"The Boy in the Red Vest" by Paul Cézanne (1888-1890), stolen 2008, recovered 2012 - value $91 million

Chapter Thirty-One

November was as dual-toned as a crocus.

It was conjointly opposite, like sour candy: sharp and biting, then sweet and apologetic.

November was a melodious symphony of brittle yellows and barking blues, of pushover reds and lyrical purples. November was teetering on the edge, and wondering if the fall was really that bad; knowing one couldn't swim, but leaning in to kiss the siren anyway. November was stumbling there and back, because the same fear that chased me to the edge was the same terror urging me away from the drop.

The next few weeks were a blur of clashing headlines, underhanded schemes, and determined avoidance. I busied myself with repairs. I smeared paste on my shattered pieces and hoped they would hold, discarding what was too far gone to save while avoiding the most fragile cracks of all. I stayed away from the museum. From Simon. From as many Whitehills as I could. My mind was haunted by phantoms, tormented by wants and maybes, and full of conflicts, even as I tried to outrun everything like the coward I was.

Things were changing. They always were.

As the days grew shorter and the light waned, I distanced myself from my friends and nudged them out of my guard. They'd been extremely useful in helping me gather the resources I'd needed, but it was beyond time to cut them loose. I barricaded myself in isolation instead and accepted the battle had not turned out the way I'd meant it to.

Because my city was no longer mine.

The parties I used to shine at continued, but my invitations were lost. The streets I used to walk along no longer cheered my name; my place in the current had been given away without notice. The dances I used to know by heart had changed, the lyrics had switched, and too many things had been built without me. I was a stranger to my city, my friends, and myself. The rumors were cruel, the Pontings were scheming, and the carefully coordinated plan was irreparably altered.

Some people believed my interviews. Others criticized my attention whoring. Opinion swayed with the wind and the shifting consensus of the majority; a willow tree I couldn't control.

And my job was no longer mine.

That, too, had eventually been taken from me like everything else. August was the one who'd brought the news to my door. They'd sent him to do their dirty work, even though it wasn't his job; even though it should've been Geraldine, or Mr. Whitehill, or a member of the board. None of the people who'd made the decision had been brave enough to show their face at the outcast's burrow. Only August had dared to visit, bearing sorrow and apologies for his family's decisions. His honesty was always appreciated, even when it cut open my career and ripped out its heart like the sacrifice it was. It was official now.

I shouldn't have been surprised. My office had been empty for too long. The other exhibit coordinators were overworked from carrying my weight on top of their own; they needed the space filled. So, though it had almost killed me, I'd called to congratulate Yolanda on her promotion.

Something else changed, too. The vines of my family were pruned so only blood and thorns remained. It was clear the oncoming winter had exposed the rotting roots, allowing me to clear what I'd let grow unnaturally for too long.

Because I wasn't a Whitehill.

I never was. I never would be. I'd never be anything but who I was: a stranger who'd mimicked familiarity, a fox who'd slept among wolves. Geraldine had been my mentor, my idol; a woman who'd fiercely guarded her brood regardless of blood. She'd been the role model I'd always wanted, but never deserved, and she'd been everything to me.

But now...

Now, she was only the past. I wasn't sure what her thoughts held, but I knew there was a distance between us I wasn't sure could ever be crossed. Was I like the biblical stories of God's favorite, who'd pushed and pushed, until his loving father had no choice but to cut the tether? Who'd slaughtered his loved one's good will until they were forced to push him off the edge?

Or was I the playful dolphin, who'd joyously frolicked beside the boat until tangled in the nets? Had there been no time to unravel the ropes and save me? Had I threatened to sink everyone in my panic, forcing her hand to cut the ties? To let me drown under the vessel I'd swam beside for all that way?

I didn't know—but I knew the scars would last. I knew the places I'd stitched myself back together would hurt when it rained, and grow bigger, stretching with age. Scars might fade, but scarred tissue beneath the surface threatens agony even years later, and I could feel those ghosts of pains not born yet. I knew it would come, and I shouldered that burden like the dying waited for death.

And finally, the cold was here. Mild still in terms of the usual notions of winter, but it had hands strong enough to grasp the jackets of residents and pinch their cheeks with red. The wind was fraught with whispers.

From word on the street and snowballed emails from my lawyers, I'd heard the FBI's appearances had slowed to a stop. The investigation hadn't made any new progress. The painting was gone; the world was recognizing it didn't seem likely to return. The window of disappearance had gotten too long to hope for anything better. Everyone knew the truth: the amount of paintings that eventually reappeared was minuscule compared to the list of paintings that disappeared in the first place. It was time for a new normal to be established, for the empty frame to officially become a permanent feature.

It was time to mark our Widow deceased.

Elsewhere in that same museum, I heard the newly improved security team was thriving. Riverwide had filled holes and fortified defenses; they were repairing the weaknesses and teaching efficiency. Their time at the museum was waning. They'd achieved what they'd come for, and Owen's team had learned a lot. Hopefully, it'd be enough.

It had to be enough.

Because November was there, and then it wasn't.

Because people moved on, but I never would.

I'd always been a fan of what gleamed even under the dimmest, darkest light. It made sense, then, that when I was a kid I'd wanted nothing more than to be a princess.

I'd wanted kisses under trellised wisteria; cobblestones witnessing embraces in storms; crowns heavy enough for two. I'd wanted the adoration, the promised legacies, the unquestionable power. The rarity of a birthright. The glamor, the glitz, the shine. I used to borrow my mother's jewels and smear my lips with red, donning her too-big dresses like they were gowns. I'd clobber down the halls of my family home in her heels, trying not to break an ankle when my feet were only half the size they needed to be. I'd always force Carrie to be my lady-in-waiting; she'd stumble and trip beside me, just thrilled to be included.

I used to want to be a princess with all my heart.

Then, I'd changed my mind, and I'd wanted to be a witch.

I'd wanted promised trouble no one could question; moonlit connections of the heavens and earth; promised isolation. I'd wanted only the frogs and the birds to hear me if I chanted into the night. I'd wanted to be wicked, and mighty, and stray just on the right side of wrong. I'd wanted to haunt bogs not even the maliciously-intentioned dared to enter, and I'd wanted power I had claimed for myself; power I'd earned—not just what I was handed. I'd wanted to cackle and croon and curse. I used to mix shampoos and lotions into colorful potions, forcing Carrie to be my apprentice, as I pretended to stomp through swamps and hide under mystical mushrooms.

Then time had treaded on, and suddenly, I'd wanted to be an artist.

I'd wanted to chase truth with aching fingers, mouth the goblet of inspiration to choke on its outpour, and understand the poetry that came with life. It was the poetry that came from being alone; the ache that stemmed from seeing color in things I shouldn't. I'd wanted to be an artist in life, of life, and about life. I used to beg my parents for expensive paints, large canvasses, professional kilns, and sprawling workshops. I'd forced Carrie to help me hang my masterpieces throughout our family home. She'd get a goofy grin, covered in tape as she handed me wildly-long strips, always giggling while we finger painted on our bocote wood floors.

Now...

Now, I'd settle for just being Eleanor.

Eleanor was kind. Eleanor wasn't a thief, or a rumor. Eleanor knew what it meant to be loved by something other than online engagement trends—because Eleanor knew what it meant to toil in relative anonymity. Eleanor knew what it was to sleep at night without feeling lonely, to laugh without feeling guilty. Eleanor was happy.

I missed her simplicity. I missed her naivety, her loyalty, her honesty. I missed Eleanor.

I didn't know who I was anymore, but I wasn't her. 'Eleanor' was like a nickname I'd grown out of; I was a different person entirely.

"Ms. Vaycker?"

The familiar face of Geraldine's driver looked up at me from the bottom of the steps. The car parked on the street was a chariot waiting to whisk away the lady who lied—but I didn't want to be a princess anymore. I didn't want to be an artist, either. Living in a stone cottage, or even a haphazardly leaning hut in the middle of an enchanted wood, didn't sound so bad right now—or ever, actually.

I could feel the heat from my building's lobby warm at my back from where I stood outside the doors. It wasn't too late. It wasn't too late to succumb to the temptation of not going. I didn't have to go.

"Are you ready to go, ma'am?"

I still hadn't moved. Not even as Jacques came up the steps and offered his hand. His grey mustache was as it always was, pristine above his smile, and his familiar uniform was as pressed as ever. He was a welcome sight to this fearful shadow of a woman. A woman who wasn't sure she was going.

"We should get going," Jacques said kindly. "I'm afraid we're running a bit late, and this cold isn't good for you."

I nodded. The cold wasn't good. The cold would numb my fingers even more than they already were; the frost would strip my face of what little color it had left, even under a layer of cosmetic blush. I stepped further from the safety of the building, and accepted his hand. It was now or never.

"I'm ready," I said. "It's good to see you again, Jacques."

His smile was proud and homely, and his words were sincere. He leaned back, taking me in like a father seeing his daughter off to prom. "You look beautiful, amapola! Seems like just yesterday I was picking you up at the movies with August, telling you kids to be careful. Now you're a queen off to the ball. Lord, all I did was blink!"

Once, when I was seventeen and in love with the idea of more, I'd caught someone in a lie. I'd broken my heart by loving a boy who wasn't the right fit; a boy who was only seventeen, too, and had acted impulsively. I'd lost a part of my youth that night, feeling emotions I didn't understand, and wasn't ready for. Now, I knew they were only the beginning glimmers of the full shade, the pinks before the reds—but at the time I'd been washed with hues that'd blinded me. That night, when I ran from my heartbreak and wept behind a theater, still clutching my ticket and alone, I hadn't called my family. I hadn't even called August. I'd called Jacques, who'd picked me up without question, and driven me home. Geraldine's driver had told me there was more in the world than teenage boys at the theater. That it hurt then, but it wouldn't hurt forever.

After that, we'd never spoken about it again. But I knew Jacques was someone I could trust—and I knew there were people who still remembered Eleanor.

The dress was expensive. Geraldine's gift was flawless. The shoes were tall. The makeup was faultless. The car was pristine. The purse was heavy. Everything was perfect. Everything was like it was last year, except for the brand between my exposed shoulder blades—the one that would tell them where to aim when I faced retribution.

I thanked Jacques as we started down the steps. The air was sharp in my lungs, thin and needly like pine, but without the naturally pleasant scent of something natural. The stench of the city, even in my perfumed corner, was nothing short of reality-inducing.

Jacques helped me settle into the car, lending a hand to arrange myself in a way that wouldn't muss what was perfect. Too perfect, too false.

My dress flooded the backseat like a river. It was purposeful where it laid, not an explosion of fabric and puff, but sleek and long on my body. I'd briefly considered wearing a dress so big that I wouldn't be found under the layers of tulle. I'd wondered if I could find one that would allow me to hide under its sequins and fluff, like my own mini circus to hide from the clowns—but, Carrie had dramatically promised she'd die if I disrespected her like that, with all the matching dramatics of her type.

So, I was wearing what we'd originally picked. I'd donned what had been bought before things changed.

I sat there, feeling like a pawned princess being whisked back to the palace, and remembered the why as I drove to the where.

How a woman had met a man all those years ago, like embers slamming together at the hearth, and how he'd fallen so outlandishly in love with her. How he'd gone from intrigued, to smitten, to besotted, to in love with. How he'd crash landed in the worlds she'd created for him, saw the colors she'd cast life in, and heard the melody of her soul among the dirty words and foul language others gasped at. How he'd taken everything she'd given and still asked for more. How he saw her might, her brazen show of self, and her power, but had never cowered in fear or wailed of her witchcraft. Instead, he'd looked at the fires she'd set, and he'd danced in the flames. He'd always seen her for the wildness she was, and he'd never once wanted her to temper her might or balance on high beams instead of fly—in fact, they say he had feared she would, because others had pressured her to. For him, he hadn't been able to imagine anything worse than her giving in.

I wished I could go back in time to meet him and tell him he didn't need to worry. That their love story would survive longer than any of the vileness, longer than any of the people who spewed nasty wishes of their love's demise. That his name would mean more than his father's cruel legacy one day, and a lot of that would be because of the woman he'd fallen in love with.

No, Artie had never needed to worry.

If there was one thing Geraldine was, it wasn't tame. Others might've scoffed at the young woman, but Artie hadn't cared, or listened. He hadn't paid mind to their babbling of intentions, their accusations of phases of rebellion, or their pity for the predicted ending of broken hearts. And Geraldine had seen the young man the world laughed at for his ambitions and brashness, and she'd found the kind soul he'd kept hidden in fear of those who'd snuff it out. Geraldine glowed in the skies he'd cleared, flourished in the gardens he'd planted for her, and felt the promises he'd made as strongly at the end as she had the first day he'd said them. Geraldine had never needed anybody—but she'd wanted him. And that was all anyone could ever hope for.

But Artie had died.

He was gone; while the might of the Whitehill power couple lived on, their time had been as beautifully fleeting as a lightning strike. Many had expected Geraldine to wither with the last of the money, nothing but a burnt bulb without a lover's spark. They'd predicted she'd be forced to do what many others had done before her; they'd waited for her to give her son the empire and retreat to the shadows as a relic. Or, they'd expected her to remarry.

But Geraldine didn't do expectations. She didn't do shadows or patriarchal patterns. She'd given everyone the bird, told them to screw off, and took the money that was hers.

And she'd built something I thought was beautiful. Something I believed was more than the never-ending critiques of art, or its bad reputation of monotony, or the pervading snobbiness. Somewhere it didn't matter if art was deemed copycat, or unoriginal, or tacky, or gaudy, or empty. Where the million people looking to tear art apart, as if it was paper rings on canvas, couldn't penetrate the walls. A place where works could be broken down stroke by stroke, but never for the purpose of finding something to criticize. Instead for reverence and worship, for understanding and appreciation. Where we could be a shield for exhausted souls who only wanted to create, regardless of whether they had a message, or a goal, or something to say. Where artists could show what their souls had ordered them to make through internal howls and pleas, deafening until acknowledged, quietened by completion.

Because sometimes art was created because it had to be—because the artist wouldn't survive if they didn't comply. Because the artist knew what would unravel if the words weren't put down, if the piece wasn't painted, if the play wasn't put on, if the art wasn't made. Whitehill was a fortress for those artists, defenders at arms, even against the creators themselves. Because that was also the curse of creatives—there was no beauty after a while. It'd all be taken by the disease of time. There'd only be things to improve, and critique, and tear down. We'd turn the blade to ourselves when given the chance. I'd learned that if something was loved, it was better never to take it seriously. Better to never utilize it to mark success, or time.

Or it'll become nothing but a sketch, a mistake, or a draft that could've been better.

Whitehill was supposed to be a place where criticisms died on tongues, not because they were never born, but because art wasn't just something to judge. Sometimes art was simply the outcome of exhausted individuals, of rapture and worship, of the mundane and divine, of everything in between. The result of people who desperately wanted to release what revolted inside, because they had to.

Whitehill was a sanctuary. And once a year, Whitehill changed into something more, too. The walls were lowered, the archers put their bows away, and the gates were opened to the prowlers outside.

Although, Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery was no stranger to grand events.

The gorgeous grounds and picturesque interior were often host to various soirees. Lavish weddings, brand launches, baby showers. I'd seen peacocks strut beneath Jacarandas as the daughter of a famous singer tied the knot with her Moroccan beau. I'd witnessed fireworks dazzle the skyline, as a strange assortment of partygoers drank vintage champagnes they couldn't appreciate at an influencer's rebranding party. Once, for a political campaign luncheon, I'd watched the staircase become a waterfall of floral arrangements in an impressive show of wasted constituent funds.

And yet, every event turned small in comparison to the fundraiser that finished the year. The Whitehills were wealthy; they had more than enough funds to feed every program Geraldine wished to create, so the event was arguably unnecessary—but that wasn't the point. The event was more than just the passing of a hat to be filled. It was the stoking of flames so trailblazers could forge on; a chance for everyone to be part of creating a better future, together. The money was funneled to scholarship funds, young artist's workshops, local theatre communities, school art programs, and photography contests. The money catered souls and caught the outpour of creativity that followed when more than our bellies or minds were fed.

The annual fundraiser fell in the early weeks of December and coincided with the week of Geraldine and Artie's wedding anniversary. I'd loved the event every time. The Whitehills, the museum's event team, and myself had always worked in tandem to coordinate a night few could forget.

And even fewer could remember the next morning.

But this year wouldn't be the same.

This year, I'd relinquished my responsibilities. I'd been forced back from the meticulous planning that had once kept me busy while the year faded out. This year, I hadn't even planned to attend, until Geraldine personally called and requested it.

Even so, I'd still wavered—because I knew what I was walking into. I hadn't gotten the opportunity to rip off the Band-Aid at a lesser event. My return would now occur when the stakes were highest. I'd reenter society when my presence would be the greatest shock, on the night I was least likely to show up.

It was too late, now. My absence couldn't be provided even if I wanted to.

As the car pulled from the curb, I jumped into distractions like fish flung themselves back into water. "So, Jacques, how's Leona?"

Jacques groaned, a sound unique to marriages that'd aged like fine whiskey, spurred from reminders of his wife's endearing antics. "Ah, Ellie, you won't believe the color she wants to paint the kitchen this time!"

"Oh, no. Didn't the article I sent her on color theory help at all? I sent it on Facebook to make sure she saw it."

"Well, if the article says to paint kitchens daffodil yellow, then yes, ma'am," Jacques said with a nod. "She read it."

"You're both a riot, Jacques. What is this, the sixth time this year so far, you've painted the kitchen?"

He sighed, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror with mock weariness. "Well, she likes to wait for me to finish painting before deciding it's the wrong color. She doesn't know it's wrong until she sees it all together, or something like that."

"I hate to say it, but let's hope it'll be seven," I warned. "Daffodil yellow isn't the best color for a kitchen. Honestly, it's not the best color for anything except the flowers themselves."

He agreed, launching into his ideas for what color they should choose while I fiddled with the clutch on my lap. I was working hard to envision a yellow kitchen instead of the looming threat I was headed to, but I wasn't being as successful as I would've liked. Luckily, Jacques knew me. He knew what I was facing. He didn't hesitate when I tried another avenue of distraction. "And Isabel? How's she liking Stanford?"

He immediately beamed. "She loves it! She just got her first internship, actually. The best forensic anthropologist in the west offered her a yearlong assignment. She'll start next summer. Ah, I've never been prouder."

What's that like?

"That's amazing!" I exclaimed, grinning. "I'm so happy for her."

I was. Of course I was. I was happy for anyone who wasn't going through what I was experiencing. Isabel was my age, enrolled in graduate school, had a loving father, and had just landed a great internship. What wasn't there to be happy about?

The conversation meandered as Jacques updated me on his family and the newest gossip of Damar employees. What didn't meander was my fear. I'd even settle for just being 'Eleanor Vaycker'. It hadn't been the easiest name to carry, but it hadn't been this. I felt like so much more now.

Because we'd arrived, and Whitehill loomed like a castle.

It was gorgeous. Palatial. Mighty. Lit up like a tower and blessed under the stars. Beautiful patrons swayed out of cars and floated up the steps to the entrance, their precious gems twinkling like the heavens above. Valets darted around in purple silk, scurrying to-and-from cars they could never hope of affording themselves.

"Jacques?"

"Yes, Ms. Vaycker?"

"Drop me off at the employee entrance, please."

"Ma'am—"

"Please."

He glanced in the rearview mirror again, then nodded, and the car slunk unnoticed to the back of the museum.

When he opened my door, I almost didn't get out. But I had to. I stepped into the cold, my dress nipping at my feet as it billowed over the ground and twisted around my legs. December was here, loud and unapologetic.

The door was waiting. The Whitehills were waiting. Geraldine and her empty wall were waiting. The lions, the tigers, the grinning bobcats—I could hear their purrs already, always happy to play with their food.

"Jacques, I actually think—"

The door swung open, smacking the wall behind it and cutting off my change of heart.

"God, you're so predictable," an all-too familiar voice chimed from the maw of the beast.

"Carrie?" I gaped.

"And Lena," my friend added, popping out from behind my sister. "All here to make sure you actually come in!"

"How'd you know I'd—"

Carrie interrupted with a wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes,"Like I said, predictable."

"C'mon, the party's already started. You're way past the point of being fashionably late." Lena reached out for my hand and pulled me past the door, going beyond the teeth until we were swallowed by darkness.

My friends marched me in. Our group was quiet, like soldiers guarding a royal or escorting a prisoner-of-war. I'd isolated myself for weeks, but apparently, it hadn't phased my friends enough to deter them. They accompanied me without a falter in their step, and they looked ethereal while doing it.

Carrie's russet brown hair and rosy cheeks paired well with her feathery white ensemble. She glowed, as brilliant as the pearl assets that adorned her throat and ears. On my other side, Lena's sun-bled waves had been tamed into a flower-studded braid down her bare back; her dusty rose dress begged for her love as it clung to her curves, swearing to make her admirers swoon.

I readied myself to enter the arena. Yet, to my surprise, I was taken on a detour first. We headed up to August's office, where Lena had forgotten her pashmina wrap.

I didn't ask questions.

I should've, but what'd usually be a giggly moment where we'd egg her on wasn't possible; Lena was stony when she entered the room. She was just as icy when she came out, and August was nowhere to be found. Her eyes warned Carrie and I. Without words, she told us she wasn't ready, but she would be eventually. She knew we'd be there when she was.

Lena plastered a smile and wrapped her pashmina around her shoulders. "Ready?"

I wasn't. But we headed to the party, anyway.

I could hear the festivities before we even stepped foot in the foyer. The clinking of glasses, the bubbled laughter, the murmured offers of canapes by waiters. I could hear the swell of wallets begging to loosen their belts, and the overflowing cups of wealth being tipped to pour into Whitehill's waiting hands; the cruelty, the lies, the insincerity that bled into every word.

I heard it all.

And I heard it all hush when I stood at the top of the stairs.

The night we've been waiting for is finally here! Eleanor's return (for real this time) to face the ranks she was once part of, her return to Whitehill, and the night the dominos start to fall.

These chapters are important. Answers can be found embedded within, or perhaps only the start to answers...

- H

P.S. I'm having too much fun, so buckle in, my little widows!