Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Ella
The chrome hands on my mother’s kitchen clock ticked steadily, grounding me amid the morning chaos. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the faint sound of Bess fidgeting at the table, her small fingers tapping a rhythm against the wood. Her energy hummed brighter than usual, filling the room with a palpable buzz.
“Do you think they’ll have crayons or markers?” she asked, twisting the corner of her napkin between her fingers, her eyes wide with anticipation.
“Markers, probably,” I replied, flipping pancakes onto a plate, the aroma wafting toward her. “But remember to ask nicely before borrowing.”
“Okay!” she chirped, her excitement infectious, her joy a warm light in the morning gloom.
I smiled despite the swirl of thoughts racing in my head. Today was a big day—Bess’s first at a new preschool. But more than that, it was another step toward something permanent that felt exciting and daunting.
She peeked at me over the table. “Did you pack my pink lunchbox?” Her voice was a mixture of innocence and trust.
I pointed to the counter where it sat, ready to go. “Sandwich, apple slices, those crackers you love, and your favorite juice box.”
“The orange one?” she asked, her face lighting up with a satisfied grin.
“Of course,” I said, setting her plate down. “I wouldn’t risk ruining your big day.”
As she dug into her pancakes, my parents shuffled into the kitchen. They move slower these days, and their steps were heavy with age and responsibility. They had done so much for Bess, but the strain was clear—fatigue in their eyes, the weight of the past on their shoulders.
“Good morning, sweetie,” Mom greeted, sinking into her chair with a weary smile.
Dad reached for the coffee pot, ruffling Bess’s curls. “Ready for the big day?”
“Yes!” she said through a mouthful of pancakes, her words muffled but enthusiastic.
Dad shot her a playful scowl. “Chew first, then talk.”
Bess giggled, swallowing quickly, but my heart squeezed. They adored her, but they were tired. This wasn’t the life they had planned, and I could see them longing for a quieter time.
I took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of my decision. “I was thinking… maybe it’s time for Bess to move in with me full-time.” The words hung in the air, promising change and new beginnings.
Silence stretched across the kitchen as we all absorbed the gravity of my decision. For a moment, our eyes met—a silent acknowledgment of relief and responsibility—before Mom broke the quiet.
“Are you sure, Ella?” her voice trembled with concern. “You already juggle so much with the museum.”
I met her gaze steadily. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. You’ve done so much, but it’s my turn now. Bess needs stability, and I want her to have that with me.”
Dad exhaled thoughtfully as he nodded. “It’s a big responsibility, but you’re ready. And remember, we’re just down the street if you need us.”
Mom’s hand found mine, her smile tender despite the fatigue in her eyes. “She’s lucky to have you. Your sister, Kelly, would be proud.”
Her words stung just a bit, but I brushed aside the ache. Glancing at the clock, I added, “Speaking of which, we need to get going. Come on, Bess.”
“Coming!” she yelled joyfully, sprinting toward her backpack with the boundless energy only a four-year-old could muster.
Outside, my parents lingered on the porch, their smiles warm and encouraging even as fatigue etched the corners of their eyes. The ride to preschool was filled with Bess’s delightful chatter— her lively enthusiasm transforming the car into a safe haven of excitement and hope.
“Aunt Ella?” she suddenly inquired while tugging at the hem of her dress.
“Yes, sweetheart?” I replied.
“Once I move into your house, can I bring my princess bed?”
I grinned. “Of course, you can. We’ll set up your princess bed, all your treasured toys, and perhaps…” I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror and continued, “Maybe even add a swing set in the backyard.”
Her eyes sparkled in wonder. “A swing set? Really?”
“Really,” I confirmed. “We’ll transform the yard into your very own castle.”
Then, with a quieter turn, her face shifted. “I still miss Mommy,” she murmured, and those simple words washed over me in a tidal wave of emotion. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, steadying my voice, “I miss her too.”
“Grandma said Mommy went to Heaven, so she isn’t in pain anymore.”
I swallowed back the heaviness in my throat. “That’s right, sweetheart.”
Bess hesitated, her gaze drifting out the window as if seeking an answer among the clouds. “Do you think she can see me?” she whispered.
I blinked back unshed tears and answered with gentle conviction, “I know she can. She’s always watching over you.”
Solemnly, she nodded, her eyes fixed on the sky beyond our reach. I marveled at her quiet strength—a remarkable resilience housed in such a tiny frame—and the car neared the preschool.
At the entrance, uncertainty arose and her small hand gripped mine a little tighter. Just then, a warm, reassuring voice cut through the nervous silence. It was a teacher, smiling broadly as she knelt to Bess’s level, welcoming us both with open arms. As Bess’s eyes brightened at the sight of a friendly face, I felt a subtle shift in the air—anticipation of new beginnings and gentle comfort. In that small moment, hope shimmered between us, weaving the bittersweet past with the promise of tomorrow, gently mending the spaces where our hearts ached.
“You must be Bess!”
We turned to see Ms. Polly, her bright smile immediately easing some of Bess’s tension.
Bess squeezed my fingers one last time before letting go, taking a hesitant step toward her new teacher.
“You’re going to have a great day,” I assured her. “I’ll be here to pick you up later.”
She nodded, then, with one last glance, followed Ms. Polly toward a group of kids painting at an easel.
I watched her for a moment, pride swelling in my chest. She was braver than she realized.
By the time I arrived at Ocean View Museum, my thoughts had shifted into work mode.
The glass doors reflected the bright Miami morning, and as I stepped inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and a faint citrusy cleaner grounded me. This place was my second home.
Marie, my assistant, appeared in my doorway before I could even drop my bag. “The team’s waiting in the conference room. Ready to wow them?”
“Always,” I said, smoothing my blazer.
Inside the conference room, the energy buzzed with expectation.
I took a steadying breath. “Good morning, everyone. Let’s dive in.”
The projector hummed to life, displaying the title slide:
Marc Chagall: Visions and Dreams .
“This exhibit is about more than showcasing Chagall’s masterpieces,” I began. “It’s about exploring the stories behind them—the works with mysterious origins, the ones lost to time, the ones that shouldn’t exist but do.”
The room shifted, initial skepticism giving way to interest.
I outlined the plan—rare pieces from exclusive collectors, interactive displays, and a narrative that questioned ownership.
Paul, our head of logistics, leaned back. “That’s a bold vision. But pulling it off won’t be easy. Loan agreements alone are a nightmare.”
I nodded, expecting the pushback. “I know it’s ambitious. But we’ve tackled big projects before. We can do this.”
A pause. Then a small, reluctant smirk from Paul.
Victory.
Later, as the meeting wrapped, I lingered in the empty conference room.
The projector still glowed, displaying a Chagall piece, its dreamlike colors swirling in a way that felt almost prophetic.
This exhibit had to succeed.
Not just for my career, but because I felt it in my bones—this was the most important work I had ever done.
But it wasn’t just about the art. It was about the stories behind them.
And the more I thought about that, the more one name came to mind.
Lucas.
By mid-afternoon, my desk was buried in paperwork. Loan agreements, shipping logistics, and marketing outlines—each document reminded me of the mountain I had to climb.
I reached for my phone to set a reminder for tomorrow’s meetings.
And that’s when I saw it—a message.
Lucas: Ella, it’s Lucas Devereux. Congratulations on the Chagall exhibit. Let me know if there’s anything you need.
My breath caught.
Lucas.
Had he read my mind?
Memories surfaced—Lucas at the New York art show, effortlessly poised in his tailored suit, that ever-present smirk playing at his lips. He had a way of drawing people in while keeping just enough distance, always just out of reach. We had walked the same circles, shared conversations that lingered longer than they should have, but that was where it had always stayed—on the edge of something unspoken.
And those blue eyes. Damn them.
Why now? Why this exhibit? His timing felt too coincidental.
I hesitated, then typed:
Ella: Hi, Lucas. Thanks for the kind words. Let’s meet for coffee. I’d love to catch up and talk about the exhibit. Let me know when you’re free.
I hit send before I could overthink it, and the message was delivered. As I leaned back in my chair, curiosity hummed through me.
For better or worse—Lucas was back.