"Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence" by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1609), stolen 1969 - value $20 million

Chapter Nineteen

Normally, I hated when someone followed behind in their car. It made me terribly self-conscious of my driving, which then only made my driving worse.

To my luck, our destination was halfway between Damar and the museum. Yet, to my chagrin, the journey was slightly lengthened by the building mass of late afternoon traffic. Simon did well keeping up, however, and I attempted to temper my road frustration caused by others. I made sure he could always see my red car, even as awful drivers made me question what vending machine was dispensing licenses willy-nilly out there.

When we arrived, Simon's gray Jeep slid into the parking spot next to mine. I leaned against my car, arms crossed, and watched as he swung himself out with a grace that shouldn't be possible with a car like that. For a man so tall and sturdy, he was surprisingly flexible.

"I never took you as a Jeep guy," I called when he landed on his feet.

His head tilted in confusion, and he locked his car before crossing to where I stood. "What do you mean?"

"Jeep guy. You know, a Jeep guy. Nothing?" I brushed it off with a wave, unsure how to delve into the complexities of car stereotyping. "Well, never-mind, it's not like I know you very well. You're just full of surprises, right?"

"Sure. I mean, I didn't take you as a..."

Simon trailed off as he looked at my car. I watched him weigh his words, but he glanced between me and my ride, and seemingly chose not to continue. I took it as jest.

"Simon! She's not that bad! You'll hurt her feelings." I tutted humorously, laying a hand on the warm hood and smiling. My shoulders tipped and dropped in unabashed fondness of my ride. "She's a little beat up, but Agatha's trying her best. We can't all have rubber duckie collections, you know."

"Beat up?" Simon asked incredulously. He looked from me to my car again, and regret came crashing down as I realized my error. I could feel my face burning; we'd only just started our trip, but I'd already made a horrible mistake. I knew I shouldn't have brought him. I couldn't act so carefree. I wasn't with August, I was with him. Besides, I liked the tradition of trading rubber duckies between Jeeps. I wasn't sure why I had bashed it; I'd always thought it was cute.

"Well... yeah," I explained sheepishly, trying to explain my words. "She's got some wear and tear. It's not like she's the newest model. She's old."

"I'm not sure I'd call your Porsche 'beat-up', but to each their own." He shrugged and turned his gaze back to our surroundings, unaware his words were like pitchforks. "Newest model or not, Agatha can't be that old. Not with all those upgrades."

I didn't know how to respond, or stop the tickling flush of my cheeks. I didn't how to recover from the shortsighted blunder. Instead, I turned, and followed where he was looking. We were a little further downtown, but the small lot we stood in was on the opposite side of the city as the museum. The parking lot tried its best to serve a row of buildings, but many of them saw more customers than the space could handle.

It was a different environment down here. The only similarity was the nightmare of city parking.

A city like this was full of pockets, with plenty of corners to turn and a plethora of spaces to fill. A pocket could be as big as a city block or as small as a doorway, but there were plenty to find as they stitched together to form the urban patchwork. Each one was something different, with its own people, sounds, and uses; each pulsed a little differently to make the harmony that belonged to the area.

The particular pocket we stood in was deep in the 'wannabe district', as August and I called it. It mimicked big cities on the East Coast, with chipped red brick forming wide storefronts, and everything exorbitantly voguish. It didn't match the surrounding landscape, or even the rest of the city's architecture. Quite frankly, it was a patchy wannabe-New York, with our destination even snugly squished between a wine bar and a book boutique. Gentrification had already rooted and upturned the area; it'd be dishonest to deny it. Not that I even could, considering I was there in the first place.

Dusk had begun to settle by our arrival. Evening was early and final in late-October, and the lights of the city were begrudgingly turning on for a long night of work. The lights would be a beacon to night moths of money and glitter, and like the wannabe New York aesthetic of the neighborhood, wannabe New York types would be arriving soon. We'd need to get a move on before I ran into someone I knew.

I pushed off my car and headed to a door in the chicly ragged brick.

"C'mon."

Simon's steps knocked the pavement behind me. "What did you want me to see?"

"What happens when art is only viewed as something to have," I vaguely replied.

Surprisingly, Simon followed me in without further question. I figured my response hadn't made much sense to him, but he wisely decided it was better to go along than fish with the wrong tackle.

The place I'd brought him to was all wooden floors, extremely white walls, and sleek black light fixtures. The gallery glowed from the brightly lit bulbs, but if we'd come during the day, filtered glass windows would've allowed cascading natural light to illuminate the wide room and hanging works. In my opinion, if a cliche had a baby, and that baby was an art gallery—this place was undeniably it. I thanked the heavenly artists above that Simon always dressed so impeccably.

I led him in, past the clusters of people that would only grow as the night went on, and to a particular painting.

"Alright, what do you see?"

Simon looked at me, bewildered at my abrupt question. I gestured to the work. "I'm serious, what do you see?" I asked again.

"Art?"

I opened my mouth to chastise him, or perhaps wonder how he ever got to be CEO, but I closed it when I saw the upturn of his lip. I shook my head in response, realizing he was intentionally being obtuse. "C'mon, what do you see? What does it make you feel?"

"I see shapes," he started. "And lots of... er, colors. But if I squint, maybe it's a face?"

Then he actually squinted, tilting his head like a dog for the second time that night. The same frustration I'd felt the day we met swelled in my chest, but I shoved it down, and decided to give him a break.

"It's called 'Radiance of a Politic'."

"Uh, right. Yeah, I can see that... now."

He glanced around at the people milling about, shuffling on his feet. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or further put him out of his misery. He wasn't being sarcastic then; it was the genuine discomfiture that often accompanied the style. Abstract art could veer into perplexing connections between title and representation.

He squinted again, complimenting the painting the way one'd half-heartedly applaud a dentist's work. "Very radiant."

"You can say it, Simon."

"No, I think it looks nice."

"Simon, it's abstract."

"Did the artist mean for it to look like he'd spilled water on it? Or was that an accident?" He leaned closer, doubt seeping out of every inch of him as he examined the blotchy pigment. He almost seemed to be swallowing a concerned laugh. "Wait, is this a children's gallery? I'm sorry. My niece painted me something similar last week, but she didn't give it a name. I put it on my fridge. If you ask me, I think in that case she actually did mean to spill water on it."

"'Radiance of a Politic' was painted over seventy years ago by a well-known artist," I informed, smothering my own humor. I couldn't tell if I should be offended or entertained. "He helped modernize abstract art. It's worth quite a bit."

"Right. Yes. I thought so," Simon coughed.

"This particular work, however," I said, leaning in close to the work, "was only painted in the last few years."

I leaned even closer as Simon stepped back, my face only a few inches away from the painted surface. I put out a finger, reached forward and... well, I touched the painting. In hindsight, maybe I touched it a bit aggressively. At least to a bystander's eyes.

"What are you doing?" Simon hissed from behind me. One of his hands looped around my wrist, his other found my hip. Sturdy fingers pulled me in and wide palms melded to curves as he desperately lunged to stop me from ruining the work—and his body was suddenly pressed against mine.

I froze.

Medusa herself had set her sights on me, yet mythology had nothing on the truth of his touch. My hand became as stiff as marble where he held it a few inches from the canvas. He'd both pulled me back and moved himself forward; we'd met in the middle and momentum had rushed to fill every empty space with him. His chest against my shoulders, his arm wrapped around, his hips snug against me.

The brush of sun on hopeful spring leaves; the curl of warm breath on waiting skin; the shiver of winter lying on the ground, welcoming the embrace of our steps, calling us to lie down and join her, imprinting our bodies as we splay out and call ourselves angels.

Each one of my vertebrae clinked as something slid up my spine, not far from his touch, tracing where he was flush against me. It burst in the bottom of my skull and raced in warm rivulets to my every corner. I could feel my neurons short circuiting from his sturdy grip. Maybe I was the true cliché in that gallery, but his hands were firm, and his body was on mine. His warm breath tickled my neck. It scattered goosebumps and stalled the air I'd gulped. But heaven, almighty. His hand was on my hip, his palm curved to fit, and his other arm cradled me as he held my wrist. What was only a moment felt like a lingering pause, and I wondered if the fingers still pressed on my pulse point could feel the rampage of my heart. He was the only one breathing in a world paused in shock.

Then, ever so slightly, his fingers clenched, and he was gone.

I immediately felt my moral pockets filling up, loaded with the lies I'd already started telling myself. I dropped the arm that'd threatened the painting, cleared my throat, and turned to face him. I was dismayed; he'd taken more steps back than I would've liked.

"It's, uh—" I clawed for words out of a parched throat, scrambling for an explanation, and choked, "...fake."

"Sorry?"

He cleared his own throat, eyes intense on mine. The air felt curdled as I tried to suck in a breath. A silly little touch—that's all it'd been. Even so, I was apparently grasping for pearls to clutch and clawing for reality to hold.

"The work," I elaborated. "It's fake. Only a replica."

"Ah."

My chin jerked in acknowledgment. Unsure where to go from there, I gestured around me. "Let's keep going, shall we?"

Simon nodded, and I hurried forward to approach the next work. As I did, I snuck a subtle peek at my companion, but was baffled by what I saw. I was about to go up in flames, ruffled from the proximity, but he didn't seem nearly as nonplussed as I felt. He seemed... dare I say it, amused. Amusement was a hard thing to read on someone like Simon; I could only tell by the spark in his eyes, the relaxed curve of his jaw, and the lips I was avoiding looking at.

Damnit.

The next painting wasn't abstract. I thanked whoever was listening for the moment of grace. I didn't need to explain the piece 'Laura goes for a ride' to him; it was depicted exactly as stated in dabbles of pastel acrylics. However, my mind wasn't on Laura or her attempts at poised riding. It was elsewhere, flirting with thoughts of warm hands on hips, a firm chest pressed flush against my body, and the slim likelihood of it happening again. My fingers twitched.

"Why's there a replica up?" Simon murmured from beside me. He gazed at the painting before us, but his mind was just as distant. "It didn't say so on the sign."

I gathered my thoughts, still rattled; the lies I'd fed myself clinking like pennies in a tin-can. It was the feeling of being flustered, if the feeling had been deflated and shoved into the recesses of the mind, then inflated with smoke.

"The gallery owners think it's more important to keep the real one safe than to have it out."

"Because people kept touching it?"

"Because to them it's all about owning art, not honoring it."

I was searching for where to start like I'd searched for my composure. For all the time I'd had to prepare on the way here, I still found myself floundering, worsened by the surprising nearness that'd occurred only moments before. For once, words weren't pulling through. They weren't magically appearing despite my procrastination like they'd always done in the past. Still, I had to continue. "They're worried something will happen to the painting if they have it out."

"Why's that wrong? Lots of places worry about things like that. Whitehill has plenty of protections around their higher-end works. Especially now." At my expression, Simon hastily added, "Not that Whitehill has replicas."

"There shouldn't be the mindset of hiding or barricading the most expensive works only because of their perceived worth," I advocated. "The focus should be on extending longevity, maintaining quality, and making sure art stays where it is for the people. The motivating factor should be protecting the work so the most people possible can see it—not limiting access because some people aren't 'worthy' enough. They could've protected it with glass, alarms, distance, anything else."

I shook my head, feeling the topic was way more complicated to explain than I'd expected. I also felt a powerful gust of defiance surge up to coat my words. "When Whitehill has to take a painting down for any reason, it's down. We'd put a sign up or a QR code on the wall. We'd explain why, and we'd try our damndest to get it back out. We never hid any works away, and we definitely didn't put fakes out. Let alone without labeling them!"

Simon was quiet. It was several heartbeats later when he spoke again, following a few rises and falls of his chest.

"Why do you say they only care about owning it? They're just protecting the work."

"Whitehill protects our works. Are you saying we don't?" I challenged. I spun to face him with a scowl. A horrible voice in my head was pointing out there was no 'we' when it came to the museum, not anymore, but I viciously ignored it.

Simon shook his head. "Of course not. If the museum didn't care to protect their art, I'd be out of a contract. I meant the replica. Does it matter if the real one is up or not?"

"I think what matters is the reason," I emphasized. "Artists don't pour their soul into their creations so it can rot alone somewhere, or be preserved in a vault for no one to see. People don't want to ooh and ah over a photograph or a remake if they don't have to. There has to be a reason for drastic protections, and not every reason or protection is okay. Like that one: there's a big reason the owners are worried about that work. It's not hidden away because it's fading or damaged, it's hidden so the public doesn't take justice into their own hands."

"Justice?"

"Art is targeted for plenty of reasons. Some are more radical than others, like the recent activist attempts in Europe."

"I'd hardly call throwing food or gluing oneself to a painting justice."

"No, in those cases, it's not," I agreed. I wasn't sure he was understanding my point. "They have a point about climate change, obviously, but clearly a priceless painting has no correlation. Sure, it's a statement about priorities, but the behavior is awful. I don't agree with those actions at all... but with 'Radiance of a Politic', I think it would be about justice if someone went after it. The truth is, that painting shouldn't be here."

"Why not?"

"Legally, the owners of this gallery own it, but morally, they'll never be able to. Claude Swigfreid never wanted his work sold or displayed in commercial settings."

I took a deep breath, feeling the morosity of Claude's story like the inevitable ache of humanity, and continued. "Swigfreid hated the elitism of private art, but he died, childless and alone, and his works became the property of the state to cover his debts. It was like damn vultures swooping in the second he croaked. His remaining works were sold off in auction to anyone greedy enough to bid for it."

"Ah."

"Recently, an exposé came out about the horrid behaviors of a few quintessential artists, how their mundane pursuits became iconic legacies, and everything else that got swept under the rug. Especially what happened after they died. 'Radiance' was at the center, because Swigfreid's story exemplified the author's point. Art often becomes a trading card."

"Were threats made against the work, or the gallery owners?" Simon asked, concerned.

"I think so. I know a lot of people were angry about the disrespect, myself included," I confessed. "Swigfried had once said he'd rather burn every canvas he had ever touched than see his art become cannon fodder for the rich. I think it's... upsetting to think our choices are taken as soon as we die. It's like our wants never mattered at all."

"What would people do? Ruin it? Destroy it for him?"

"Rescue it, ruin it, I don't know," I said quietly. "I wouldn't want it destroyed, but I feel for the artist."

"The artist is dead," Simon reasoned, bold with the factual truth. "It can't bother him, now."

"Maybe not, but he was right in the end. His works are showed off today like fancy baubles meant to prove someone's wealth. Instead of what they are: the works of a grieving man, who survived off his own loneliness until it killed him."

"So, the real one's put away because of social unrest and that one isn't real," Simon recounted. He paused before plucking a thread to see what'd unravel. "How'd you know?"

"Word of mouth. Besides, you can see some of these have prices." I nodded my chin at the works with numbers underneath them. "That one doesn't. If it did, they'd have to clarify it's a fake. With art, there's no legal requirement to say what's real or not, as long as it isn't for sale."

"There's another thing I don't understand," Simon admitted. "Swigfreid didn't sell them, but you said they're worth a lot of money."

"He did sell some at first. For stupid cheap, too. Pennies to the millions they're worth today. Y'know, he was different, because most artists don't gain recognition until they're dead," I grimly informed. "I guess art's just one of those things that's not as impressive when the person's still around. Like writing books, maybe it's not as noble until there isn't a chance for more. But, well, the story goes Swigfreid said he wouldn't sell anymore after the first few, even after they became highly desirable. His debts when he died were from living when he couldn't afford it."

"What made them popular?" Simon asked. I turned, glancing at his vacant eyes that'd found Swigfreid's work again. "Other than his death, I mean."

"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe a fad, or maybe he just got lucky, but he stuck to his word. He never sold any more paintings. He gifted them, though. It was hard to earn one. Some who did ruined that badge of honor by later selling them off. Others probably kept theirs."

Simon's eyes were turned to me by then. I kept my own on the pastel colors before me; on the hues twirled together to create the painted frills of a dress, delicately depicted on the hanging canvas. Still, I could feel the burn of his gaze, the one I wanted to hoard like a spotlight.

"You know a lot about art."

"A few things. Some fun facts, maybe. I don't know everything I wish I did."

"But you know enough," Simon compromised. "More than enough to impress me."

"I don't want to impress you, I want you to understand," I willfully admitted. The conversation had been interesting, but I'd had a purpose in sharing Swigfreid's story. "The owners of this gallery view art as something to have, like a trophy, or an investment, and they'll do whatever it takes to protect their investments. They'd lock this place down and never show art again if it meant mitigating enough risk. They shouldn't even have this painting, but they do, and they live in fear of what they could lose. Their solution is to take it away from others. I'm not saying art shouldn't be protected, but—"

"—there has to be a fair reason," Simon finished. 

I nodded. "Protective measures have to be justified. Art isn't something to hide in fear of what could be lost. It's worth nothing hidden away. Art should be cared for, and kept safe, but it should also be seen."

I didn't want Whitehill to become a fortress denied to the public, and I feared it would be, as the discourse surrounding the scandal continued to sour. I'd heard the whispers that'd snaked around my feet at the museum, the poisoned view of the public, the resentment that'd worsened the divisive opinions of who 'deserved' art. The theft marked the possibility of the museum reneging on its deal, on its very foundation built on sharing art and branching class divides. If art was hidden away out of fear or greed, it wasn't worth it. Art deserved more. So did artists. So did the public.

"The gallery owners Fiddle-dee and Fiddle-dum did everything wrong," I said. "But, Simon, don't forget art is there to be enjoyed, not just protected. Don't let the others forget why the museum was built in the first place. Please, don't let the theft change that. Protect it, but don't forget what you're protecting."

Simon stared down at me. I was running the risk of being seen as nonsensically passionate, or misguided and contradictory, but I felt it was worth it. Or perhaps I'd made no sense at all, and he thought I was advocating against protecting art, or preparing for the worst.

I wanted it protected, but only if it belonged, and only if it didn't ruin the beauty of its purpose. Of course, some works just couldn't be exposed to the public for various reasons like frailty or age. I knew that. I'd worked at a museum, for heaven's sake. I hoped Simon understood the point I wanted to hammer across his company's creed.

"I won't forget," he promised.

I searched his eyes, but I didn't see any waver or indication of faulty truth. I hoped he'd keep his word.

"I don't know if this is making any sense. You probably think I'm crazy."

"I think you're passionate about something you love," Simon replied. "And I think you value solid reasonings behind actions. I get it, and I get where you're coming from."

I nodded. A peaceful kind of silence toiled then, wrapping us in a bubble away from the light chatter of other gallery guests around us. But with silence, came reminders.

"There's one more thing I want you to see," I said when the silence brought too much discomfort. "That part should be more helpful for your job. This part was more of a reminder, but it wasn't actually the purpose of bringing you here."

Simon nodded, and I began to move on, but I didn't get far before I froze in my tracks. One of the wonder twins mingled not too far from us. I'd hoped to avoid him and his brother; they were the wicked wizards who owned the gallery. We were unlucky. Now there was a chance he'd heard my bashing of his choices and my fierce disapproval of their ownership of 'Radiance'.

"Shit," I muttered. "I was hoping they wouldn't be here tonight."

I cursed again, and Simon looked at me sharply before scanning the room. I could sense him stiffening beside me. "Who?"

I didn't have time to answer. I looped my arm through his and leaned in, close enough to frantically whisper, "I'm sorry, just go along with it. I'll explain later."

Like Glinda had recruited Dorothy to fight her battles for her, I recruited Simon to face a flying monkey from my past. And like I'd done with so many others, I hoped he would forgive me for my irreverent transgressions.

This chapter kicked my ass. I feel like I have to peel myself off of it and just fling it away at this point. Just get as far away as possible and revisit it later! I can't tell if the problem is truly that I've read it too much at this point. Anyway, that's the cause of the delay—because this chapter has been a lot. I could use some feedback! Please comment, vote, share, all the fun stuff!

- H