grandeur [hs au]

Chapter 10

There are days where it seems like she just passed yesterday, yet others where it feels as if it never happened at all - that she's just away at another conference with my father. The calendar would tell me a little under two years if I were to count the days, but I won't.

"Were you close?" some people asked in the weeks and months following. Not very, I thought each time, though that answer didn't feel like it gave her the honor she deserved. I respected her. I learned a lot from her. I knew her better than I knew my father. She is - was talented, creative, clever. She was sunshine to Father's grumpiness. The balance has been out of whack since she's been gone.

Yet she wasn't someone I really connected to beyond art. I clung so deeply to the topic as the only thing I could share with my parents. My mother had no interest in hearing about boys from school, how much I was struggling in calculus, or what my thoughts were about pollution. We spoke almost solely of art - creating it, critiquing it, understanding it, managing it, its history. For the longest time, I didn't mind. I loved it on my own and was happy to share it with my parents. I could talk all day with her about the effect of social and political events on Neoclassical art, but didn't feel I could ask her advice when I got into my first fight with Emma over a dance recital I didn't show up to.

Sometimes I wonder if it's the person lost or the loss itself that shakes me most. This is the closest I've ever been to death. So personal and near. Everything used to feel so permanent and expectable. This was the first time I had to accept that it's not.

We aren't guaranteed to grow old and gray. There were a few days where I'd wished I never would. I can't let myself think that way anymore. The threat of an unexpected end is what keeps me moving forward, even when I'm not sure what I'm barreling towards.

Now, I suppose I have something to keep my mind more busy. Conning the con. The thought of it made the blood pump faster in my veins.

He'd detailed exactly his plan for the forgery over our second glasses of wine. This weekend, we'll make an appearance at an art event where there is guaranteed to be paintings from the 1800s. To be specific, we need approximately an 1870s canvas to have a chance of fooling the art inspectors. We'll strip the canvas of the old painting to make way for the new. I'll make a trip to my parents' home - my father's home - to collect my supplies. When making some of my past copies, especially the Monet piece, my mother had been painfully detailed on creating era-specific paints whose pigments I ground myself. Those would come into play in making a nearly-undetectable copy. I have no concerns about my artistic ability, just about getting the specifics of the testable materials correctly.

From there, I'm to create the copy as quickly as possible. Harry had warned of an impending deadline - less than two months until his friend "Niall" lost his window of opportunity to trade in the piece in exchange for his release.

Less than two months for me to gather the evidence I need to put Harry right into the slammer with his friend. I can't lie - I am intrigued at the challenge of creating a copy that could fool the museum curators. Still, there's too much on the line for me to risk mixing the Archambault name into black market dealings. We could lose everything if our credibility is gone.

I'm going to do everything in my power to make Harry trust me, starting with doing my part - and that begins with an uncomfortable dinner with my father.

Under my fingertip's pressure, the old doorbell echoes through my parents' expansive home. It's a bit too long before Father answers the door cordially.

"Caroline, welcome. It's nice to have you back here," he says politely, and I want to believe there's some sincerity to it. Maybe he's feeling as sentimental as I am tonight. Maybe it's something in the air.