Chapter 7 Lament
Lament
Later that week, Francesca asked to catch up, pulling Lucia out of a stretch of lingering distraction. The sharp scent of espresso clung to the air, mixing with the citrus polish used on Francesca’s antique floors.
“We’ve encountered a bit of trouble,” Francesca said.
Lucia leaned forward slightly. “What happened?”
“Someone’s watching us.” Francesca’s tone sharpened.
“Jules hit multiple snags with the blueprints. Our informants keep contradicting each other, which risks a different time for the authentication. That’s something you need to confirm with Blackwell, since it must happen after the exchange.
The point is for your Madonna to get the stamp of approval. ”
No pressure.
“Are we sure the timeline changed?” Lucia asked.
“No. That’s the problem. Someone’s feeding false information into the system. Or someone knows we’re sniffing around and is scrambling the trail.”
“Varnelli?”
Francesca flinched. “Who else?”
“But she can’t know of our plan to steal the Madonna.”
“No. But why loan it out after hoarding it for decades? She knows I’d make a move.
” Francesca paused. “That’s probably what she wants.
” She crossed one leg over the other, her fingers curling loosely around the porcelain cup she hadn’t touched since Lucia arrived.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m running with open eyes into a trap. ”
“In what way?” Lucia asked.
“I don’t know. That woman’s made a career out of anticipating, expecting betrayal. Of course she’d prepped everything and is just waiting for us to walk into her net.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t. If you think she knows and is planning something, then—”
“No. This is the first real chance to get my Madonna back. I won’t waste it on what-if scenarios or cower before ghosts.”
Varnelli might haunt Francesca, but she was no ghost. Lucia knew better than to say that out loud.
“All right,” Lucia said slowly, “but why try to mess with the museum schedule unless…”
“Unless she’s trying to protect it.” Francesca’s eyes darkened. “Jules picked up rumors she’s been asking about shortening the loan period. Trying to pull the Madonna before the gala.”
Lucia frowned. “That’s even more suspicious.”
“Exactly. But she hasn’t officially withdrawn anything. I’m not sure she even could, given she must have signed a contract. Anyway, it’s just murmurs. She’s moving carefully.”
“Or she’s heard something.”
Francesca gave a slow nod. “Maybe. Jules thinks there might have been a breach—some server access pattern that didn’t match the museum’s usual logs. Could be nothing. We don’t know yet.”
Lucia kept her expression neutral, though something cold settled in her gut, like the dip in temperature before a storm.
“I’m assuming she’s not above using surveillance.”
Francesca leaned back. The amber light caught on the subtle lines near her mouth, a flicker of old anger carved into her otherwise composed face. “She’s not. She’s already dangled my painting in front of me. And if she knows when we’ll try to make a move…”
“She’ll kill the timeline,” Lucia finished.
Francesca gave a sharp nod.
“We need to keep her guessing just long enough. And if we can’t rely on the schedule, then we have to rely on Blackwell.”
“I’ll try to figure out how and when she’d push for the lab transfer. If I can anticipate that decision, we’ll be ready.”
“Good.” Francesca’s gaze lingered. “Just remember—emotions make you blind. That’s when people get played.”
“OK.” Lucia stretched the word. She shifted her weight slightly on the firm velvet cushion, the fabric too stiff to sink into, too refined to offer comfort. “That’s a pretty bleak view, mind you.”
Not to mention there wouldn’t even be art without emotions.
“Perhaps,” Francesca murmured. “But it’s the truth.”
~ ~ ~
Lucia sat slouched on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a half-read book forgotten on the cushion beside her. The house was quiet, save for the sudden clatter of ice cubes dropping into the freezer tray, followed by the soft hiss of the ice maker refilling.
Almost two weeks had passed since their coffee meeting that had felt suspiciously like a date, and Lucia hadn’t heard a single word from Blackwell—from Penelope.
She’d tried to keep her distance from the moment she first saw her at the lecture, and their little game aside, it now took so much effort to keep Penelope boxed up in her head as just Blackwell. It felt wrong.
Of course, the connection thrumming between them might only exist in her mind. But she still needed to get closer for the mission, even if the urgency came from somewhere else entirely.
She wanted to see Penelope again.
That much was clear from how often she checked her phone, even digging through the settings to make sure she hadn’t somehow muted notifications. She’d started a few messages, only to delete them again.
Sometimes she wondered if she was lying to herself. She kept rejecting Francesca’s suggestion to charm Penelope, but then she’d gone and flirted with her. And that hadn’t been for the job. It had been…genuine.
Which of course, was part of the problem and explained why she finally caved. With a grunt, she snatched up her phone and texted:
Up for a second coffee date?
She dropped the phone onto the coffee table like it had burned her, then marched into the kitchen to start dinner. Might as well put her nervous energy to use.
They had ended their first meeting with talk of a second, so it wasn’t totally out of the blue, but after two weeks of silence, maybe Penelope had changed her mind.
Lucia was halfway through draining her pasta when her phone beeped.
She hurried to put everything down, wiped her hands and grabbed the phone—smiling when she saw Penelope’s reply:
Hello to you, too.
Hello, Dr. Blackwell.
Are we incorporating formality in general?
Depends.
On what?
Are you up for a second coffee date?
So you’re admitting it was a date?
“Fuck,” Lucia mumbled into the room. She hesitated, then replied:
Figure of speech.
Coward.
Lucia groaned.
So? she typed, choosing not to rise to the bait.
Yes, Ms. Rossi. Same place? Say, this coming Saturday?
Lucia grinned.
Perfect. Around two p.m.?
It’s a date.
“God, you’re killing me,” Lucia mumbled, but still added a smiling emoji to Penelope’s last message.
~ ~ ~
Lucia had tried to arrive early again—emphasis on tried—but traffic had her enter the café with hurried steps, breathless and gazing around the room wildly.
The bell above the door chimed as she slipped inside, already peeling off her jacket, her curls frizzing slightly from the humidity.
The café smelled of clove and burnt sugar, and the windows steamed faintly from the rain.
Penelope didn’t seem the type to tolerate tardiness for too long.
She exhaled in a rush when she spotted her sitting at the same table, scrolling through her phone.
She hadn’t left.
Penelope looked composed as ever, dressed in a tailored charcoal blazer over a plum-colored blouse that stood out against her fair skin. Her hair was again swept into a smooth bun, not a strand out of place.
“Hey, sorry I’m late. There was an accident on the freeway.” Lucia sat down.
“Oh, that’s fine. I was catching up on a few emails.”
“I see you weren’t engaged in aerial warfare.”
“Excuse me?”
Lucia pointed at the coffee cup in front of Penelope.
Penelope followed her motion, then huffed a laugh. “Right. No. I wasn’t scaring the staff from taking my order.”
Lucia tapped her fingers against the table’s worn wood, the rhythmic motion grounding her nerves. “What you been up to, aside from working too much?”
“How do you know I’m working too much?”
“It’s the weekend and you sit in a café catching up on emails.”
Penelope leaned back in her chair. “That assumes those were work emails.”
“True. I apologize. Assumptions and all.”
“No need, especially since you’re not generally wrong. I do work too much.”
“You want to change that?”
The server interrupted their conversation, and they placed their orders.
“I don’t know. It’s easier said than done.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
“What about you? Do you get a lot of time off? I imagine you’re quite busy, restoring art, dealing with clients and their demands.”
Lucia hesitated. How she hated lying to Penelope. “It’s not too bad. I get to set my own hours.”
“That must be nice.” Penelope sighed. “Parts of my job can be done remotely, and I try to work from home as often as I can.”
“Yeah, working from home is a game changer.”
Their server returned, refilling Penelope’s coffee, placing a slice of cheesecake in front of her before handing Lucia a cup of black tea and a chocolate croissant.
Lucia’s stomach fluttered—she hadn’t even realized how hungry she was. The croissant was still warm, buttery flakes already sticking to the napkin.
“What made you enter the art world?”
“My father.” Penelope smiled. “He was a researcher, an artist, and well, too curious for his own good. He held various positions throughout my youth with the last one being the Head of Provenance at The Met.”
“Oh, wow. That’s impressive.” Lucia stirred another dollop of honey into her tea. “You used past tense. Is he…”
“No, he’s still alive. It’s…complicated.” Penelope’s smile dimmed.
Lucia nodded. This act, the pretense, it settled like a gigantic boulder in her stomach.
“How long have you been painting?” Penelope asked, shifting the topic to something Lucia finally could speak about honestly.
“I’ve always drawn or doodled, but it wasn’t really until middle school when I…I had the opportunity to really get into art.”
“Your parents weren’t supportive?”
“I don’t know.” She took a bite of her croissant.
“What do you mean?”
Lucia shrugged. “I never knew them.” She always tried for nonchalance when the topic of her parents came up, but the words still scratched up her throat, leaving her raw and battered.
Penelope’s expression softened. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
They ate in silence for a moment. Lucia broke off a piece of her croissant, letting it crumble between her fingers before taking another bite.
The air between them shifted: quieter, gentler. Outside, a car rolled by, tires whispering on wet asphalt.
“So, how did you get into painting? At school?”
“Yes. I had a teacher, Ms. Lake, she…she was awesome,” Lucia said. “The first one who saw me as more than the silent, shy girl sitting in the back.” She could still picture her, skinny and full of wired energy, constantly pushing her glasses up on her nose. And so incredibly kind.
“It’s hard to imagine you as either, to be honest.”
Lucia gave a half smile. “Time changes people.”
“Very true.” Penelope’s face sobered.
“She challenged me, and I don’t know. I’d longed for something that was just mine.” She shook her head. “Ms. Lake offered me access to the art room, before school, during lunch, after school. I lost myself in there.”
Lucia held Penelope’s gaze. “Most people think of beauty and maybe even excess when they think of art, but to me, it’s about survival.
Or at least it was.” She braced herself—caught between the fear of being dismissed and her aversion to pity—but Penelope’s gaze held neither.
Just steady interest. Her quiet attention made Lucia’s heart race.
Penelope nodded. “I’m glad you had such a supportive force in your life.”
“Me, too.”
A pause.
“Do you ever wonder how your life might have played out if you never met Ms. Lake, if you never picked up that paintbrush?” Penelope asked.
“Every day.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. Not unpleasant, more contemplative.
“Do you believe you’d have found your way to art either way?”
Lucia pursed her lips. “Like fate?”
“Not exactly. More like…some things in us are so fundamental, they’ll manifest one way or another.”
“But isn’t that a form of fate? Maybe I’m missing something here, but—”
“No, I expressed myself clumsily. I don’t mean predetermination—just that some things are so ingrained, they’re bound to happen. So maybe…you’d get another chance.”
“Huh, that’s an interesting theory,” Lucia said. “Maybe. It’s a nice thought.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Penelope looked like she’d surprised herself.
“What about you? Is there something you’d have found your way to regardless?”
Penelope seemed to consider the question for a while. “I’m not sure. I honestly can’t think of anything.”
“Maybe it’ll come to you later. Like on your drive home or in the shower. I sometimes do my best thinking in the shower.”
Penelope chuckled. “Anything is possible, I suppose.”
Another pause.
“Will you tell me?”
“Excuse me?”
“If you do think of something like that, will you tell me?”
“Oh,” Penelope breathed. “Sure. If you want to know.”
“I do.” Lucia smiled.