Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN THEY ERASED FROM MY LIFE
My father lunged for the documents before I could read my aunt's name a second time.
"That's enough, Daniel. You're making accusations you can't prove."
Daniel Foster calmly moved the papers out of his reach.
"Robert, these are copies. The originals are already secured."
Dad stopped.
For the first time in my thirty-eight years, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
The art restorer stood beside my grandfather's painting, still holding his magnifying glass.
His name was Martin Keene. He was fifty-six, with silver hair and the careful hands of a man accustomed to handling objects worth more than most people's houses.
My father had hired him.
But Martin clearly hadn't expected to walk into a family crime.
"Mr. Mitchell," Martin said, "when you contacted me, you represented yourself as an authorized family representative. You said your daughter had approved the conservation work."
"I did approve it," Dad snapped.
"Then why did you instruct me to prepare a replacement canvas?"
Nobody answered.
I looked at Brooke.
My younger sister had spent the entire morning acting like she was finally about to receive something she deserved.
Now she was staring at our father.
"Dad, what replacement?"
He ignored her.
That told me something important.
Brooke had known they intended to steal my painting.
But she hadn't known the painting might already be fake.
Daniel turned another page.
"Judith Mercer purchased Harbor at First Light on September 18, 2014, for $185,000."
I felt my throat tighten.
Judith Mercer.
My mother's older sister.
Aunt Judith had practically raised me during the summers when my parents were too busy fighting to remember I was home.
She taught me to bake cinnamon rolls.
She took me to the public library every Saturday.
And when I was sixteen, she disappeared from our lives.
Mom told me she'd stolen money from Grandpa Samuel.
Dad called her a disgrace.
I had believed them.
"Judith was a thief," Mom said quietly.
Daniel looked up.
"Then perhaps you can explain why she paid for a painting Robert had no authority to sell."
Mom's face drained of color.
Dad slammed his palm against the table.
"Samuel was my father! I spent twenty years helping him with that collection!"
"And that made it yours?" I asked.
He turned toward me.
"You have no idea what I sacrificed for that man."
I thought about Grandpa teaching me to mix watercolors at the kitchen table.
I thought about the way he saved birthday cards and remembered every exhibition I organized.
"Maybe not," I said. "But I know what he gave me. And I know what you're trying to take."
Martin interrupted us.
"Ms. Mitchell, there's something you should see."
With my permission and Daniel documenting everything, he carefully opened a section of the painting's protective backing.
Three tiny blue stitches appeared near the lower edge.
"These aren't nineteenth-century materials," he explained. "Someone used modern conservation thread when this canvas was prepared."
"So it is a copy?" I whispered.
"Almost certainly. A very sophisticated one, probably made around 2014."
I touched the edge of the wooden frame.
Grandpa had kept this painting above his desk for years.
How many evenings had we sat beneath something that wasn't real?
Then another thought struck me.
Maybe the painting wasn't the only thing Grandpa had been forced to pretend about.
Daniel examined the shipping receipt attached to the old sale agreement.
"Judith signed as the buyer. But the delivery confirmation is interesting."
He placed it in front of me.
One signature appeared beneath the words RECEIVED ON BEHALF OF OWNER.
R. MITCHELL.
I stared.
My initials.
My handwriting.
Except I had never signed that document.
In September 2014, I'd been twenty-six, living in Chicago, and working sixty-hour weeks at an investment firm.
I hadn't visited Boston for nearly three months.
"That's not my signature."
Dad looked away.
Brooke whispered, "What does that mean?"
"It means somebody used my name."
Daniel photographed the receipt.
"This gives us another specific transaction to investigate."
Mom sat down heavily.
"Robert, you told me Rachel knew."
Dad shot her a furious look.
"Vivian, stop talking."
I turned toward my mother.
"Knew what?"
She pressed her lips together.
For several seconds, the only sound came from the old grandfather clock near the gallery entrance.
Then she whispered something I would never forget.
"Judith didn't steal that painting, Rachel."
I couldn't move.
Mom looked directly at me.
"She bought it because your father was going to sell it to someone much worse."
Dad grabbed his coat.
"Vivian!"
But Mom was already crying.
"And when your grandfather found out what happened, he made her promise something."
"What promise?"
She shook her head.
"I can't."
"Mom, you just tried to steal my inheritance. Whatever promise you made has already been broken."
She covered her face.
Then she said the words that changed everything.
"Your grandfather made Judith promise that you would never learn what really happened to that painting until you were safe from your father."
And standing beside us, Daniel slowly lowered the shipping receipt.
May you like
Because the date of that promise was twelve years earlier.
Nine years after my parents had already driven Aunt Judith out of my life.
