at an embassy if I would just transfer five thousand dollars to an offshore bank account,” Kate said. “Is that what you’re thinking of?”
“A valuable investment in your future,” Louise said placidly, “just like going to this auction. It’s a networking opportunity.”
“Number one, I already have a job. Number two, last time I saw Theo, I accused him of killing his mother.”
“Nothing he hadn’t heard before,” Louise replied, unperturbed.
Six months since Kate had seen Theo. Longer than she had known him. Longer than she had spent in Callinas. She had learned—again—how to operate feeling like a piece of herself was missing. How to forge ahead. How to live without resolution. Seeing him again, peeling herself open again, would undo all this autumn’s work.
Frank chewed thoughtfully. “That’s nice about the embassy. But I wouldn’t transfer any money to an account you don’t recognize.”
“Oh, Frank,” Louise said. “Go find your iPad.”
* * *
The auction was in a vast, high-ceilinged room with movable white walls. Lines of folding chairs were set up facing a podium. On the right wall was a series of stalls with computers and phone lines, where auction house representatives sat coolly, waiting for electronic bids. Invitations and credentials had been carefully checked at the door; buyers had to be pre-approved just to set foot in the auction hall.
The atmosphere was tense and businesslike. Kate had worn a cocktail dress and was now regretting it. Everyone else was in suits or woolen work dresses, or else jeans. Hal, who greeted her with his usual practiced enthusiasm and then quickly moved on, was wearing a navy blazer and green bowtie. A table was laid out with a hundred glasses of Möet & Chandon, but no one was drinking. The bartender had focused his eyes in the middle distance and was smiling blindly around, hoping someone would put him out of his misery. Kate felt sorry for him and took a glass.
The auctioneer tapped his gavel to bring people to order—auctions seemed a lot like jury duty—and everyone found a seat. Kate was headed for one near the front, but at the last minute she saw Theo sit down in that area and she panicked, scurrying into a middle seat several rows back.
The director was a slim, mousy man in a tweed suit. He gave a nice speech about Miranda and handed out an inventory based on Kate’s finding aid. He talked about how the photographs would be sold separately by Hal and another dealer—a young British woman. Apparently this woman had once sold a museum a pile of dirt for $250,000. Now the dirt sat in the museum’s central gallery and people came from all over the country to marvel at it. The whole audience applauded at her name.
“Before we get started,” the director said, “Miranda’s son, Theo, has a few words to say about exactly what is in this collection.”
Theo stood and walked up to the podium. Kate realized suddenly that she only had Hal’s word for it that Theo wanted her there. Hal could be toying with her, trying to get back at her for that tense visit to his gallery. Horrified, she slunk lower in her seat.
Theo was wearing a jacket, but also his same old dark jeans. The familiarity of them was a personal affront. After shaking the director’s hand, he unfolded a piece of paper and put it on the podium. He shifted his weight and cleared his throat.
“What’s being auctioned here today are my mother’s and father’s papers,” he said. “Mostly my mother’s, because she kept everything. My father was more organized.”
There were titters in the audience, like this was a joke. Theo looked uncomfortable. Kate had forgotten he didn’t like public speaking. His eyes scanned the rows, then dropped back down to his paper.
“My father was more organized,” he repeated. “He was also violent, cruel, and abusive. And there is no doubt in my mind that he drove my mother to suicide.”
The giggles stopped abruptly. Theo didn’t look up from his paper. His face had begun to flush deeply, and Kate’s stomach dropped.
“There are many reasons why I haven’t spoken about this until now,” he said. “I told myself it was out of concern for my children. But the real reason, I think, was that I was concerned about my mother. About what sharing this information might do to her legacy. As far as I know, my mother never wanted to be judged by anything other than her artwork, and I think everyone will