Cordelia “the museum curator”'s Arc

Chapter 12 of 12

The storm hit before Cordelia crossed the second town line. Rain sheeted the windshield. She parked at the curb and ran for the bakery, coat over her head, Kasey's receipt crushed in her fist. The bakery sat between two darker buildings, its narrow front lit yellow from inside. Steep gables, curled trim, a painted sign above the door. She pushed inside. A bell rang. Warm air hit her, sugar and butter and yeast. A young man stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled, arranging sticky buns on a tray inside a glass warmer. Black hair, dark vest, quiet hands. He looked up once, then went back to the tray. He was the last Vale left, and he did not know it yet. "We close in an hour," he said. "I'm not here for bread." Cordelia shook water from her sleeves. "Your name is Georgie Vale." His hands stopped. "Yes." "Your father was Frederick Vale. Your aunt kept a ledger of his buyers. I need to see it." He closed the warmer. He wiped his palms on a towel. He studied her the way he probably studied dough. "I have it," he said. "Upstairs. Why." "I run the museum where he stored his paintings. I found his crates in my basement. I'm building an exhibition of his work. I need the buyers to trace what's left." Georgie folded the towel. "What are you paying with." She had rehearsed a lie on the drive and could not use it. "Nothing. I came empty. I didn't know until Kasey what the ledger was." He did not answer. Rain drummed the window. "You can come to the museum whenever you want," she said. "Free. Every exhibit. Your father's wing when it opens. I'll walk you through it myself." She stopped. She could not tell him about the girl in the attic. He would think she was unwell. But she thought of Isolde bent to the stuffed horse and tried once more. "There's someone there who would want to meet you. A relative. It matters to her that you come." His eyes moved. "A relative." "Yes." "I have none." "You do." He looked at her a long time. Then he untied his apron. "I'll get the ledger," he said. "We'll read it together. If there are paintings still out there, I want to go with you when you fetch them. I never knew him. I'd like to hear what people say." "Yes," Cordelia said. "Come with me." He went upstairs. He came back with a leather-bound book and set it on the counter between them. Dates. Buyers. Titles. Amounts. Page after page in a woman's tidy hand. Cordelia opened it. Georgie poured two cups of coffee. Outside, the storm kept on. Inside, for the first time in months, she was not reading alone.