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."

"Right. No, 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.

"So Jon wants someone else taking the lead for the rest of his featured exhibit time," I repeated. "What does that look like? I want to make sure I understand. Does he want me completely removed from the partnership? Not just as exhibit lead, but removed entirely?"

My voice faltered at the pitiful sympathy in Mr. Whitehill's expression. He was confirming why Dave, Jon's assistant, was acting so weird after his call with the photographer the other day. Jon had already been kicking up a fuss. In truth, I'd suspected it, suspected something was warningly off, but a part of me had kept hoping it was something else.

It wasn't, and it hurt. Dignity was nothing but a bandaid.

"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 in the air like smog, making it hard to swallow, causing voices to be hoarse and throaty.

"If something else happened, and I was still a part of the team," I finished for him.

An ache was settling in my chest, a horrible, horrible ache that burned what little was left inside of me. 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.

"I'm sorry, Eleanor. I... 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 had been for all these years, but at the end of the day I wasn't really a Whitehill. 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 ridiculous, dad," August spoke up 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, and make the artists work with her if they want their pieces here. Write her in their contracts or restrict their other options. It should be nonnegotiable. How do we not have the upper hand here?"

"I would love to do that, August, but we just aren't in that position right now. Not anymore. Your grandmother's influence only goes so far, and most of the works for future exhibits are already from her friend's collections," he explained. "It's just not enough. We need more than what they have."

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."

"No, she doesn't—"

"Yes, I do, Mr. Whitehill," I cut August off. "I'm sorry to have 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."

There is no 'us'.

Mr. Whitehill sighed, considering my proposal. He gave in with a slow release of air between his teeth. "No exhibits, and nothing to do with the works. No official museum business. Everything will officially have to go through someone else, like August or I, but yes," he relented. "Behind the scenes, you can still work on the fundraiser."