"Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I" by Gustav Klimt (1903-1907), stolen by Nazis in 1941, held in a gallery after the war until legal battle by family resulted in the return of the painting - value $135 million

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Painting sunlight required skills more complicated than a swoop in the corner of a page. It required science, observation, shading, and practice. It had to be clear, but not quite seen. Obvious, but not quite there. Sunlight was rarely portrayed in brilliant hues of dripping yellows or fogs of glossy radiation, it was subtle.

Yet, that was where I disagreed with artists—because the sun was too damn bright.

Sure, the paintings seemed accurate. But the next morning, sprawled across my bed and tangled in my duvet, I could assure Van Gogh himself the sun was a very, very bright yellow. Very bright. Right through my useless curtains like laser beams of death. The air was even sparkly, as every fleck of dust lit up in the light like remnants of fireworks.

I wasn't usually a drinker like that. I remembered why I usually refrained somewhere around two A.M., cursing out my doorknob for not unlocking. Or near three, when August tripped over Lena's shoes by the couch and nearly fell on top of her, but she was already fast asleep. August and I had tried to move her to my bed, but she'd shooed us off and politely informed August she'd whack him with a pillow if he so much as thought of trying to move her.

I was sure August was thrilled at us and our behavior.

I also remembered why I didn't frequent the bottle around four, when my anxieties broke out of their cage and ransacked my psyche. At that point, I had no idea what was causing the nausea. Anxiety, mixed drinks, and shame were all potent in their own right, but completely monstrous in combination.

"Oh, he wasn't kidding."

"No. No. Go away." My voice was muffled by the pillow being used as a shield from the sun. I prayed the intruder heard it.

Except, I was sure Carrie did hear it, she just didn't care.

The bed bounced as my younger sister flopped down beside me. I couldn't summon the energy to do anything but ride the wave.

"August said you'd probably be hungover, but I wasn't expecting this. You haven't been this hungover since that holiday party. Y'know, when you damaged mom's Christmas cactus? She was so pissed. Do you remember that?"

"That was you," I muffled through the fabric with a groan. "You got drunk and broke it. She almost disowned you."

"Oh, right. So rough time after the interview or were you celebrating?"

Interview. What interview? I don't know wha—

I shot up, the pillow falling off my face onto the crumpled sheets.

"The interview!" I gasped. "Did it come out already?"

Then I groaned again, because the sun was too loud and sound was too bright. I flopped back down, hating every decision I'd ever made.

"Your hair is a mess. I'm serious, when they say bird's nest, I always thought that was an exaggeration, but crack some eggs and call you Robin—"

"Carrie!"

"Yes. The interview came out. The internet's on fire. In other world news, another oil spill happened, there's riots in at least four countries, and another congressman is upset about respecting human rights."

I groaned again and rolled over. I didn't know if the internet being on fire was good or bad, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. No, that was a lie. Part of me wanted to know; the sadistic part that wanted me to get what I deserved. The other part didn't ever want to know. Ignorance was blissful uncertainty where hope could still hide. Maybe I could sink into the mattress, and they wouldn't find me until my bones meshed with the springs. Maybe I could sleep and pretend I was a house cat, pleased and content without a worry in the world.

Carrie stretched beside me, yawning. "We have a couple of hours before the event. You're lucky. You can take your time getting ready."

"Is Scott going tonight?"

She didn't answer, and I peeked my head over my shoulder to look at my sister. I couldn't read her expression. I hated it. I was her older sister, I was supposed to know what she thought before she did. "What is it?"

"He's not going."

My teeth tucked into my lip as I weighed my words. I had options on how to respond. Some were more appealing than others; I was anything but Scott's biggest fan.

Still, I was reminded this was someone Carrie held onto, even against her sister's better judgement. She was at that tumultuous stage of life; she had to navigate a minefield of fragile connections, and that was dangerous enough. I didn't need to stomp across her fields like I wanted the bombs to go off. I also knew a sister's wrath could be faster than a click beneath my feet, so I had to consider this carefully. I had options. I could rare at the reins, a stallion eager to trample his name. I could offer my condolences, extending sympathy for her absent lover. I could say nothing at all, and let her youthful naivety yank carpets from under her feet.

But life was a rip-current enough, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I'd hold the reins ready, of course, but I'd gather more evidence.

"Why not?"

Carrie gave me a weird look. "Do you really think tonight is the best time to introduce him to our friends? I want him to like me, not run for the hills."

AKA doesn't want to bring him tonight in case it all goes to shit. Who'd want to see your girlfriend's sister be obliterated by social interaction?

I didn't answer. I didn't think there was much to say.

After, came a lazy lull of rest, as the late morning sun gave way to a midday haze. But too soon the afternoon also began to fade, and it was time to get up. August and Lena both left to go home and get ready. He would take her to get Agatha from the bar, and Lena would return to my apartment.

Simon would meet us there.

It took longer than usual to get ready. It was most likely due to a heady combination of reluctance, nerves, and rustiness. It'd been a long time since I'd gone to a party. It wasn't the first I'd attended feeling a little rough from the night before; after all, I'd gone to college, but that felt like a lifetime ago. It was hard to remember I was once more than my responsibilities.

It was easy to forget sometimes, but we were still young, and we were yearning for more.

I think I yearned for more than what my past had provided me. And when Lena pulled up in Agatha, I almost didn't get in. We were going to something that should be fun—but it felt like a sentencing. A reveal of what my future would be. It'd be my first real social appearance since the theft; a litmus test of sorts. A way to test the acidity of my surroundings and see if it was safe to swim. The thing was, I believed I could handle sharks, as long as I didn't burn before I got the chance.

But there was always a chance for an experiment to go wrong. Carrie knew that. She knew it when she reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. When she offered me silence, because she knew words would come later, and they wouldn't all be kind.

The drive was long enough for my nerves to seem insurmountable as it took us out of the immediate city. I lived in the superficially bohemian part of the grid; the part where life mimicked wild escape and freedom, but luxuries smoothed the sharp edges and hardships of true grit. The party was on the other side of the county. Grit didn't exist there at all. There were only indulgences and pearly promises of wealth wherever eyes wandered. The conquistadors had chased cities rumored to be paved with gold, but apparently they'd never heard of the neighborhood of Montipelio.

August was supposed to meet us there, too. I wondered if he knew Lena had worn his favorite color specifically for him. She never told us that, but Carrie and I knew. There were only so many times her body could flutter before you figured her heart was racing with nerves or longing. She'd swapped out her cat nose pink for a striking burgundy lip, and her glitters for mattes, but the glow of sparking attraction opposed the vengeful look.

At least she was looking forward to the party. I was still trying to reassure myself I knew what to expect from the event; that even if I didn't know how the partygoers would react, the party would be like it always was. That I knew who would be there. That there wouldn't be a lot of newcomers, or a lot of surprises.

There couldn't be. In our societal pool, there were only a few distinct possibilities of developed self; only a handful of final forms to grow into. The first were the ones that stayed kids forever. Nothing mattered when money was paper that grew on trees, responsibility was laughable, and any blood on their diamonds didn't matter as long it could be cleaned off. Those were the ones who drove too fast, drank too much, and ruined too many lives. The second possibility involved never being a kid. From the beginning, there was a role. There were expectations. There wasn't supposed to be faults, or adolescent mistakes, or anything other than progress and perfection. Those were the ones who divorced by middle age, had kids who hated them, and turned to other chemical coping mechanisms.

The third were people like August. They were given the freedom to choose, and they chose correctly. Those ones were the epitome of balance. I'd always wondered what that felt like.

The three types were distinct; caged in their corners. However, there were gatherings where all three could be found. The eternal partiers with heads full of powder, and the money for new livers. The solemn crew of stiffs, too afraid to bend in fear they'd be caught or found too brittle. And the ones who did it right, and would get the falsely advertised dream everyone is born with a hope of achieving. That was the type of party we were going to. It would be thinly disguised as a charitable benefit, but it would be the setting of my return to the social trenches.

"Ready?"

I turned to face Lena. She peered at me from the passenger seat, her face already aglow with the red touches of a pre-game drink with Carrie. The devil herself, or rather the devil's advisor, popped up from the backseat.

"Of course she's ready. Right, Ellie?" Carrie chirped. Her look was stern as it briefly flashed across her impish features, a subtle warning before dissipating into sweetness. I nodded.

I'd stopped the car a little ways from the valet. The long winding drive offered plenty of room for a quick breath before diving in, and I'd needed it. Still, we had a party to get to.

"Beautiful car, ma'am," the valet mentioned in awe. His eyes shone with the appreciation of beauty, his youth meaning no barriers were constructed yet to conceal the flood of truth across his expression.

I stopped in front of him, fiddling with the keys in my hand. "Thank you. Are you a fan of Porsche or just foreign cars?"

"I'm a fan of anything beautiful, ma'am. And that is one gift of God himself. Only a few of that specific model are on the road, right?"

"Yep, so you better take good care of her," Carrie cut in, sauntering to my side. "Or you'll hear from Granddaddy Vaycker. He likes his cars, and he likes his granddaughters."

The valet gulped, almost flinching as I handed over the keys. I hoped my smile was reassuring. "She's messing with you. I know you'll take good care of her regardless, Max. We have to protect beautiful things, right?"

Max's eyes widened until he followed my own down to his name tag. Then he mimicked my smile, albeit with an uneasy glance in Carrie's direction, and nodded.

As the three of us walked away, Lena's arm looped with mine. "Now that's a valet you wouldn't mind talking to the press, huh?"

"Carrie's not helping."

"Oh, so you want to tell Granddaddy that a valet messed up his graduation gift to you?" Carrie snorted. "That should go well."

"Nothing will happen to the car. She's in good hands."

"Do you think he's even old enough to drive?"

"Are you?"

"You know how old I am—"

"You guys made it!" August interrupted, calling from ahead. He waved, his perfect smile plastered across his face, but we all saw him falter when his eyes landed on Lena. Or rather, Carrie and I saw it.

"Of course we did!" Lena laughed, seemingly oblivious. "Ellie's a bad driver, but she's not that bad."

"Lena," he stuttered. "You... You look good."

"Thanks, August."

"You all do," August added. "Where's your guard, El? Running late?"

"I'm not his keeper. And he's not coming as a guard."

His brow darkened, an unsettling change I didn't frequently associate with his even-tempered personality. "So why the hell is he coming here, again?"

"For a good time, I hope."

That didn't come out how I meant it to.

"What does that—"

"Eleanor!"

I turned at the call, ignoring August's unintelligibly muttered remark at Simon's arrival and his cloudy temper at my statement.

And I realized how August must've felt when he saw Lena.

I'd seen Simon in a suit almost every day. I'd seen him in crisp lines of silk ties and pleated slacks, in the elegant appeal of long coats and pressed collars, and in the polished edges of cashmere and cufflinks. I'd seen him in the drool-worthy apparel of an established man before.

But I hadn't seen him like that.

Maybe it was the environment that sweetened the picture. He was further down the drive, hands tucked in his pockets, his dark hair tousled from the wind. The moon itself must've swooned over him; it draped its outreached beams over him like he was a sailor returned home from war, with too many months having gone by. Though, if that was the case, the moon was left like a mistress.

He was standing in front of me, eyes only on mine.

"Eleanor," he repeated.

It was only my name, simple as he stood proud like the Sistine before me. Yet, that alone was enough to tighten my chest—and still then it was nothing compared to his smile. His lips must've fallen in love with his eyes; they sheepishly reached up in gentle wistfulness.

I swallowed, grasping for composure. "You made it."

"Of course," Simon said. "You invited me."

August cleared his throat, crossing his arms before him and re-announcing his presence. "As a courtesy I'm sure. We should get going. It's cold."

I kept looking at Simon. I'd heard of this before. I'd heard of that look across bars, of long-distance invitations across rooms, of 'come a little closer' whispered without words. Lena had once told me all about it, but I'd never thought it was true—until I saw it in Simon's eyes. I was witnessing his intrigue that kept his gaze on me, and my insatiable curiosity that kept my sights on him.

"Yes." Simon nodded, not looking away. "We should."

Lena gripped August's arm and lightly tugged. "August, let's go before all the Dom Pérignon runs out."

Carrie helped Lena pull an observant August towards the party, but not before he threw a distrustful glance over his shoulder. He was unusually prickly since the theft. I turned to follow my friends until I heard the low tones of the man behind me flutter at my back.

"You look beautiful."

I met his eyes again like a disciple greeted a deity. Those dark, dark eyes. The eyes of an owl. Too knowing, too clear, too bottomless. Too dangerous in their depths and dangled promises. The thud of my shields interlocking, like the testudo formation used by ancient Romans, echoed into the night.

"I look rich," I rebuffed. "You've been around the museum too long. Don't confuse the two, Simon."

"I thought I was the cynic." He smiled, and the moon sighed a little deeper. "Money can't buy everything."

I gazed at the party, at the Gatsby-esque lavishness of falsities and guises, and wondered if there was true beauty at all. The moment was receding, and so was my heart. "Maybe you've just never had enough money to know."

"Maybe."

I was a sucker for a smile that defied the virtues of rationality. I sucked in a breath, and apologized. "I'm sorry. That was rude."

For a moment, we swayed under the brisk travel of a Santa Ana gust, or rather, I did. Simon was a Redwood, and Redwoods didn't obey the laws of nature they belonged to. Maybe I swayed a little too hard, swept up in the romance of possibility, because his hand reached out.

"Eleanor, are you alright?"

"I—"

The arrogant tones of technology interrupted my undecided confession; even I hadn't known what card I'd been about to play. Simon pulled the culprit out of his pocket. His phone was lit up, and on the screen was a beautiful woman.

Simon's face showed his truth in its carved apologies as he glanced between me and the phone. "I'm sorry. This might be an emergency, I have to take this."

"I understand."

Simon stepped away, the phone already finding its way to his ear. In retrospect, it was surprisingly only the first time we'd been interrupted by forces on his side. He was a busy man.

As his back turned to me, I wondered about the caller. There'd been an immediate drop in my stomach when her picture had flashed like lightning. Truthfully, I'd put weight on our flirting, but I didn't know Simon. I had no idea who she was. An employee, a job, a sister, a friend, a partner. I didn't know. Until I did, I couldn't be like the moon or the nearby whispering leaves of transplanted olive trees. I couldn't marvel at his edges, his cliffs I could fall down, or the way tattered light hinted at strong cheeks and a proud nose. I couldn't admire the way he stood with a pride I envied, the form of his figure just beyond the reaching streetlight. I couldn't reach him, and I couldn't touch him.

He eventually rejoined me. "Sorry. She doesn't usually call this late."

I teetered on the edge of questions I shouldn't ask, but I didn't get the chance before his phone rang again. No beautiful woman grinned from his screen this time. The screen was dark and ominous.

Maybe it was a telemarketer.

Simon gave another apologetic glance and muttered a curse. "Son of a—hello?"

Sharp eyes found mine hardly a moment into the call. Dark, angry eyes the color of ash from fires he was ready to set. In that moment, something changed. A demeanor shift, as loudly foreboding as iron scales clicking into place when a dragon lifted its head; the deafening indicator of the snap of a man into a dangerous guardian. It was a look I'd seen on my father when the market crashed, when there was room for nothing but seriousness and protective measures. On Lena, when her dogs were taken and there wasn't time for fear, only action. On the Whitehills, when their matriarch had been threatened and disrespected in the most painful of punishments.

"I'm on my way," Simon said. He hung up the phone, eyes darting to where August and the girls had disappeared to.

"I have to go. I'll walk you to your friends, but I have to leave. I'm sorry."

"What's going on?"

He didn't answer. He stepped forward, his hand finding the small of my back as we turned and walked. I hurried to match his pace, ignoring the ticklish nerves that ignited from his warm touch. He hadn't lost the seriousness that'd settled over him, and it kindled an anxiety I strongly disliked. I hated not knowing.

I stopped, forcing him to face me. His eyes darted again and I saw the smudges of anger still painting his irises. "Simon, what is it? Did something happen?"

He was weighing his words, but he glanced at his watch and then at me. He didn't have time for tact or diplomacy. I could get more than I should from him. He sighed.

"It's the museum—"

"What happened?" My hand immediately shot out to grip his arm as those urgent words spilled from my lips. Fear seized my heart. Whitehill couldn't take anything else. It couldn't. Marble could only take so many hits before chips became craters and stone became dust.

"It was Beck," Simon admitted. "The alarms went off in the east wing a few minutes ago. I have to go deal with it. I'm sorry."

Alarms went off.

The alarms went off.

They came back.