Lady Gray

Everyday at six thirty, right before final call. 

That's when he'd see her standing there, right in front of the Belladonna in Cruiz’s Monumentos collection. It was like watching her look into a mirror, both painting and patron with iron gray hair, the faintest of smiles on their faces, as if concealing a secret that was only meant for those most intimate with them. 

Everyday at six thirty-five, he'd straighten the docent tag on his chest, polish the name Earl engraved in gold, waffle back and forth for a while until the closing announcement was made, then he'd watch as she left, just as simply as she'd arrived. 

This was his ritual. 

Until today. 

“Excuse me, ma'am,” he said, feeling disembodied, as if watching a recording of himself speak to this silver vixen. Because he couldn't have possibly gained anywhere near the level of courage necessary to approach her today, after having stood on the sidelines for so long. “I can't help but notice your affinity for the Gray Lady. I take it you're a fan of the artist's later period?”

She turned to him, melting him with a smile that he wished he could bottle and save for a sour day. “No,” she answered, folding her hands before her. “Not particularly. But this one is somewhat special, wouldn't you say?”

Earl felt his heart sigh. Her voice was rich, yet smooth, like fruit and cream on a summer day. Special indeed. 

“A work to define the era, for sure,” he replied. 

He could talk about Cruiz for ages, but he'd been told on many occasions that his passion for art was a bit…much for the lay patron. 

Then again, this was no ordinary lady. Not to him, at least. 

Her brows turned upward, luring him in, as if daring him to elaborate further, but when he remained silent, she turned back to the painting and beheld it with tilted head. “I think the strokes of darkness betray something hidden beneath that expression. Don't you?”

It was all the permission he needed. She was asking, after all. 

“I've wondered that myself,” he said, keeping his eyes on her. “Some say she suffered from depression, haunted by loss. Some wonder if there was something in her past, something sinister she wanted to keep a secret.”

“And you?” she prompted. “What do you think?”

Earl looked to the painting, away from the lady's emerald eyes that threatened to capture his attention in a forest of intrigue. 

“I think she was hiding something to come, a mystery kept in a canvas vault for generations to come.”

The lady smiled wider and walked closer to Earl. “That,” she said, “sounds as close to the truth as any explanation I've heard.”

Earl’s heart beat faster with every step she took. He could better see the details of her visage now. The faintest of lines traced the edges of her eyes and mouth, testaments to a life well loved. Her hair was short, enough to cover her ears, but flared out in iron-stranded elegance. And her lips, kind and resolute, drawing him to her despite the thumping in his chest. 

“It is a phenomenal work of art,” he said finally, “but I do have to ask, why come every day to see her? Why not just buy a print for your own?”

“I'm going to steal it, and I need to work out my plan,” she answered smoothly without missing a beat. 

Earl laughed. He didn't know what he was expecting from this lady, but he found himself falling for her more deeply with each passing moment. He figured he'd play along, something well outside his typical comfort zone. 

“I see. And how are you planning to do that?”

In a move that caught Earl entirely off guard, the lady closed the distance between the two of them and linked her arm through his. “Well now, it wouldn't be that easy would it?” she reasoned. Earl felt his face flush as her arm pressed gently into his side. “The Belladonna requires a certain level of care, attention. It requires a certain…individual. She won't let herself be stolen by just anyone.”

“Interesting. And how would you do it?”

“Cover of night, naturally. Maybe give myself an alibi, a few misleading breadcrumbs to fool everyone into thinking it isn't in fact already stolen.”

“Right. And what does this alibi look like?”

“About five foot eleven. Steely hair. Rather trim for his age, actually. Impeccable taste in art, and even finer taste in evening company, if I do say so myself.”

She looked up at Earl, snaring him with a knowing smirk that lit his chest aflame, and at that moment he knew he was lost. Right then, she could have asked him to jump out a plane with her and he would have said yes. He'd have traveled the world with her, if only she wanted him there by her side. 

The sound of the museum’s five-minutes-until-closing bell broke his trance, and he fell all the way back down to earth, remembering that he did in fact have a job to do. 

“Well, uh—” Earl pulled at his collar, “I have to close up with some paperwork, but have you eaten yet?”

“I make it a biweekly tradition to grab something that comes with an irresponsible amount of fries, usually at the pub across the way. My day was supposed to be tomorrow, but I guess I could make an exception if I had the right partner?”

And for the first time that evening, elation overcame Earl’s anxiety. He removed his name tag, tucked it into his coat pocket, then held out his hand. 

“I'm Earl, by the way. Might I ask your name?”

She took his hand with a grip more firm than he was expecting. “You could ask,” she teased, just as the closing chimes sounded. “See you in fifteen?”

“I'll be there.”

~

That evening was filled with some of the best music and, despite his poor knees, dancing that Earl had experienced in a very long time, though he knew his Thursday self would regret Wednesday live jigs and reels night. It had been a very long time since his time in Panama and Bosnia; nowadays, most of his cardio was spent walking from hole to hole at the golf range on Mondays with his friends from the veteran's lodge. 

They stayed until a time best reserved for college students, then took an evening walk through the museum’s gardens, strolling through the lighted collection of roses, golden poppies, and seasonal veggies, until a guard finally asked them to move along. 

And still, even by the time he left her at her car, he had no clue what her name was. He was left with nothing but the most memorable date he'd had in nearly a decade and the hope that she'd return tomorrow as she always did each afternoon. 

~

When Earl walked into work the next morning, he was still so high off the previous night, humming a folk tune in beat to his step, that he hardly realized the yellow cordon tape or the city police investigators chatting along the median wall.

The blank median wall. Save two anchor bolts. 

The wall where the Belladonna had been exhibited. And it wasn't there. 

It took him several more sips of his morning tea to finally put the pieces together, and when he did, the reality of it nearly took him off his feet. 

Someone had stolen it, right out from under their noses. A piece worth millions, an icon of the post-modern counterculture expressionist movement, and it was gone.

I'm going to steal it.

But no, it wasn't possible. She had been with him all night…

Cover of night, naturally. Maybe give myself an alibi.

He laughed to himself. It had to be the craziest coincidence. There was no way she had stolen the Belladonna. For starters, she couldn't have been more than a year or two younger than him, and the Belladonna was no small lady. 

“—from preliminary testing of the counterfeit, I'd say no more than three or four days ago. But even then, it could be anywhere by now.”

Earl couldn't help but listen in on the detectives chatting. Were they talking about the painting? What was that about three or four days?

Fool everyone into thinking it isn't in fact already stolen…

He tried, with some difficulty, to imagine a scenario where the lady had been telling the truth, where she hadn't been trading playful banter, rather toying with him for ulterior gain, and a thought suddenly came to him. If it had all been some kind of game to her, did that mean she wouldn't return? Did that mean she would remain nothing more than a footnote in his life?

The thought sent his heart crashing to the ground. The painting was nothing. They'd either find it or not; either way, the museum had insurance. It wasn't hurting for city or county funds. But the idea that she might have used him, only to disappear the next day, never to be seen again?

He had thought they'd had some kind of connection; she’d seemed genuine enough, despite her evasiveness. Could it have all just been a game? A carefully engineered piece to a much larger puzzle?

It didn't seem right to him. It couldn't be the truth. Yes, it was as he originally thought, just a hilarious coincidence that they would laugh about over drinks after she returned today, just as she did every day. 

Yes. That's how it would play out. 

He frowned, unconvinced by his own suspected lies, and turned to the staff lounge where he would drop off his lunch, hang up his hat, clock in and head out to the floor, starting his day just like any other. 

~

The cops were long gone, having left hours ago after taking photographs and writing their reports. The museum directors had made an appearance at one point, staying only long enough to give their statements, provide security footage, and smile confidently before the press. Then, they too had disappeared, vanishing into the ethereal background of the museum where they spent almost all their time. 

Earl was on the north wing’s second floor, moving from room to room of the museum's Einheit collection of art from Germany’s period of partition. The flood of patrons that had filled the wing during peak field trip hours was now reduced to the occasional after-work date or membership pass holder. It left him with a lot more time to himself; most of the remaining patrons either wanted to be left alone, or knew more than he ever would. 

He was about to head back to the information desk when one particular graphite sketch caught his eye. It was an elderly gentleman, maybe in his late sixties, early seventies. He was sitting on the steps of a concrete block apartment tower, smoking a cigarette and looking across the way at a checkpoint with warning signs written in English, Russian, and French. Guards from each side faced each other with bayonet-fixed weapons, passionately engaged in some kind of dispute while a woman lay prone on the cobblestone road just beyond. 

Earl didn’t know why this particular work of art gave him pause. Maybe it was the look in the man’s eye, the silent regret written on his brow. Maybe it was the blend of apathy and ardor juxtaposed so defiantly beside each other. Or perhaps it was simply the reminder of a time that he used to know, now lost to textbooks and documentaries.

“He’s a handsome one.”

Earl started and turned around to see the lady standing there behind him. She turned her mouth upward in a half smile and took a few steps closer.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” Earl said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. His heart was doing cartwheels, but his mind kept reminding him of his suspicions, pestering him with all sorts of possibilities that seemed more suited for fantasy than reality. 

The lady laughed, a pleasant trill that only complimented rather than detracted from the reverent tone prevailing in the gallery. “Well, the museum is free after three on weekdays. I’d practically be throwing away my money by not coming.” She took his arm again, then together they beheld the man in the sketch, taking in the simplicity of pencil on parchment. “What a rich exposition of the era’s paramount struggle.”

“Sure,” he agreed, as he struggled to find any remnant of his docent persona. Normally he'd have had plenty to say about any piece in the entire museum, but he was tongue tied at the moment.

The lady must have noticed, because she looked over at him, probing him with questioning eyes. “You know,” she said, “I have no idea what that actually meant. I was just trying to sound smart.”

He chuckled. “That's half my job. You could work here if you wanted.”

“Maybe I will.”

In that moment, Earl faced a dilemma unlike any he had ever thought he'd encounter. He knew he had to say something, he just didn't know what. Or how. 

Finally, he settled on something leaning towards the ambiguous, something safe. 

“Did you hear about the Belladonna?” he asked, carefully watching her expression for any tells. 

She nodded, an equally ambiguous admission of nearly nothing. 

“I saw. How shocking,” she answered as smooth as ever.

“Indeed.” And before he could stop himself, Earl continued on. “I wonder who could have pulled something like that off?”

The words spilled out of him like an overfull dam, and he stiffened out of instinct, anxious for what might come next.  But then the lady slipped her hand into his and leaned her head on his shoulder, bewitching him into paralysis. Her hand was soft and warm, smooth despite the years that had left their mark, and the scent of honeysuckle drifted up to his nose, easing his muscles like some kind of calming elixir.

And then she spoke.

“Well,” she said, drawing him in with the slightest of pauses, “I guess the right person finally came along.”