Chapter 6 - THE PRICE OF TELLING THE TRUTH
“Forty-three people?”
I stared at Beatrice.
Ryan had always spoken about Whitman Creative as though it were his personal kingdom.
But forty-three employees meant forty-three families.
Mortgages.
Medical bills.
College tuition.
Children who expected their parents to come home with good news.
I knew many of those employees.
Some had attended our wedding.
Others had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at our house when they couldn't travel home.
I wasn't going to punish them for Ryan's betrayal.
But I wasn't going to bury the truth to protect him, either.
“What happens if Northline discovers the licensing problem?” I asked.
Beatrice folded her hands.
“They could terminate the agreement, seek repayment, and pursue damages. Our preliminary review also suggests Whitman Creative is facing serious cash-flow problems.”
Nina leaned forward.
“The company needs independent management. Any resolution involving the artwork must be negotiated with the Harrington Trust, not Ryan.”
“Could the trust license the designs properly?” I asked.
“Possibly,” Nina replied. “But that requires a fair agreement protecting the artists' rights and the collection's original charitable purpose.”
Beatrice looked relieved.
“That's what I hoped you'd say.”
I raised a hand.
“Don't misunderstand me. I'm not rescuing Ryan.”
“I know.”
“If I help, the employees come first. There will be no hidden payments to his family, no private ownership claims, and no pretending those women never existed.”
Beatrice nodded.
“Agreed.”
The next morning, I returned to my house.
Ryan had been allowed time to collect his personal belongings under the property's occupancy arrangements.
His parents were helping him move.
This time, my clothes were no longer in garbage bags.
They had been unpacked and placed neatly on my bed.
Patricia was standing in the guest room, folding towels.
She looked up when I entered.
“I thought it might help,” she said.
I stared at her.
“You thought folding my towels would make up for helping Ryan throw me out?”
She lowered her eyes.
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I didn't know where else to go.”
It was the first time I'd heard uncertainty in her voice.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Patricia, I need to ask you something.”
She nodded.
“Did Grandma know you were a co-creator of the Greenhouse Collection?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't she tell me?”
Patricia's eyes filled.
“Because I asked her not to.”
She sat in the chair opposite me.
“Your grandmother tried for years to convince me to put my name back on the artwork. I always refused.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the window.
“When I was young, Harold's printing company was struggling. He was proud, and I was terrified of losing our home. I thought I could make our marriage easier by giving up something that mattered to me.”
I knew that feeling.
Too well.
“Did he force you?”
Patricia took a long breath.
“He never held a pen to my hand. But he made it clear that my success embarrassed him. Every time I received praise, he'd remind me that his business paid our bills.”
She wiped her cheek.
“Eventually, I started believing I was selfish for wanting something of my own.”
I remembered how Patricia had criticized my career.
How she called my independence unfeminine.
How she praised women who sacrificed everything for their husbands.
For years, I had thought she simply disliked me.
Now I wondered whether my independence reminded her of everything she had surrendered.
“That explains some things,” I said.
“But it doesn't excuse what you did to me.”
“I know.”
“You stood beside Ryan while he replaced me.”
Her face crumpled.
“I was angry with you because you had the courage to do what I never did.”
The admission hung between us.
For a moment, I almost reached for her hand.
Then I remembered her wrapping my grandmother's photograph in newspaper.
I kept my hands in my lap.
“I'm glad you told me the truth. But trust takes more than one conversation.”
Patricia nodded.
“I understand.”
I stood.
“There's one more thing. Where did Harold keep the original Greenhouse records?”
Her expression changed.
“He had an old blue traveling case. Evelyn gave it to him after the last exhibition.”
“Where is it?”
“In his office. At least, it used to be.”
A few minutes later, I found Harold in the garage.
He was loading a box into his car.
I asked him about the case.
His face hardened.
“That's private.”
“It's connected to the collection my grandmother owned.”
“You've already taken my son's company away from him.”
“No, Harold. His own decisions put him in this position.”
He shook his head.
“You don't understand what it feels like to spend your whole life trying to keep a family afloat.”
I looked at him.
“I understand exactly what that feels like.”
For the first time, he seemed unable to answer.
Patricia appeared behind us.
“Harold, give her the case.”
He stared at his wife.
“You know what that contains.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And I'm tired of being afraid of it.”
After a long silence, Harold took a worn blue case from the back of his car.
He handed it to Nina, who documented its condition before opening it with his permission.
Inside were old exhibition programs, sketches, correspondence, and a thin green ledger.
Patricia recognized it instantly.
“Oh, Evelyn.”
I opened the ledger.
There were years of handwritten entries.
Payments to artists.
Workshop expenses.
Scholarship contributions.
And a carefully maintained record of who had created each design.
Near the back, one page had been marked with a faded green ribbon.
It contained a dated note from my grandmother.
Public credit withheld at Patricia Vale's written request.
I looked up.
“Patricia?”
Her voice broke.
“Yes.”
I turned the page.
Attached behind it was a copy of her original instruction.
It wasn't Harold's signature.
It wasn't my grandmother's.
The handwriting was unmistakably Patricia's.
May you like
And beside her name, she had written:
I voluntarily request that my contribution remain uncredited in all public exhibitions.
