Lily just stood there for a very long time in the middle of the room, turning slowly to look at each painting. She’d been overwhelmed when her grandmother’s executor had sent them to her where she was waiting for them in the office of the director of the Chicago Art Institute. Finally, she’d actually touched each one, held each one in her hands. Every one of them was special to her, each a painting she’d mentioned to her grandmother that she loved especially, and her grandmother hadn’t forgotten. Her favorite, she discovered, was still The Swan Song—a soft, pale wash of colors, just lightly veiling an old man lying in the middle of a very neat bed, his hands folded over his chest. He had little hair left on his head and little flesh as well, stretched so taut you could see the blood vessels beneath it. The look on his face was beatific. He was smiling and singing to a young girl, slight, ethereal, who stood beside the bed, her head cocked to one side. Lily felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. She felt tears start to her eyes.
Dear God, she loved this painting. She knew it belonged in a museum, but she also knew that it was hers—hers—and she decided in that moment that she wanted to see it every day of her life, to be reminded of the endless pulse of life with its sorrowful endings, its joyous beginnings, the joining of the two. This one would stay with her, if she could make that happen. The value of each of the paintings still overwhelmed her.
She wiped her eyes.
“Is it you, Mrs. Frasier? Oh my, we heard that you had been in an accident, that you were in serious condition in the hospital. You’re all right? So soon? You look a bit pale. Would you like to sit down? May I get you a glass of water?”
She turned slowly to see Mr. Monk standing in the doorway of the small Sarah Elliott room, with its elegant painted sign over the oak door. He looked so intense, like a taut bowstring, he seemed ready to hum with it. He was dressed in a lovely charcoal gray wool suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie.
“Mr. Monk, it’s good to see you again.” She grinned at him, her tears dried now, and said, “Actually, the rumors of my condition were exaggerated. I’m just fine; you don’t have to do a thing for me.”
“Ah, I’m delighted to hear it. You’re here. Is Dr. Frasier here as well? Is there some problem?”
Lily said, “No, Mr. Monk, there’s no problem. The past months have been difficult, but everything is all right now. Oh, yes, which of these paintings is your favorite?”
“The Decision,” Mr. Monk said without hesitation.
“I like that one very much as well,” Lily said. “But don’t you find it just the least bit depressing?”
“Depressing? Certainly not. I don’t get depressed, Mrs. Frasier.”
Lily said, “I remember I told my grandmother I loved that one when I’d just lost a lot of money on a point spread between the Giants and Dallas. I was sixteen at the time, and I do remember that I was despondent. She laughed and loaned me ten dollars. I’ve never forgotten that. Oh, yes, I paid her back the next week when a whole bunch of fools bet New Orleans would beat San Francisco by twelve.”
“Are you talking about some sort of sporting events, Mrs. Frasier?”
“Well, yes. Football, actually.” She smiled at him. “I am here to tell you that I will be leaving the area, Mr. Monk, moving back to Washington, D.C. I will be taking the Sarah Elliott paintings with me.”
He looked at her like she was mad. He fanned his hands in front of him, as if to ward her off. “But surely, Mrs. Frasier, you’re pleased with their display, how we’re taking such good care of them; and the restoration work is minor and nothing to concern you—”
She lightly laid her fingers on his forearm. “No, Mr. Monk, it looks to me like you’ve done a splendid job. It’s just that I’m moving, and the paintings go where I go.”
“But Washington, D.C., doesn’t need any more beautiful art! They have so many beautiful things that they’re sinking in it, beautiful things that are stuck in basements, never seen. They don’t need any more!”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Monk.”
Those gorgeous dark eyes of his glittered. “Very well, Mrs. Frasier, but it’s obvious to me that you haven’t discussed this with Dr. Frasier. I’m sorry but I cannot release any of the paintings to you. He is their administrator.”
“What does that mean? You know very well the paintings are mine.”
“Well, yes, but it’s Dr. Frasier who’s made all the decisions, who’s directed every detail. Also, Mrs. Frasier, it’s common knowledge here that you haven’t been well—”