She hadn’t told Zander she loved him.
That was Britt’s first conscious thought upon waking the next morning and realizing that he was gone.
He’d been here—all night. But now he’d left. And she hadn’t had the chance to tell him she loved him.
She’d meant to! Wanted to, badly. She’d been waiting until her nose wasn’t running and her eyes weren’t puddled with tears—
Oh no. The ceremony at the Pascal was today.
She could tell by the light creeping around the edges of her curtains that it was full morning. What if she’d overslept and missed it?
She lunged toward her nightstand and angled her clock so that she could see its face. 7:54.
Relieved, she flopped onto her back. She’d told her parents she’d be ready when they swung by to pick her up at nine o’clock. They were allowing an hour and forty-five minutes for the drive to Seattle, and another fifteen minutes to park and find their seats in time for the eleven o’clock ceremony. That left her a good hour to eat, shower, and get herself ready.
A paper crinkled beneath her elbow. She lifted it and squinted at the writing.
If you wake in time for the ceremony, I’ll see you there. If not, no problem. I’ll call you right after. Sleep is more important.
Zander was a fantastic man. Pure platinum! But he was also completely wrong. Sleep was not more important than today’s ceremony at the Pascal markingYoung Woman at Rest’s return to the family and the museum where the painting belonged.
She’d fallen asleep when? Around seven thirty last night? She’d gotten more than enough sleep.
She levered upward to sit on the edge of the mattress. Her white duvet was still tucked beneath her throw pillows because she had slept in yesterday’s clothes on top of her made bed. Tentatively, she walked to her bathroom, then downstairs.
She felt unsteady inside still. Physically weak. But the scratching nervousness that had been trapped within her had finally quieted, thank God.
For the first time in days, she was hungry. Gloriously hungry. Sunlight slanted over her as she prepared coffee, bacon, a vegetable hash, eggs. Two butterflies lit on the flowers in the flowerbox mounted outside her kitchen window. One of them took to the air, wings flashing.
Yesterday’s panic attack/sobbing fit hadn’t fixed her in one fell swoop. She didn’t feel fully safe, even standing in her locked house inside her close-knit community. Nor did she feel one hundred percent like herself. But she felt more like herself than she had since the day she’d driven to Olympia to confront Zander at The Residences, and that was enough.
Yesterday had hollowed her out somehow. God had used the situation to perform spring cleaning. It had been painful. Very. But it had also swept away the debris that had been separating her from God.
Her breakfast gave her the energy she needed to shower, blow-dry her hair, do her makeup, and pick out clothing.
She sighed as she regarded her reflection in her bathroom mirror.She’d chosen her favorite lavender maxi dress and accessorized it with a long necklace. If anyone looked closely, they’d notice that her eyes were swollen. She slid her feet into a pair of gladiator sandals and made her way to the parking lot.
Right on schedule, her family pulled up in Mom’s white Suburban, Dad at the wheel. Britt climbed aboard. Mom, Dad, Willow, and Nora had all been adamant about attending the intimate, invitation-only ceremony at the Pascal, and her dad had been adamant about driving them there. Britt suspected that he’d insisted on driving because he wanted to make life easier for her in the wake of her abduction. Ordinarily, that would have grated on her. But accepting Zander’s help last night hadn’t been awful. So why not accept her dad’s help, too? There were worse things than relaxing in the back seat, flanked by her sisters on either side, just like in the old days.
When they arrived at the Pascal, they were shown to a ballroom at the back of the museum. The mahogany floors smelled of lemon-scented polish. The windows and chandeliers cast illumination over towering cream walls and the rows of guests. At the front, a podium equipped with a microphone waited next to an easel that supported the painting, currently covered with fabric. A security guard stood a few feet from it, hands clasped before him.
Among those present, Britt recognized some of Carolyn’s friends and co-workers. She pegged several guests as reporters and photographers. The rest must be connected to the Pascal family or to the museum.
At the stroke of eleven o’clock, an elegant woman dressed in a black pique suit jacket, tailored pants, and low-rise patent leather heels made her way to the microphone. She’d dyed her hair such a dark red that the shade reminded Britt of cherry cola. Each strand had been coiffed into a short and flattering style. Her very fair skin shone beneath modest makeup.
Annette Pascal. Eighty-seven years old and the epitome of girl power.
“Thank you for coming.” She didn’t fidget or stoop toward themicrophone. “This is a grand day, a day I’ve been anticipating for thirty-four years.”
Where was Zander? As she’d been doing since she took her seat, Britt scanned the space like a child scanning the sky for Santa Claus. She didn’t see him.
Annette detailed her family’s colorful history withYoung Woman at Rest.
Still no sign of Zander.
“I took over as museum director,” Annette was saying, “just a few months before the Triple Play robbery occurred. My father and grandparents had already brought the painting back to us once, after it was taken by the Nazis. In the aftermath of the Triple Play, it fell to me to do the work they’d done before me, to recover the painting yet again. My fervor to return Pierre-Auguste Renoir’sYoung Woman at Restto this place has never wavered, not for a moment. Even so, the painting remained elusive. Until this day.” She permitted herself a self-satisfied smile. “I can’t help but think that my father and grandparents are very, very proud this morning.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically.
