"Gioconda" (Mona Lisa) by Leonardo da Vinci, (c. 1503-1506), stolen 1911, recovered 1914 - value $850 million

Chapter Seven

Do others ever look back at the decisions they've made, at least the ones they can remember making, and think about the ones made without realizing?

Some moments offered clear-cut opportunities for decisions; easily identifiable as a choice needing to be made and therefore requiring conscious effort. Choice A versus choice B. A blueberry scone versus a cinnamon roll. Going left versus right. Staying for another drink versus going home.

But some moments offered decisions in the dark, so subtle it wasn't until they were looked for in the past they could be dug up. They weren't recognized as decisions until after. Maybe they couldn't be remembered at all, no matter how hard one searched. Regardless, their impacts remained as far-reaching and permanent as the ones that were. The decision was made; there was just no way to know at the time.

Those delicate moments when decisions were made without realizing were often the moments the most change was begun.

Perhaps it was just the butterfly effect, forever cascading and monumental, yet as fragile as the wings of a fluttering flower. Yet, for some reason, I never thought so. It'd always felt different to me, an entirely separate phenomenon. I could never explain why.

What do I call the fall of a butterfly I never knew existed?

If a butterfly lost its wings, and no one was around to see, did it ever have them at all?

I liked to think I didn't have many of those moments, that I always knew when I was making a decision. Other times, I realized I made more decisions than I could ever know in the course of a day, and found myself somewhere unexpected, wondering what had possibly led me to where I was.

Which, at that moment, was in front of a flustered photography assistant. He, like myself, was probably wondering why on earth he was spending an otherwise splendid Wednesday morning this way.

"Ma'am, Mr. Leehaven only wants to speak to Mrs. Whitehill. He won't speak to anyone else."

He must not know Geraldine if he's calling her 'Mrs. Whitehill'.

The poor guy was a little younger than me, probably closer to Carrie's age, and looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was clearly at the beautiful stage of internship or entry level assistance where nerves could cause profuse sweating, if only one's body contained any water. Interns were almost entirely coffee and stress; they were more likely to cough up caffeine than practice a form of self-care like hydration. In cases like that, instead of profuse sweating, splotchy complexions and padded purple circles under tired eyes decorated their appearance. Dave looked to be walking the fine line between all of it.

By these hints, I surmised he must be on the newer side of Jon's team.

It was based on the crazed look in his eyes that hovered between exhaustion and feral desperation, a look unique to workplace pressure. I both pitied and applauded the man. I hadn't quite experienced the same before, but I'd been an intern once. The difference was I'd always had a safety net I tried very hard to ignore, and it'd saved me from nervous breakdowns of the caliber the intern threatened. I'd been an intern, but I hadn't suffered as one.

"I hear you, Dave, but Geraldine isn't available. Look, I've known Jon since he could hardly afford a polaroid. Get him on the phone and tell him Ellie Vackyer can talk to him instead. He knows me."

I was trying very hard to remain patient. Dave didn't deserve my irritation, and was clearly driven by anxiety and ambition, but I was tired of repeating myself. I didn't see the issue. None of the Whitehills were available, but if Jon was that desperate to speak to someone, I could at least try to temporarily smooth things over.

What was my job, if not to aid the museum and the Whitehills?

"Hell, I coordinated his whole exhibit here," I added crossly. But Dave still wasn't convinced, and I was running out of courtesies to grant.

"Dave, just call him. His meeting is still set for today. It won't be with Geraldine, but if it's urgent and can't wait, I can help until she's back. You know where I stand here at the museum, what I do. You know I'm more than capable of handling his concerns. He knows that, too."

Jon had insisted on a meeting with Geraldine, and in the squawking way people who were 'somebody' liked to do, it'd been with ruffled feathers and flustered demands. She'd agreed, knowing he was probably worried about the future of his exhibit at Whitehill, and ultimately hoping to systematically tackle our artist's insecurities one by one. What she hadn't predicted, however, was the Whitehills would all need to convene for a family emergency on the other side of town. August's little sister had taken a nasty spill when she'd tripped over the family dog.

Bless her heart, but Eliza Whitehill couldn't catch coordination if it smacked her in the face. In fact, I frequently joked that between Eliza and Geraldine, August was going to have a stroke by the time he was thirty. That, or a mental breakdown like Dave here.

"Ma'am, I—"

Dave was turning an uncomfortable shade of red, so I interrupted.

"It's 'Eleanor', not 'ma'am'. You're practically my age, Dave. Look, I don't understand what the issue is. But if Jon really won't consider speaking to anyone but Geraldine, then you'll have to inform him the meeting needs to be rescheduled. The Whitehills are dealing with a family emergency."

Dave was surpassing vermillion and steadily approaching scarlet. He glanced around him, furtively ensuring we were alone in my office, before turning back to me with a terrified and hesitant expression.

"I'm sorry, Eleanor, I know it's a bad time. It's just—well, Jon is..."

He trailed off, throwing me a helpless look. Thrilled Dave had shrugged off the formalities, I smiled in return, knowing exactly how Jon was.

"Yes. He is," I agreed. Dave returned my grin, clearly relieved.

Jon Leehaven was a relatively newer photographer. He was a budding artist who'd gained quick success after winning various international awards for his series on refugee plights. Like I'd informed Dave, I'd known Jon when he was a wannabe artist roaming the streets of California with nothing but a hole in his pocket and a wisp of a dream. I knew plenty of local and hopeful artists; it was always electrifying when one of them managed to hook onto the rapid stream of success and find a place in the flow. It was even more thrilling when I got the opportunity to help them find a place on the floors or walls of Whitehill, among their idols and teachers.

Jon Leehaven was one of those successes.

"Call Jon. He can either reschedule or meet with me," I urged again. Dave's face fell, remembering the phone call he needed to make.

While Jon wasn't cruel or abusive to his employees, he could sometimes be a flighty and erratic man. He was also prone to outbursts of emotion, perhaps due to his unique worldview that allowed him to take such powerful photos, and it could be overwhelming to those around him. He was passionate and dramatic, but his mercurial temperament sometimes made for some unique experiences and conversations. It didn't help that Jon was antsy because of media circulation regarding the theft.

Dave turned, pulling out his phone. I pursed my lips as I watched him shuffle towards the door.

"You can call him from in here if you like. The hall doesn't offer much privacy," I offered.

Dave nodded and dialed, unconcerned that I stayed. I tried not to listen as Dave spoke with Jon, turning to my work, but I still slightly monitored. Partly out of curiosity and nosiness, and partly out of a general desire to see how the conversation went. I couldn't help but wonder if I was wrong, if maybe Jon could possibly be rude to his employees, and I think I wanted to make sure he wasn't. Jon wouldn't be the first person I knew to have different personalities based on a person's place of hierarchy.

Though, I couldn't hear Jon very well, which was surprising in itself. Jon was normally a very loud person. His conversation with Dave seemed unnaturally hushed. Dave had mentioned he was with me at the beginning of the call, and I couldn't help but wonder if that was the reason for Jon's muted tone. Was that paranoia or social awareness on my part?

Dave's face transitioned as he exchanged words with his boss; from hesitancy, to confusion, to dismay. A few times, his eyes darted towards me, before quickly looking away. It was especially prominent in the times his emotions morphed. My nosiness and curiosity increased. My paranoia increased.

Dave would be a horrible poker player.

"Alright. I'll let her know," Dave finally said, a sudden air of fatigue washing over him. He hung up and turned, and my stomach gained a sense of doubt at his wary expression.

"Sorry, Eleanor. We'll need to reschedule."

Honestly, I was surprised.

While I certainly wasn't Geraldine, and perhaps understood why Jon only wanted to speak to the head of the museum in times like this, part of me was upset. I knew Jon. I had worked with him for years. He didn't think I could help, at all? Surely, I could've offered some assistance.

But the rational part of me knew I was being silly. In times of crisis, it made sense to want to go directly to the top, to not waste time interacting with those with less authority. Nobody wasted time with the teachers when the issue required the principal's expertise.

"Alright."

I smoothed my frown. I would pass the information to Geraldine's assistant and the meeting would be rescheduled. Her assistant had gone with her, otherwise I would've called her to my office.

Dave shuffled on his feet. He was pointedly looking away from me now that his phone call was over. I should've dropped it—but I didn't. I made a choice.

"Is everything alright?"

Dave startled, looking up at me. It was my turn to shuffle in place; his expression was slightly shocked and skeptical. He seemed to be evaluating me. I didn't like it.

"Dave?"

"Everything's fine," Dave assured. "Like you said, you know how Jon is."

Dave's expression was still thoughtful and almost suspicious, but I shook it off. I decided I didn't have time for it. I didn't know what'd caused Dave to look at me like I was a bunny he'd just been informed was venomous, but I had things to do.

"Right. Well, I'll pass the information to Geraldine's assistant. You'll be able to get in touch with her later today to reschedule. Give my apologies to Jon."

Dave agreed and wished me goodbye before disappearing from my office. I stared after him, wondering about the odd turn in his behavior — the one that'd followed his conversation with his boss. But I shrugged, brushed it off, and got back to work.

"So, no fractures?" I shuffled the phone deeper into the crook of my neck, praying and hoping it wouldn't fall. My arms were full of files and exhibit mock-ups, so I lacked the ability to catch the device if it happened to slip from between my cheek and shoulder.

"No," August replied. "No fractures, just another ankle sprain."

I winced. I knew how much Eliza hated crutches, and how much time she always seemed to spend on them. "Ouch."

"Yeah, she's thrilled." August's voice was slightly distant and grainy, like the phone wasn't pressed correctly to his ear, either. Still, his sarcasm came across clearly. "My mom's staying with her, but dad, Gramma, and I are coming back."

"Alright, I'm glad she's okay. I'll have to stop by and see her later. I'm heading to lunch now, want me to grab you anything?"

"Why don't I just grab us food on the way? I can bring it back and save you a trip."

"Thanks, but I need the break. I've been at my desk all day. If you want anything, just text me your order." I shifted the files in my arms, chatting as I expertly maneuvered them. "I also need the steps. My count is too low. I'm not letting you win again."

"Hah! Good luck with that!" August guffawed, knowing as well as I did he won our step challenge every week.

We slid into bickering as I finished making my way through the museum. I handed off the files to another employee as I passed her office and quickly made my way to the back door.

I nodded at the security member as I pushed out into the soft light of a freshly born September afternoon. October was close, eating up September on the calendar and promising dark nights and spooky decor. My chai lattes would occasionally, yet somewhat shamefully, be swapped out for pumpkin spice here and there. We all had to have guilty pleasures; mine was seasonal overpriced coffees. Or rather, overpriced coffees in general, and a few other things.

"I'm at my car, so text me your order," I said, climbing in.

"See you soon."

As I ended the call, my phone lit up again. This time, it was an unknown number. I banged my head against the headrest, knowing work never stopped, before accepting the call.

"Hello?"

"Hello, may I please speak to Ms. Eleanor Vaycker?"

The voice was loud and sugary sweet.

"This is her."

"Good afternoon, Ms. Vaycker, this is Isabel Polty with channel thirty-five news. I'm calling regarding the unfortunate events at Whitehill museum. I'm hoping to request and schedule an interview with you at your convenience."

I frowned. It'd been days since the theft, so why were they calling me now? Or an even better question, why me of all the employees?

My stomach jolted, and I tried to settle it. Maybe they'd been calling everyone at the museum, hoping to find someone willing to oblige. They wouldn't find it with me. I wasn't foolproof, but I tried to my best to do what was right. Loyalty was a trait highly sought after even amongst our internal selves. It was a trait with a high price, but I tried my best to afford it when possible. I hadn't paid my dues lately, but here, now, I would.

"All media requests go through our public relations team. You'll have to go through them for any questions or interview requests."

"Right," the reporter agreed smoothly. "But we're hoping to speak to you, and we hope you'll be willing to participate. Our viewers want answers. Whitehill museum is such an important part of the city, and families want to know they're safe when they go. We believe you can provide them some of that comfort. I would hate to see Whitehill lose its place as a popular attraction, or as a family-friendly location."

My teeth bit into my tongue. Nothing about the theft had threatened Whitehill's reputation as family-friendly, or suggested guest safety was compromised. The theft had happened in the middle of the night, for god's sake. It was manipulation, and her syrupy tone couldn't hide it. I was admittedly extremely defensive of Whitehill, so immediately wanted to lash out at her dangled bait, but I was also a Vaycker. I was no stranger to media sensationalism or twisted stories.

"Again, Ms. Polty, you'll have to go through our media team for any inquiries. If there's nothing else, I'm needed elsewhere. Have a good day," I said just as sickly sweet. I ended the call with no hesitation, fuming as I shot texts and emails to the Whitehill family and the museum's media team. The museum had been tight-lipped so far, but if reporters were doing targeted attacks to find weak spots, we'd need to be prepared.

If they were digging, they wanted more. They always wanted more, regardless if there was real substance to give. The press regarding a theft of this caliber couldn't be taken lightly; our team was already fighting battles online with memes, tweets, and viral TV segments regarding the loss. Press conferences had been hosted already, but the eyes of the world remained on the museum and the gaping blank space where our lady in soft, sad hues of grief had once hung.

Annoyed and grumbling, I shifted the car into drive, and eased out of the lot to chase down a mid-day meal. I realized it was another clear-cut moment requiring a decision—what would I get for lunch?

This book has long chapters. Because of this, and the Geraldine-level of pride I am striving to have with this book, I'm going to need some flexibility with my posting schedule. I will still intend and plan to post a chapter every Friday, but there may be some Fridays a chapter gets posted a little off schedule. Whether that's over the weekend or early the next week, etc.

But rest assured, I won't be going weeks without posting. And this also means I won't need to feel like I'm waiting for Fridays to post, I'll just post! Thanks for understanding. This book is more detailed and requires more gentle carving than ILAD, and I love it. I want to maintain that level of effort and quality as we get deeper into the museum and its secrets.

- H