Page 11 of Unforgivable

“So yes, just one person,” I say now to Jack. “Dressed in black, with a hoodie and a face covering like a ski mask. They walked in, came out with one of our best pieces and seconds later they’re out of the camera vision, and that’s it. They can’t tell who it is from the footage. They can’t even tell if it’s a man or woman, according to Bruno. And I have to say I felt sorry for Summer, she was the first one in the gallery, and Gav even asked straight up if she was the thief, can you imagine? In front of the police, too. I said to Gavin, ‘but you were supposed to come back in fifteen minutes!’ And he was furious with me. ‘No, Laura!’ he was saying. ‘I said Imightbe back in fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t guarantee it, okay? In fact, if you remember I said I might not get back at all.’ And I was like, ‘but you said…but I heard you…’and he kept saying, ‘No, if you heard that, that’s on you, because that’s not what I said, okay?’ But that’s classic Gavin. Honestly, I’m glad he’s leaving. Whenever anything goes wrong he always raises his hands and says, ‘Not my fault.’ He’s like a kid in that way. In the end I had to apologize just so we could move on. And then he went back to Summer, and he asked again, ‘So, did you steal the artwork, Summer? Yes or no.’” I shudder. “So boorish. She just said no.”

After a beat, he asks, still scrolling, “Why would he ask that?”

I get it. Jack is stressed out, especially about the job he didn’t get. But still, we went through all that last night. I close my eyes briefly. I won’t let it get to me. We’re having a family day and nothing is going to get in the way.

“Because she was there first, in the gallery, before anyone else. I walked in and found her there. The door was open, you see?” That must be the third time I’ve explained that.

He doesn’t reply. Scroll, scroll, scroll.

“Credit where it’s due, she held her own with the police, and with Gav. Cool as anything. In her shoes I would have been completely paranoid that they’d think I did it.” I laugh.

“Who?” he asks.

“Who what?”

“Who did you say was there first?”

I shouldn’t complain now that he’s finally paying attention to the conversation, but in terms of focus, it’s a bit lacking. “Summer. She was there for her job interview.”

“What’s the job?” he asks.

“Why, you want it?” I laugh. He doesn’t. I rearrange my face to serious. “It’s for the assistant’s job for the touring show I’m curating.” I lean forward conspiratorially. “I might even throw in some special perks for the right candidate,” I say, trying for coquettish.

He smiles politely.

I sigh. “Anyway, I don’t think she’s right for the position. She’s not…” I’m trying to find the right word. “Office ready.”

Office ready?

I did interview her, though. We went back to the storeroom, I brought us a jug of water and two glasses. I pulled out her CV from the drawer where I’d left it the night before. But I didn’t want to interview her because I still had that moment seared in my mind, her watching me while I made a complete mess of the lock. I tried to banish it, tried to make myself focus on the present.

“What’s the job, exactly?” she asked.

I gave her the basic descriptions. Help organize the openings, go to the post office, make sure catalogues are printed on time. “Our next show is a touring exhibition, so the bulk of the work is contacting venues around the country and confirming the dates and their involvement, getting the freight organized, following up on the marketing assets such as logos and press releases, that sort of thing.”

“What’s the show?”

“It’s called the Museum of Lost and Found. A complete departure for us, we’re extending our audience reach and opportunities for exposure.” I sounded like the state-funding application I’d sent off to help us pay for such a big event.

She took a sip of water. “That sounds fantastic. I love it! Tell me more!”

“Sure, well, we invite members of the public to send in an object they found with a story as to why it’s become significant to them, or if they’ve lost the object, we will recreate it for the exhibition. Let me give you an example. One person sent an old, framed photograph they’d found in the street trash can. It’s a picture of a middle-aged man, a studio portrait, three inches by five inches. She’s never met this man, she has no idea who he is, but she’d just lost her mother two weeks earlier and she had no family left. She’d never met her father. Something about the photo, the way he posed, the way he looked, made her feel like he must have been important to someone once, but now he was in the trash. So, she took the framed photograph home and put it on her mantelpiece, and decided she would love this man, because someone had to, she said. Somebody had to love him.”

Summer clicked her tongue. “That is just so romantic.”

I smiled. “She explains it by saying they were both lost, and they needed each other at that time in her life. She told everyone he was her uncle. Uncle Jeff, she called him. She invented stories about him, how funny he was, how he used to dress as Father Christmas when he came to visit them for the holidays. How he fixed her bike. Then she got married and eventually told her husband the truth about the photo, putting it away in a drawer. She no longer needed to look at him on the mantelpiece, but she didn’t want to throw him away either. Then she saw our call for works, so she sent it in with her story.” I got up. “Come with me, I’ll show you.”

I took her through to the back storage area and showed her the works that had been selected so far, including the photograph of Uncle Jeff, and a scarf we had someone knit to match the photo sent in by a woman who’d lost it. “It had belonged to her grandmother who had died, and later this woman lost everything in a house fire when she was out of the house, except for the scarf because she happened to be wearing it. Then a year later, she lost it on a train.” I read from the letter. “‘It’s the one thing I never wanted to lose, my last connection to my grandmother.’” Then I show her the rest. A replica of a violin that was lost on the way to an audition for the Philharmonic. I read from the letter. “‘My family was broke, my violin was cheap and battered and hard to tune, and somehow I left it on the bench where I was waiting for the bus to take me to the audition. I was devastated. They let me use another one, a pristine beautiful violin with the most delicious sound I’d ever heard. I got lost in my own playing. I got the gig. I don’t think I would have gotten it if I’d played the piece on my old violin, so I’m grateful I lost it.’”

“Incredible,” Summer said, shaking her head in wonder. She hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “When will you make a decision?”

“Well, let me think. I have a couple of people still to talk to on Monday. Do you want to go back to the storeroom and we can go over your skillset?”

“I’d love to, but I have to run. But you’ve got my resume, I’m great on the phone, great with people, great with computers, spreadsheets, I can type fast, all that. I’m a hard worker, Laura. You won’t be disappointed.”

She took my hands in hers. “It would be an honor to work with you.”

“Oh, right, you’re sure?” I chuckled. I wanted to tell her that it’s not that kind of job, she wasn’t going to do any curating or creative work of any kind. That I was in no way honorable, that sometimes I lied and sometimes I broke locks.

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