Chapter 3 - THE PRICE OF A MOTHER'S MEMORY
“What did you sign in my son's name?”
Alessandro did not raise his voice.
That somehow made the question more frightening.
Julian stood beside the study fireplace, still holding his phone.
Victoria looked as though she might faint.
“I didn't sign anything illegal.”
Alessandro took one step toward her.
“That's not what I asked.”
Benjamin sat on the sofa beside me, clutching his stuffed rabbit.
He had asked Mrs. Romano to bring Mr. Buttons downstairs after the doctor left.
Now he held the worn toy against his chest.
“Daddy?”
Alessandro immediately turned.
“Yes, buddy?”
“Is Mommy's picture worth lots of money?”
His father crouched.
“Apparently.”
Benjamin looked confused.
“Then why did Mommy say it was priceless?”
Alessandro's expression broke.
“Because she wasn't talking about money.”
The little boy thought about that.
Then he buried his face against the rabbit.
Alessandro stood.
“Hannah, would you stay with Benjamin?”
“Of course.”
He looked toward Mrs. Romano.
“Please arrange a room for Victoria in the east guest wing. She will not be staying in my bedroom tonight.”
Victoria stared.
“Alessandro—”
“And Julian will remain in the library until we've finished discussing this.”
“Am I a prisoner now?”
“No. You're a guest who owes my son an explanation. You're free to leave, but you won't be making decisions about this house or Benjamin.”
Julian nodded once.
“I'll stay.”
Victoria looked wounded.
“You believe him over me?”
Alessandro met her eyes.
“I believe the evidence in front of me.”
He turned away.
And for the first time that evening, Victoria seemed to understand that tears would not end the conversation.
I stayed with Benjamin until almost midnight.
He refused to go upstairs.
“Can I sleep here?” he asked.
I glanced toward the study's long sofa.
“I think your father will understand.”
“Will you stay until I fall asleep?”
“Of course.”
I found a blanket and tucked it around him.
After several minutes, he whispered, “Miss Hannah?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Did Mommy ever get mad at you?”
His question surprised me.
“I didn't know your mommy.”
“Oh.”
“But everybody gets upset sometimes.”
Benjamin rubbed Mr. Buttons's ear.
“Victoria said Mommy wouldn't like how I act.”
My chest tightened.
“What did she mean?”
“She said I cry too much.”
I sat beside him.
“Missing someone isn't bad behavior.”
He considered that.
“Daddy cries sometimes.”
I looked at him.
“He does?”
Benjamin nodded.
“Not loud. Sometimes when he thinks I'm sleeping.”
I brushed his hair away from his forehead.
“Then maybe you and your daddy need to talk about your mommy more.”
Benjamin was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he whispered, “Can I call you Hannah instead of Miss Hannah?”
I smiled.
“If you'd like.”
He nodded.
“Hannah?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for believing me.”
I held his little hand until he fell asleep.
The next morning, Alessandro asked me to accompany him to the restoration company.
Not because he wanted me involved in his personal affairs.
Because I had seen the missing painting's frame.
And because Benjamin trusted me.
Before we left, Mrs. Romano stopped us near the front entrance.
“Mr. Caruso, may I speak?”
“Of course.”
She glanced toward me.
“I should have said something sooner.”
Alessandro waited.
“Miss Whitmore began changing the inventory records six weeks ago. She told me the artwork would be moved into private storage before renovations.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Mrs. Romano lowered her eyes.
“Because you told the staff to cooperate with her wedding preparations.”
Alessandro looked at the marble floor.
He seemed to remember giving that instruction.
“I did.”
“She said you didn't want to be disturbed.”
He nodded slowly.
“I did say that.”
Mrs. Romano's voice trembled.
“I've worked for your family for seventeen years, sir. I should have asked you directly.”
Alessandro looked at her.
“From now on, you will.”
It wasn't an accusation.
It sounded more like a promise to change.
The restoration company occupied a narrow brick building on Manhattan's Upper East Side.
Its owner, Arthur Bell, was a gray-haired man with careful hands and paint dust on his cuffs.
He recognized Alessandro immediately.
“Mr. Caruso. I wasn't expecting you.”
“I'm looking for my wife's painting.”
Arthur's face changed.
“The family portrait?”
“Yes.”
Arthur hesitated.
“Miss Whitmore told us the family had authorized its sale.”
“They hadn't.”
The older man removed his glasses.
“Then we've made a serious mistake.”
He led us into a climate-controlled storage room.
Several large paintings stood along padded racks.
But Eleanor's portrait wasn't among them.
“Where is it?” Alessandro asked.
Arthur swallowed.
“The buyer's representative collected it yesterday.”
Alessandro's expression tightened.
“Who?”
“I can show you the collection record.”
Arthur retrieved a delivery ledger.
The signature belonged to a man named Daniel Mercer.
Alessandro stared at it.
Then his face changed.
I noticed immediately.
“You know him?”
He didn't answer at first.
Finally, he said, “He's a private art broker.”
Arthur cleared his throat.
“There's something unusual about the transaction.”
“What?”
“The buyer specifically requested that the original frame be destroyed.”
I looked up.
“Destroyed?”
Arthur nodded.
“Miss Whitmore said the frame had sentimental associations that the new owner didn't want.”
Alessandro looked toward me.
“The frame Benjamin broke.”
“Yes.”
Arthur continued.
“But the buyer also requested that we photograph the back of the painting before shipping.”
“Why?”
“He said he needed to verify the artist's marks.”
Alessandro frowned.
“Eleanor rarely signed her paintings.”
Arthur nodded.
“That's what I found unusual.”
He led us into his office and opened the photographic record.
The front image showed Eleanor's family portrait.
Beautiful.
Warm.
A little boy between his parents, standing outside a white house with green shutters.
Then Arthur opened the photograph of the back.
Several faint pencil lines appeared along the wooden stretcher.
And in one corner, there was a small blue ribbon.
I leaned forward.
“What's that?”
Arthur enlarged the photograph.
The ribbon had been attached to a little canvas pouch behind the painting.
Alessandro stared.
“I've never seen that.”
Arthur looked uncomfortable.
“There was something inside the pouch.”
“What?”
“A folded letter.”
Alessandro's head snapped toward him.
“Where is it?”
Arthur reached into his desk.
He withdrew a small envelope.
“Miss Whitmore asked me to remove it before shipment.”
“Did you read it?”
“No. I thought it was private correspondence.”
Alessandro held out his hand.
Arthur hesitated.
“I'm afraid the original isn't here.”
Alessandro stopped.
“What?”
“Miss Whitmore collected it herself. But I made a copy of the front because the envelope was sealed with the artist's monogram. We photograph items before removing them from conservation pieces.”
He handed Alessandro a printed image.
On the envelope, written in Eleanor's handwriting, were five words.
For Alessandro, when you're ready.
Alessandro slowly sat down.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
I watched his eyes move over the familiar handwriting.
“My wife wrote this,” he whispered.
Arthur nodded.
“The envelope appeared old. It had likely been behind the canvas for years.”
Alessandro looked toward the window.
Eleanor had died four years earlier.
Four years.
And somewhere inside a painting their son loved, she had left something meant for him.
Something Victoria had found before he did.
“Why would Victoria remove the letter?” I asked.
Arthur hesitated.
“There's another detail.”
He opened the transaction notes.
“The buyer wasn't interested in the painting until after Miss Whitmore told him about the letter.”
Alessandro looked up sharply.
“What did she tell him?”
“I don't know. But she asked whether the envelope would increase the painting's value if its contents concerned the Caruso family.”
Alessandro's face hardened.
He turned to Arthur.
“Do you have the broker's contact details?”
“Yes.”
“Please give them to my office.”
Arthur nodded.
Then he reached beneath the counter.
“There is one more item.”
He placed a small, old-fashioned brass key on the desk.
It hung from a faded blue ribbon.
“We found it in the same pouch as the letter.”
Alessandro picked it up.
His hand went still.
I noticed the change in his face.
“You recognize it?”
He nodded slowly.
“Eleanor used to keep a little cedar box in the art room.”
“What happened to it?”
“I haven't seen it since she died.”
Arthur looked between us.
“There's writing on the key.”
Alessandro turned it over.
Three tiny words had been engraved on the brass.
For our boy.
He stared at them.
Then his phone lit up with a message from Mrs. Romano.
He read it once.
Then again.
“What is it?” I asked.
His eyes lifted to mine.
“Benjamin's bedroom has been emptied.”
I felt cold.
“What?”
“Mrs. Romano says his clothes, books, and toys are gone.”
I thought of the little boy sleeping downstairs.
Of his torn shirt.
Of Mr. Buttons.
May you like
Then Alessandro spoke, his voice unsteady.
“And Victoria has just told the staff that I authorized everything.”
