"Man with a Pipe" by Jean Metzinger (1911-12), stolen 1998 - value $2 million

Chapter Fourteen

August and Lena nodded, and I tossed out some of the sugary goods I had in my middle drawer. Sticky caramel eventually caused that minefield of a conversation to shift and die. I couldn't say I was all that bummed about it.

"So Samantha had her baby?" August asked in between bites of chocolate. I nodded. He hummed, eyes thoughtful. "I'll have to send a gift."

And I know you will. You don't miss a beat.

"How are your parents taking this?" Lena asked suddenly. She'd finished her candy bar and was back on track. I should've figured she'd pry further; she wasn't there for candy or staff updates. August sucked in a breath, concerned eyes snapping to me in warily concealed interest. This wasn't a preferred swap of topics; I fought back the scowl that itched to conquer my expression.

I forced out a dry, hollow laugh instead. My fellow family-distressed friends winced. Lena knew the troubles of complicated parents, and August knew my particular struggles. Answers tumbled out before I could stop them.

"My parents? They're thrilled. Who wouldn't be? Their oldest daughter is being accused of grand theft and the FBI has their hands in everything I've ever touched. My parent's businesses are now unsteady because of my decisions, and it's happening during the busiest season of the year. Their youngest daughter doesn't want to take over either of their empires, and she seems to think this guy Scott is more than the boneheaded, immature, beer-breath kiss ass he is. But my parents are good; they're great. Truly. Expect a Christmas card in the next few weeks."

The room was silent. August looked troubled, and Lena's face was sympathetically blank.

"You done?" Lena asked.

I ripped into my own candy bar as an answer, cross at the reminders of my family troubles. Lena knew how painful parents could be. So, while she'd been the one to bring it up, she thankfully and respectfully dropped that jagged topic. The charged air settled, emotions like volcanic ash that'd been kicked up in dusty chokeholds. It landed back on my chest to burn me.

"I have to go see Geraldine. I haven't seen her in ages," Lena announced, breaking the thinly held silence. "I was hoping she'd be here."

It's hard to see someone who wishes to hide.

The museum had lost one Widow already, and these days it seemed we'd lost another as well. Geraldine was at her estate hidden away most of the time. Her sprawling house, officially named Damar's Landing, was a place I'd admittedly stay at constantly if I could. I couldn't exactly blame her for spending the recent cold days there, but I still hated her absence. Not that it impacted me any way other than emotionally or superficially; she hadn't faltered in her work, of course. She was Geraldine Louise Whitehill. She got things done. Even if she didn't, she was the matriarch of a well-run family, and they could get the job finished without her. But that wasn't to say she wasn't needed or wanted; no one had an eye for beauty or opportunity like Geraldine did. She was Whitehill's heart, its spirit, its monarch.

No one could comfort me like she did, or reassure me the world has more to offer.

"You can go with me, later, if you want," August offered. "I have to give Gramma the newest mock-ups for the fundraiser gift bags."

Lena and him promptly settled into a conversation about the fundraiser, which I just as promptly tuned out. I should've lead the conversation because of my role in the planning, but I had no interest in discussing logistical coordination with August and Lena. There was no room in my heart to feel excitement over guests lists, cast predictions on expected faux pas, or marvel at the lavish budget.

I settled in my chair instead, feeling pesky thoughts bubble. It'd crossed my mind more than once to consider if Geraldine was avoiding me. Did she blame me? Would she forgive me? Had I lost the blessing of the person I respected most in the world? She was my teacher, my family, my friend. She was my mentor in career, art, and life; I couldn't bear to think she'd lost room in her heart for me. I dreaded to think the shift in weather had simultaneously arrived with more than just boot season and loaded holidays. That the calendar defined more than crop cycles, but also other gnawingly painful loops of loss and disruptive change far beyond the flooded soil.

Honestly, if I was a poet, I'd think there were similarities between the fall months and myself.

Because if I was anything, I was a modern October. Calm and mild during the day, surrounded by brilliant hues of astonishing variety; enveloped by bright, endless beauty. Balanced and mellow. Then at night, the cold came. The cold flourished in the dark. It crept and whispered warnings of what was to come, what lurked around the corner, and described how the trees went from picture-ready to horror-blessed. Beautiful trunks coated with warm shades of color became dark shadows creaking and calling; swoons of a ghost unseen. Nights were stark, sad opposites of the steadily composed days. They were lonely, and chilled, and so very different from what'd been enjoyed before.

I was that kiss of autumn that warned you to cherish the last moments before the chill came; before the snow muffled and silenced, before the elements sapped what they could from you. I was October. And I was the dying embers of September that'd clung on as long as they could.

I'm sorry, Geraldine. I'm so sorry.

Through my open office door, I heard muted chatter draw closer. I glanced up just as the owners of the voices passed. It was the head of security, Owen, deep in conversation with a certain CEO. Simon Gatz in all of his handsome glory strode beside him, listening intently. Or he was, until his eyes flicked to mine. It was a split second connection as he walked by. It was nothing.

It was just eye contact.

But...

Alright, it was heavy. Heavy because something flickered. Not quite a spark, but still something of heat and light, of fall hues in darkness. A muffled thrill of a heart losing its beat in the rhythm. Simon's eyes had stayed on mine until cut off by the door frame, and that split second had stretched and stretched like sweet taffy.

Simon was someone I would try a little harder with in another world. Another time, another life. Because every time I saw him I found myself pausing at his eyes. He had eyes that didn't allow one to look away, that held a stare and didn't release one's gaze until he was ready. He ascertained what he needed to and plucked out the vulnerabilities that weren't barricaded well enough. It was thrilling; it felt like a challenge. But, of course, I was basing that off of limited interactions with him. We hadn't spoken since that day the media had cornered me, and I'd only gotten brief glimpses of him here and there as we were both constantly swept away with work. He was busy earning his title and proving his rank, and I was busy trying to stay afloat on a ship that threatened to sink.

But every time I just so happened to notice him, wearing a crisp suit and the recent addition of a striking long coat, I was curious. From our conversations in the exhibits the first day we'd met, to the battle of wills in the employee parking lot and back staircase, I'd found that I enjoyed moments with Simon Gatz of Riverwide Security.

Snap out of it.

I averted my gaze when Simon was out of sight, looking down at my computer screen. I didn't realize someone else had noticed Simon's passing by.

"Who was that?" Lena asked abruptly, interrupting August as he talked about the fundraiser. Her shocked, excited expression and bright, wide eyes met mine. I was trying very hard to pretend I had no idea who she was talking about. That the blood in my cheeks was because of the cold; entirely and solely from the chill leaking from the window behind me.

"Who?"

"The guy that just walked by with Owen. I know you saw him." Suspicion was a speck in her eyes, only growing at my losing battle with my blushing cheeks. I hurriedly rushed to smother it.

"Oh, Simon? That's the CEO of Riverwide. You recommended them, remember?"

"Holy shit, that's him? I never met him, he was on sabbatical or something when the company worked my case," Lena said, voice layered in the hushed tones of appreciation. Her demeanor was chipper in its tease. "He's hot."

August made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a snort, causing both Lena and I to look at him. "He's temporary. He won't be here any longer than it takes to get his team settled. I'm sure he has other cases to oversee."

Based on general reactions to the company lately, I doubted there were that many other cases for him to have a hand in. Not to mention the backlash Whitehill itself had received when they'd announced the contract, just as I had predicted. But August could be right. He could be an even more temporary presence than I'd thought. I would have to snuff out whatever just lit, whatever still flickered in my chest and gut.

For multiple reasons.

Because if the wearying battles I was caught in every day weren't enough to refrain from temptation, his fleeting presence would be.

You're hot, Simon. I'll give you that. But that's all you are.

"Alright, I'm heading out. I've avoided 'herding guests' long enough." August stood, fixing his sleeves and scooping up his laptop. He threw me a wink and headed to the door. "See you later, El. Lena, text when you're ready to head to Damar, alright?"

Lena and I both returned his goodbyes. I had someone else with me now, so August no longer had to stand sentry. The watchful eye that was awaiting a breakdown from me could take a break as a new volunteer stepped forward.

Lena wasted no time as August disappeared. "So, that's really all you're going to say about Simon?"

Was there blood in the water? Had I flinched? Blinked? Showed my hand?

"What do you mean?"

"I saw that look between you two! Is there a thing? I absolutely wouldn't blame you if you were checking him out or something."

"My god, Lena! The door is open! People could be walking by," I complained sourly. "You sound just like Carrie. What is it with you two? He's just a guy. I'm not looking for a relationship."

"Right. Just a guy." Lena chuckled airily, her ponytail swishing in dismissal. "The best relationships are the ones you find when you're not looking, you know. Distractions can also be very effective. But look, if you're not interested in a workplace thing, that's fine. I get it. Don't have to tell me twice. But you can at least admit he's pleasing to look at. You have that look on your face."

"I'd rather admit to the theft," I grumbled.

That wasn't meant to be as heavy as the rain when I said it. It was intended as an offhand joke in poor taste, but Lena grew serious at my mumbled words, humor shriveling despite my light, careless use of them. I wasn't wrong in the comparison of my friend and sister. Lena and Carrie were startlingly similar in more ways than just their speech mannerisms or taste in men. They both oscillated between brutal humor and stern empathy, and I had a feeling Lena was now swinging strongly in the direction of no-nonsense emotional dissection.

"Look, I'm not just here to see art. I actually came to see you," she admitted.

Surprise, surprise.

"Me? Is everything alright?"

"You've hit celebrity status now, so it's time for the talk."

Lena was serious, but I couldn't help but laugh. "The talk? I didn't get one from my parents, and you want to give me one now?"

"Eleanor."

Ah, shit.

Why did everyone use my name that way? With just my name? Did I really need a constant reminder of everything? Did I need an endless stream of conversations that rubbed it all in? How I wasn't allowed to be happy, or laugh, or smile when things were serious? Why couldn't I just chat with friends without a guillotine overhead? Why did it have to be talked about over and over, rehashing details that cut a little deeper each time?

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "I'm not sure being widely regarded as a privileged brat who got away with theft counts as a celebrity."

Lena sighed, hands fiddling with the buttons of her coat. Her eyes soon strayed with the same restlessness as her fingers. They were a paler blue than August's, so light in their color it was easy to confuse with a streaking, solemn gray.

"No, maybe celebrity isn't the right word. But you're famous, even if it's for all the wrong reasons. Welcome to the club."

"What exactly was it you wanted to talk about?" I asked, pressing on.

"I wanted to check on you and see how you're doing. There's pros and cons to everything, especially press. I'm sure everyone is all over you, but, honestly, I know how much it sucks when your first media moment doesn't go the way you wanted it to."

I shrugged, fidgeting with the lid of my empty coffee cup. "I guess it doesn't really matter. It would've been nice if my name was out there for a good thing, but people will forget this eventually. Investigations take years. There won't be answers any time soon, and people will move on. Someone else will do something and they'll write about that. It's already started."

"I don't know, Ellie, maybe one headline is all it takes to make an impression," Lena thoughtfully mused. She sighed in the softly huffing way that was characteristic of doubtful philosophers. Then she shifted, her face changing to an almost embarrassed, hesitant expression. "Actually, we don't have to talk about this. It probably won't make you feel any better and people have proved me wrong before."

"Proved what wrong?"

Lena shuffled again, but met my eye. She slowly admitted, "I was just thinking about first headlines. I grew up where you are now. Not as much in the spotlight, but on the edges, I guess. And now I'm in it all the time. I know about the fans, the haters. The believers, the cynics. And sometimes I wonder if we only get one headline that matters. The first thing that blows up about you, the very first thing people associate with your name—that's what sticks. People might move on but that doesn't mean your good name will. Not everyone cares enough to grow with you, or sticks around to see if it's true."

"No. It doesn't matter, or it won't, because things change. They have to," I insisted again. I swallowed the rocky lump in my throat. I hoped to cut her off before she vocalized the truths I denied, the truths I endlessly feared. "And who knows, maybe one day there will be better headlines about me. Something else will happen and this will get unstuck. People will forget. It can't just be this forever."

I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince anymore. So far, I'd been reassuring myself I didn't care about my reputation, and yet I knew a small part of me still secretly clung to a hopeful fantasy. One where I'd magically be the center of amazing headlines one day, and the current ones would be swept under expensive rugs, forgotten about under layers of spectacular publicity. But Lena had dashed that glimmering fantasy despite my denials. Whether it was ultimately a cruelty or a kindness, I didn't know. I could only vouch for intentions, not impacts.

"Maybe. But if it is—"

"I've pretty much accepted this is my life now, anyway. Is that what you want to hear? That I'm ruined, possibly forever, and I understand that? I don't know what you want from me, Lena," I griped, morose and upset. My temper was rising again. Lena had joined my sister once again in similarities; both had felt the brunt of the baton my emotions fiercely swung at them.

"I just want you to know it matters, but it also doesn't. Besides, I said some people prove me wrong. Their first role defines them until they get another one. Some people build empires and legacies off their first headlines with far worse to come back from. You could do that, too."

"Well, maybe I don't want an empire," I replied. My voice was becoming empty. Stone was creeping through my veins, hardening the turmoil that threatened to keep spilling.

Lena eyed me carefully, picking the truth out of my words before responding, "No, and you don't have to, either."

I didn't know what to say. I bit my tongue. Silence swelled, heavy and choking.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. That wasn't the pep talk you needed," Lena admitted, breaking the silence. She reached a hand out and briefly squeezed my own, her brow dipped in remorse and her chin tight. Guilt recognized guilt. Or at least, I recognized hers. It was a one-way glass.

"Look, Lena, I appreciate you stopping by. I do. But between August, Carrie, my parents... I'm not getting anything done. I just don't have time." I stiffly gestured to my desk, a messy array of work stubbornly beckoning me in.

It was a dismissal, and we both knew it.

I did need to get the work done, though. Or rather, I hoped to get it done. I wasn't sure how needed I was anymore—by the museum, by my team, by anyone and everyone. But I couldn't do it any longer; I couldn't sit in those conversations. I needed room. So I turned to a tried and true excuse to allow escape.

"Right. Don't worry, I won't take up any more of your time." Lena stood, but stopped in the doorway like so many did. "I really am sorry. I shouldn't have said any of that. Just know you can call me anytime, El. You can call any of us. August, Carrie, me. We're all here for you. You just have to be willing to accept it."

I smiled sharply, feeling the cold at my back, knowing there was a lot I needed to accept but never would. "I know. Thanks, Lena."

When she was gone, I worshipped the scabbed silence. I was tired of talking. I needed my friends, and loved the time spent with them, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't keep up the show I needed to, and I couldn't feel all that demanded to be felt for fear I would crumble. I couldn't listen to friends try to help only to fall short, or watch myself push them away when they began to succeed.

So, I worked instead. I carefully detailed my work and progress, leaving explanations and notes I normally wouldn't need or leave. I left them so if it wasn't me who opened the exhibit the following year, if it wasn't me who attended the fundraiser, if it wasn't me in that office in the future, then the person who was wouldn't struggle. Wouldn't ruin the progress I'd spent years making, or impede Whitehill's recovery because they were thrown into the role I'd thought would be mine forever.

I worked until the dark afternoon sky turned even darker. Until night cloaked the building and my eyes felt like they would crawl into the back of my skull in defeat. But I didn't notice. I didn't notice how late it was. I was busy, and I loved it. I didn't notice until a voice called out from the doorway, a calm drawl that startled me out of my paperwork.

"Late night working, huh? Museum isn't about to be robbed again, is it?"

I looked up to see Simon leaning against the door frame, hands tucked into his coat like he was waiting to leave. The hallway was dark except for the soft automatic lights; my office only lit by a desk lamp. The shadows were resultantly long, and played on the sharp angles of his face like fireflies on flowers, making his eyes seem darker and his expression more serious. He was intimidatingly comfortable in his dangerous demeanor of confidence. He was also as attractive as Carrie and Lena swore him to be.

Heaven help me or hell swallow me whole.

Last time Eleanor worked late, things didn't turn out so well... will she be caught in another repeat?

Also, friends aren't always as helpful as they think they are, huh? But they're trying. Is the intention enough? Or is it only the consequences that matter? How will Eleanor react if people keep trying to talk about it? [P.S. don't worry, things are going to start speeding up from here!]

- H

Question: Favorite holiday song?