. "I have an idea," I said. "I want to show you something. It might help with the museum and protecting the rest of the works."

"Done."

It was said so easily, so immediately, that for a moment I didn't realize he'd said it at all. When I did, I chalked it up to a man desperate to prove his company was capable after their losses, eager to prove his own worth as CEO. He'd do anything to protect the museum, even if it meant following an exiled pariah like me.

"You can follow in your car," I said. "It's not too far of a drive."

"What are we waiting for?" His mouth twitched into a half-smile. "Lead the way, Ms. Vaycker."

I was waiting for my common sense to kick in, or for his to stop him, but neither of us backed down. So I did the foolish thing. I got in my car and drove away from Damar's Landing, with Simon Gatz following closely behind me.