To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Fourteen: Modern October

"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.