To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Sixteen: Et Tu?

"Jour d'eté" (Summer's Day) by Berthe Morisot (1879), stolen 1956, recovered 1956 - value $10 million

Chapter Sixteen

"I'm sorry, Eleanor. I'll try to clear things up as soon as possible."

"It's okay."

It wasn't okay.

Mr. Whitehill being forced to tell me multiple artists didn't want to work with me wasn't okay.

"Jon wants someone else taking the lead for the rest of his featured exhibit time," I repeated. My head shake was feeble. My conviction was, too. "What does that mean? I want to make sure I understand. Does he want me fully removed from the partnership? Not just as exhibit lead, but removed... entirely?"

My voice faltered at the pitiful sympathy flooding Mr. Whitehill's expression. He was confirming why Dave, Jon's assistant, had been acting so strange that day after calling his peacock of a boss. Jon had already been kicking up a fuss. In truth, I'd suspected it—I'd suspected something was warningly off—but a part of me had always hoped it was something else. It wasn't, and it hurt.

Dignity was nothing but a bandaid. And maybe I'd picked at mine too much.

"It's a public appearance issue. The other artists are showing hesitation as well. They're worried how it'd look if..." Mr. Whitehill faltered, shifting in his chair. Discomfort swirled like smog, making it hard to swallow and causing once proud voices to be hoarse and throaty.

"—if another catastrophe happened, and I was still a part of the team," I finished for him. "People would ask why I was allowed to stay."

An ache was settling in my chest, a horrible, horrible ache that burned what little was left. It was an ache that reminded me why I'd compared myself to October, to the curl and shrivel of what was once bright and joyously alive only months before. Why I'd chosen the month of looming rot in the fields.

"I'm sorry, Eleanor. I wish I knew what to say."

Mr. Whitehill really did look sorry, but I didn't blame him for any of my current circumstance. He was in a horrible position. He was like family to me, and he had been a mentor for all these years, but at the end of the day I wasn't really a Whitehill. I never was. I was a Vaycker with wolves nipping at her heels. I was a woman with a steadily dwindling list of allies. I was Eleanor, ex-exhibit coordinator and ex-worthy.

"This is absurd, dad," August spoke coldly from behind me. "She's been a part of the museum since it opened. We should have her back like she's had ours. We can make the artists work with her if they want their pieces here. Write her in their contracts, restrict their options. Make it nonnegotiable. How do we not have the upper hand here?"

"I would love to do that, August. I would. But, regrettably, we just aren't in that position right now. Not anymore. Your grandmother's influence only goes so far," he gently explained. "Most of the works for future exhibits are loaned from her friend's collections—and you know that's not enough. We need more than what they have. More than they are willing to offer, at least."

He grimaced, eyes flicking from me to his son. "I would love if things were different, but you have to understand people are hesitant to loan us anything after what's happened. It's going to take time to earn back the trust of other galleries and artists. We're pulling every favor we have here, but for now, we have to do what we can. I hope you understand, Eleanor."

"Dad, she doesn't—"

"Yes, I do, Mr. Whitehill," I cut August off. "I'm sorry I put you in this position. Am I still able to work on the fundraiser? My name doesn't have to be associated at all, I can work behind the scenes. I'd hate to leave us—er, the museum hanging so close to the finish line."