To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Fifty-Three: I'll Take It to My Grave, but I'll Dig It Here For You

"Marine Guernsey" by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1883), stolen in 1940 after famed art dealer and owner Ambroise Vollard died in a bizarre car crash in 1939; his brother Lucien Vollard allegedly aided two other art experts in the theft of numerous paintings from the dealer's inheritance of some 6,000 artworks, some were sold to Nazis or offered to German dealers and museums; four paintings ended up at Musée d'Orsay, and in February 2023 after a long legal battle, the museum was ordered to return the paintings to Vollard's heirs - value unknown

Chapter Fifty-Three

The cliffs were steep above the frothy mess that was the coast.

Ice plant covered the flatter portions higher up, where it became less of a cliff and more of a plateau. There were worn paths on the rocks, in the scraggly dirt, and among the pale brownness of it all, puckered with green and splashes of wildflower purple. It was beautiful, even now, in the sapping daylight.

Sunset was spilling.

Cosmic change had come once again.

Looking at sunsets made souls restless. We knew this. We heard songs about it, mumbled folklore about it, we saw it tattooed on poet's tongues and yearning ghost's skin. We knew this—like we knew the sea was beautiful and terrifying—we knew it, because our souls felt it. It wasn't a mystery. The feeling wasn't unique. Like I'd wondered too many times before: maybe nothing was unique or left to be discovered; maybe nothing was left to be felt that would strike us in its newness. Maybe art was repetitive. Maybe humans ourselves were. God, I could cringe at how bare the feeling was, how much it'd worn the stares of all that'd gazed on our disappearing sun.

No, I wasn't the first to feel this way. I never was. I wasn't the first to stand on these cliffs, surrounded by blankets of throttling life, and know the existing flora wasn't welcomed. To know the succulent shrub didn't belong. That it was invasive. To feel that even so, even if it was, that I had to admit it was lovely. I had to. It brought green here, where its specific shades weren't always natural; it brought purple to kiss the salty air with scarlet petal lips, tinged with cerulean hues. It flourished, and it killed, and it grew on these cliffs.

"What do you want?"

When his gruff voice sounded from behind me, it sounded like his temper was already flaring. It wasn't surprising, of course. Not really. But not even he could fully drain what the dusk had brought me. Oh, still, I hated to turn around. I dreaded relinquishing any power to those who hadn't earned it. How many times had I done that before? And now, here I was doing it again.

But I turned to face the waiting man behind me.

Andrew Graves was slouched and surly when I awarded him my attention. He hadn't changed; he seemed just as shabby and snide as the first day I'd met him. He gazed at me just as angrily, just as annoyed, just as villain-like. Except—I'd learned a lot about villains in a very short time. I'd learned what I should've already known: that it was never good to judge by first glance. The harshest strokes were made by the most innocent hands. The gentlest touches were born from the bloodiest palms. The calmest smiles hid the unsteadiest grounds. The cheapest canvas held the prettiest paint.

I knew a lot about villains now.

Just like I knew deep down, where the call of a love left lonesome wailed into the night, that Andrew Graves wasn't the face that should've greeted me. He wasn't the one I wanted to see, nor the one I bore the burden of longing for—but he was the one I'd invited. He was the one I'd told to meet me on these cliffs, having demanded his presence when I was done washing oil and ash from my hands. I'd instructed him to meet me on rocky ledges that reminded me of the ones his great-grandmother had painted all those years ago, the ones both her and her cat had trodden, the ones she'd lost her battle to. It seemed only right we ended this on the same cliffs Damar sat on.