To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Purple Panic

Untitled work, collectively known as "The Gardener", by Vincent Van Gogh (1889), stolen 1998, recovered 1998 - value $42 million

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The grounds of Whitehill were as polished as the acres of Damar.

The museum was one of the rare finds too often concealed; a gem where both the interior and exterior shared the same immaculate appeal. From the fairy-blessed paths of a lush botanical garden, to the open courtyard of statues and winding vines, and across the lawn to the cluster of trees shading Artie Whitehill's memorial: beauty abounded, unfettered and celebrated.

At the peak of summer, when the earth was the most joyous and worshipful, Whitehill looked greener than one'd expect from a drought-desiccated land. It was in part due to a careful selection of native and resilient plants, and in part due to chosen groundskeepers who'd make any nymph weep in pride. But it wasn't summer now. It was almost winter, and well past dark, so the exterior beauty of Whitehill was muted and faint.

I didn't care. I'd glean what I could from the moonlit areas, wander the spaces drenched in warm lamplight, and say my last prayers at the altar of art. I'd do it with the nimble feet of a survivor through rubble; with the remorse of a ghost, and the anguish of a sinner.

I'd do it as Simon followed.

I'd be lying if I said I had completely changed my mind. That there wasn't a part of me screaming in distrust of him, writhing in suspicion he only followed to monitor my actions, and wailing in utter grief at my newly restricted reality. But I smothered that part of me—at least for the night. My paranoia could take a hike while I took my own through holy grounds. I would travel the last few inches of Whitehill before it was time to haunt my other home.

"We shouldn't go that way," Simon said softly. It was the first words since Carrie left, and they were disruptive against the rustling of grass and the murmurs of trees.

"Why not?"

"It's... it's not a good idea right now."

I looked over my shoulder, but it was too dark, and I was too deep in my melancholy. His warning was discarded like the Widow's frame that night. My feet kept carrying me. Simon didn't say anything else as we neared the corner of the lot and the cluster of Jacaranda trees.

Geraldine had been stubborn about those trees during Whitehill's planning process. I hadn't known why, until August had spilled family lore as aged as her wealth; a familial folktale told only when asked.

It was a story of a young woman with wild curls, bright eyes of stars, and pennies in her pocket, who'd been wooed by a young man with a crooked grin and promises to part with. It was an incredible tale of chance meetings on the other side of the world, money that ran as deep as oil, and ruthless greed embedded even deeper. One of wartime letters written with shaky hands, trembling fingers clinging to vanishing loved ones, and two innocents with dreams as wide as the sky.

A story of Jacarandas.

The Jacaranda tree had a reputation; it could cause 'purple panic' on one side of the world and bestow luck on the other. Yet to those young lovers, who broke their parent's hearts and eloped under violet clouds, the Jacarandas were symbols of the promises they'd whispered only to the other.

When the world was painted green, they'd found purple to color their commitments.

Geraldine had more than pennies in her pockets now. It went without saying she'd trade every star and every dime for more violet oaths, but Artie was as remembered as any widow could hope for. I'd always marveled her dedication to a man who'd be remembered regardless; his company and wealth were more than enough to carve him a place long after he died. But, over time, I'd learned that could never satisfy the gnaw of loving adoration. She'd told me a man was worth more than his participation in the economy; what mattered were his contributions to souls, minds, and hearts. The strength of his hand as he held another's, the sturdiness of his spine as he held it with pride, and the sureness of his feet on the right path. Those were the marks of a champion—the true signs of success.