Chapter 3 - THE NAME HE STOLE FROM HIS OWN WIFE
“Again?”
I turned toward Patricia.
That word had changed everything.
Until that morning, I'd believed my mother-in-law was simply a bitter woman who had never considered me good enough for her son.
Now I was looking at someone whose own husband had apparently spent decades taking credit for her work.
Harold folded his arms.
“Patricia, you don't understand what's happening.”
She gave him a humorless laugh.
“I understand perfectly. You did it thirty years ago, and now you've taught our son to do it again.”
Ryan slammed his palm against the counter.
“Will everyone stop talking like I committed some terrible crime?”
Nina looked at him.
“Your agency is offering intellectual property for an exclusive commercial agreement. The question is whether your company has the legal right to offer it.”
“Of course we do.”
“Then provide the current license.”
Ryan's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
I had spent twelve years watching him negotiate contracts. He always had an explanation ready.
The silence frightened him more than my anger.
Nina turned to me.
“The Harrington Trust owns the registered rights to the Greenhouse Collection. Whitman Creative received a limited license years ago to reproduce selected images for a nonprofit exhibition. That license expired.”
Harold suddenly stepped forward.
“Evelyn gave me permission.”
“Permission to store printing materials,” Nina replied. “Not to sell the artwork.”
Ryan looked between them.
“My father handled all that.”
“And you,” I asked, “never checked?”
He wouldn't meet my eyes.
There it was again.
The familiar excuse.
Someone else had handled the details. Someone else had made the arrangements. Someone else was responsible whenever Ryan's decisions caused damage.
I used to clean up those problems.
I wasn't going to do it anymore.
Maya slipped toward the hallway.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
She stopped.
“To change.”
I looked at my grandmother's emerald robe.
“Yes. Please do.”
For once, nobody laughed.
Maya disappeared upstairs with her own clothes. Patricia remained at the table, staring at the photograph.
I sat opposite her.
“Tell me what happened.”
Harold shook his head.
“There's nothing to tell.”
I kept looking at Patricia.
She slowly touched the younger version of herself in the picture.
“Your grandmother hired me when I was twenty-three. I'd been designing fabric patterns at night while working in a department store.”
Her voice softened.
“She saw a drawing I'd left at a community exhibition. Three weeks later, she offered me a real job.”
“What kind of job?”
“We were building an art collection inspired by the women who had worked in the textile mills. The idea was to use the proceeds to support art classes and scholarships for working families.”
I remembered something.
Grandma used to keep jars of paintbrushes on her kitchen windowsill.
She'd tell me that talent was everywhere, but opportunity wasn't.
I had always assumed it was simply something she believed.
Now I understood where those words came from.
Patricia continued.
“Evelyn designed some pieces. I designed others. We worked together on the rest.”
“Then why does everyone credit Grandma?”
Her fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Because I asked her not to use my name publicly.”
Harold let out a breath.
But Patricia looked at him.
“Don't look so relieved.”
I felt my confusion deepen.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because Harold was trying to establish his printing company. He said having my name associated with another business would create problems. He said people would think he couldn't provide for his own family.”
Ryan scoffed.
“Mom, that was thirty years ago.”
She turned toward him.
“And apparently thirty years wasn't enough time for you to learn better.”
I saw my husband's expression harden.
He had never tolerated being corrected by his mother in front of anyone.
“You helped me with this deal,” he said.
Patricia fell silent.
That surprised me.
Ryan continued.
“You knew the company needed money.”
Nina raised her hand.
“Before this goes further, I recommend everyone stop discussing potential liability without independent counsel.”
But Patricia ignored her.
“Ryan told me the designs were being used for a hotel exhibition. He said Evelyn would have wanted people to see them.”
“Did he tell you he was selling exclusive rights?” I asked.
“No.”
Ryan stared at her.
“That's not what exclusive licensing means.”
“Then why does your proposal list you as the owner?” I asked.
He said nothing.
My phone vibrated.
An email from Beatrice Price, the independent chairwoman of Whitman Creative's board, confirmed that Ryan had been placed on temporary administrative leave while outside auditors reviewed the vendor payments.
For the first time, I saw real fear in his face.
Not because he'd hurt me.
Because he was losing control of his company.
Nina began gathering the papers.
“Claire, we need to preserve the original artwork before anyone moves or alters it.”
Harold picked up his car keys.
“The originals aren't at my house.”
I looked at him.
“Where are they?”
He hesitated.
“Some old storage facility.”
Maya returned wearing jeans and a plain sweater.
She had stopped trying to smile.
“That's not true,” she said.
Everyone turned.
Ryan's voice became dangerously quiet.
“Maya.”
She ignored him.
“I was at the restoration workshop yesterday. I saw the original printing plates.”
Nina immediately opened her notebook.
“Where?”
Maya looked at Harold.
“Your father moved most of them to Pine & Reed Restoration last month.”
Harold closed his eyes.
“And?” I asked.
Maya swallowed.
“There should be seventeen original plates.”
May you like
She looked directly at me.
“But when I checked the inventory yesterday, there were only sixteen.”
