The crowd pours out of the left wing to go explore other parts of the museum - most likely the cafeteria. From her corner I see the curator toss me an enthusiastic chef's kiss, but it takes her a minute before she can squeeze herself through the pool of humans and make herself heard.

“That was wonderful Ms. Palmero! Spectacular even!” she applauds, chuckling a little to herself, clearly relieved at the turnout. “Honestly, you could be an orator as well as an artist, and I don’t say that sort of thing often, believe me. I’ve been working in this museum for nearly half a century and a good nine out of ten of the artists we’ve had are so peacockish and pretentious, but your speech was so natural. It was a breath of fresh air.”

“That’s just because I don’t have a lot of experience in professional arenas,” I laugh a little breathlessly, “I’d never even worked in a real business setting until a few months ago…”

At that reminder, I glance toward where I last saw Mrs. King standing. She’s shifted a few feet to the left, probably because of the crowd, but she’s still there, arms crossed over her chest, the pelt-ish sleeves of her velvet suit making her look like a purple she-bear, though at this point, her expression has relaxed into passive confusion, tinged with what might be a hint of worry…

If only I could just tell her I was sick.

Sick of life maybe, and paralyzed.

Would that even be a lie?

“Excuse me, Ms. Cooper,” I smile to the curator, “But I need to talk with this woman over here,” I tilt my head in the direction of Mrs. King, who seems to notice the gesture.

Cooper nods understandingly and steps over in the direction of a few staff - unsuccessfully attempting to wrap up the microphones. I suppose the crew of a museum doesn’t deal with sound equipment often, especially considering how long it’s been since their last new exhibit.

The rumble of frustrated voices murmurs through the room like the gradual swell and rush of a quiet ocean - but my heart is white water, crashing against my ribs with a vengeance.

I can see the questions burning in Mrs. King’s face before I’m six paces away, her eyes falling on me with the heat of a spotlight. I feel like the kid in the school play who forgot their lines, clenching my hands until my knuckles are white as plaster. 

I can’t even manage a smile or a wave, and her expression is inscrutable.

She waits until I’m within easy speaking distance to address me.

But when she does - there’s a hesitation. She pauses with her lips parted, shaking her head like everything she had planned to say has evaporated into thin air. It takes her two attempts to even find her voice.

“Ms. Palmero? Here now…after the meeting and the phone calls were…?”

I fight the nauseous thickness in my throat making it impossible to swallow - choking on the agitation -

“I-I know ma’am and I’m sorry…” in my peripheral I see Mrs. Moon rounding the corner, waving the car keys in one manicured hand - and a strong part of me wants to hurry away and just go - as far away from the museum and Mrs. King and The Foundation as possible-

A strong part, but not the strongest…

“I will explain,” I say before I can stop myself, even as the anxiety begins to mount with debilitating strength just at the thought of having to-

Do first and think later, Licia…

I force myself to keep going or I’ll back down, “-If you’re willing to reschedule with me. I completely understand if you don’t want to and would just prefer to break off my contract. I’ll just contact The Foundation if that’s what you’d like…”

“We can reschedule the meeting,” she says assuringly, her eyes flickering with concern as she studies my face, “Don’t be so nervous child…”

Something about her expression reminds me of the little girl with the umbrella.

I think she wants to believe in me - wants me to assure her that there’s some reasonable excuse.

“I’m…sure we can come to an understanding,” she says with something like a sigh, “It’ll be alright. I’ll have Mrs. Xochitl contact you to arrange another meeting sometime next week if that works for you.”

“That will be fine,” I say with a slow nod, but it’s too hard to meet her troubled gaze, “Thank you, ma’am.”

She just taps my shoulder without another word and turns in the direction of the north gallery.

I can hear Mrs. Moon approaching, her high heels clicking loudly against the tile, even as Mrs. King’s footsteps fade out.

“Is that someone from the museum?” Mrs. Moon asks curiously with a glance in the purple suit’s direction.

“No…from The Foundation…” I say slowly.

“My goodness, she’s a snappy dresser,” Mrs Moon laughs putting her arm through mine, “I’d kill for that suit. But you look so cunning yourself in this dress. I’ve never seen it before. Did my little prince buy it for you?”

“No,” I breathe trying not to blush. “This is one not atrocious dress I managed to pick out myself. I think that might be a new record.”

Mrs. Moon chuckles at that, patting my hand. “Ahh, I just asked because it looked like his taste. He always likes it when you wear styles like this you know. Its drape is a bit like the cocktail dress.”

My breath catches at the uncomfortable reminder, and there’s silence until we get in the car, and Mrs. Moon has started the engine to let the heating kick on. Her radio is playing that eternal “Oldie but a goodie station,” and Billie Holiday is crooning again.

Good morning heart-

“Time to celebrate,” Mrs. Moon smiles, checking her mascara in the rearview mirror, “Do you want French or Italian?”

“Mrs. Moon…” I whisper, my heart pounding like a death toll.

“Hmm, darling?” She smiles without looking over, flipping the mirror back into place.

“I-”

No - don’t! 

Please don’t! Alicia-!!!

She’ll never call you “Licia,” again.

She’ll never call you “darling.” Never call you to ask about your paintings, or your holiday plans when she knows-

But she has to know-

“Mrs. Moon,” I whisper through the trembling, “On the night of the accident…the award ceremony-”

I see just a fraction of a shift - in her posture - a rigidity coming into the easy way she rests her hand on the steering wheel.

“Kattar didn’t ask to drive me to the award ceremony. I made him go with me. I told him I wouldn’t go if he didn’t - so he agreed but…”

The tears pour down my face in salty waterfalls and run into my mouth.

“I’m sorry…” I whimper, “If I hadn’t insisted he come with me…he wouldn’t be…”

“Alicia-” Mrs. Moon starts to say, and for the first time, I see her smile tremble. I lower my head until my hair pools in my lap like a tremulous shadow.

“I know ‘sorry’ isn’t good enough at this point…but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…I’m sorry. If sorry could fix it - fix anything - I’d say it a thousand and one times…I ruined your lives - I took…”

“‘Licia,” Mrs. Moon whispers, laying her hand on my hair, smiling at me even as the red-hot lips quiver and the voice shakes, “If you hadn’t forced him to go, he would have asked.”

I can’t - 

I shake my head -clenching tighter into my little ball to try to keep from falling to pieces - waiting for the other shoe to drop…

No…

“When he found out that you were asked to attend the ceremony, he asked me if I thought asking to be your escort would seem too forward.” 

She smiles a little bit to herself as she says this, shaking her head, with a shaky sigh.

“He wanted-” she starts to say, but hesitates, pressing her lips together, as if she doubts how much she should share. 

She almost scoffs - a feathery soft laugh - and smiles, not brightly, but gently, whispering over me with an almost lullaby-ish lilt, “It’s not for me to say, darling. But you can’t blame yourself. This is just life. We can’t control what all we’re served.”

“But if I hadn’t…”

“No, dearest,” she coos, caressing my curls, “You don’t understand me. If you hadn’t suggested it, he would have. If you hadn’t insisted, he would have attended the ceremony as a guest. He was going to be there for you if there was any possible way he could manage it. There was nothing you could have done to make him happier than insist.”

Her words run over me like warm water.

Part of me can’t believe it - but everything in me wants to.

What if I let myself hope there was a chance…it was really…

“Mrs. Moon,” I ask as she spins the wheel to pull the car out of the parking lot. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road and just nods to let me know that she’s listening.

“Do you know how the surgery went?”

She hesitates, and blinks too quickly, with a tremor in her voice, almost like she’s lying “N-no, not yet, dear. He…”

“He told me not to come today.”