I have no good excuse as to why it has taken me so long to update and I apologize. This is another look at her life, pre-Logan reentering her life. I hope you enjoy it! PS. I've always wanted to visit the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum!
On March 18 in 1990, what is considered to be the greatest crime in art history occurred at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, Massachusetts. Two men using the distractions of St. Patrick's Day entered the museum in the middle of the night disguised as Boston Police. They stole thirteen works of art in eighty-one minutes that today are worth 300 million dollars. Such pieces included the only seascape painted my Rembrandt van Rijn called The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, as well as Johannes Vermeer's The Concert which is currently valued at 200 million dollars.
In remembrance of the horrific event, several empty frames hang in the museum's "Dutch Room." They will remain until the missing artwork returns home…if they ever do.
I was fifteen when I found myself in Boston. I had been on my own for nearly two years, and though I had told Logan I was going to find some place to live and settle…I hadn't. I continued the exact life I had had with Logan, only now I was alone. I never knew how lucky I had been to have someone…to have Logan. Hindsight is 20/20, I guess. I don't know what asshole invented that saying, but I hated him for creating what seemed to be my life's motto. I wish something more badass fitted me more.
Winter is coming.
Not all who wander are lost.
Hell, I would even take "Beware the ides of March." Whatever the hell an ide is…
Anyway, Boston. Alone. Fifteen. No social skills to speak of…that was me. At the time, I tended to spend my days wandering the city looking for random jobs to do in exchange for food or money. More often than not, unfortunately, I seemed to be more likely to resort to theft and lies. I admit that these were not my proudest days.
It was during one of my wanderings that I found myself in front of what I later learned was the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. It was an ungodly hot day, so seeing this huge building that was sure to have air conditioning seemed an obvious solution. I walked up the steps with a few small groups of people only to be stopped by a security officer.
"Which group are you with?" he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Do I need a group?" I asked. I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. He wasn't stopping anyone else.
"You need to be supervised in here," he explained as he continued to block my way. I watched as the people walking by glanced my way curiously. "Where are your parents?" I spotted the taser at his side and couldn't help but think how easily I could remove the man from my path. A quick kick to the left knee (he was favoring that side…a sprain maybe?) followed by a jab to his gut would get me the weapon. The odds, however, stated this wouldn't help my situation any. I couldn't help but smile. I was becoming much less impulsive. Good for me.
"Miss, you should probably turn around," he advised motioning toward the steps behind me. I sighed.
"Come on, I won't-"
"Do I need to call the police?" he asked, clearly ready to lose his temper. I didn't know what his problem was…
"But I-" I was cut off once more.
"Thank you Charlie, I'll take it from here," stated a voice behind me. I turned to see an older man smiling at the security officer. I looked him over suspiciously as he placed one wrinkled hand on my shoulder softly. "I'll accompany the young lady. We wouldn't want to deprive a child of experiencing art such as ours, would we?"
I glanced up at the man called Charlie. "Of course not, I just thought…well look at her," he protested.
"Hey!" I cried. Maybe I was looking a little ragged, but he didn't have to point it out to the world.
"Now now, Charlie. She's clearly underage…that's free admission. And I've already agreed to escort her. Anyway, I'm sure the young lady wasn't planning on setting fire to a Botticelli or shredding a shredding the Titian. Were you my dear?" I started at being addressed by this strange man.
"Uhh no?" I replied. Who was this man?
"And are you going to steal our Tsenenobu or break our Dürer?" He gave me a wink and smile, and I couldn't help but offer a small smile in return.
"No," I said a little more strongly this time.
"Excellent! Have a good day Charlie and keep up the good work." The old man ushered me into the building, and I let out a small sigh at the rush of cool air in my face. I glance once over my shoulder to see Charlie shaking his head and return to the main desk in the entrance building. Looking at my new companion, I wasn't sure what to say.
"Thanks," I stated rather lamely. "I mean…yeah, thanks." He chuckled and paused to turn to me.
"My dear girl, art is meant to be enjoyed by all, not just a select few. And might I say you have happened upon quite an excellent place to enjoy it. I'm Quentin Bell, and if I may ask your name? Though if you plan on offering me a false name, I would not be offended. THough perhaps I could give myself one as well. Quentin is a bit of a rubbish name, and I was always partial to the actor Spencer Tracy…what do you think? Could I pull off Spencer?"
I could only smile as the man spoke so kindly and so candidly. I hadn't had a satisfying conversation with someone since I was with Logan.
"Nadia," I finally replied, shaking his hand.
"Now I'm detecting a bit of a lilt here…Eastern European or Western Asian, Nadia?" I raised my eyebrows in surprise. I had thought I was getting pretty good at hiding my accent.
"Russian…how could you tell?"
He chuckled and patted my back leading me to the café. "I have done a fair bit of traveling my dear, and Moldova was always a favorite of my wife's. Come what can I get you to eat?" he asked motioning toward the menu hanging above us. I shook my head.
"I'm fine, really," I said forcefully.
"I insist. And if you don't tell me what you want, I shall have to choose for you," he replied sternly, not losing the brightness in his eyes. "And then who know what could happen? I may order you the Turkey and Cranberry Croissant. What if you are allergic to turkey or cranberry? And if I go simpler and order you a piece of pizza, you may in fact be lactose intolerant. Other way you end up in the hospital and I end up in jail for practically poisoning the very child I said I would look after."
I only stared as he finally finished speaking. How could someone possibly have so much to say but use so little breath to say it? He kept looking at me expectantly, until I finally shook my head.
"I like turkey," I replied slowly. He smiled and led me to a table.
"Wait here, and I shall return in but a moment," he explained while heading off to the counter. I could only sit and stare after him. Finally, I released a sigh and glanced around me. There were several families who all seemed to be enjoying lunch together. I saw a young couple, maybe a few years older than me, in a corner sharing some ice cream. I turned my gaze back to Bernard who was ordering just as he flashed a smile my way and threw me a wave.
I gave a small smile and looked at the family at the next table. A mother, two boys, and a girl…talk about a déjà vu. The woman noticed me staring and before I could look away, she leaned over. "Here with your grandfather?" she asked kindly. Unsure of what to say, I only shrugged.
"It is so refreshing to see a teenager spending time with her family. My own John is just getting to the age where he would rather set his hair on fire than be seen in public with us." I joined her laughter as who I assumed was John rolled his eyes.
"Oh he's coming back," she observed as Bernard began heading our way. "You have fun with your grandpa and don't forget to check out the Dutch Room!" I watched her and her children gather up their trash and head back to the main part of the museum.
"Making friends?" Bernard asked happily.
"She asked if you were my grandfather," I admitted, feeling silly I had not corrected her.
He only laughed while handing me what looked like the most delicious sandwich I had ever seen in my life. Digging into my meal, I could barely focus as Bernard drew me into conversation. He asked about my time in Boston, where I was from. He asked me my favorite book and movie. I almost told him how the only movies I ever saw were from sneaking into theaters. I didn't really think it appropriate to talk about my criminal background to the man who had vouched for me earlier.
Just as we were gathering up our trash, I turned to my new friend. "What's the Dutch Room?"
"Hmmm, oh yes! The Dutch Room, probably our most visited part of the whole museum…since 1990 of course." He sighed. Why did he look so sad?
I gave a questioning look, and Bernard gasped. "You don't know?"
I shook my head. "Know what?"
"Come along!" I sat in shock as Bernard quickly dumped his garbage and strode off without me. I shook my head and raced to catch up before he left me completely. Charlie would probably hunt me down and throw me out…ass. I followed Bernard silently upstairs as he led me further down the halls. Finally he turned into a beautiful room filled with paintings and sculptures. Not knowing when to turn first, I glanced over at Bernard who nodded to my right. I looked over, only to see several empty frames hanging in the center of the wall.
Moving closer, I frowned at the empty spaces. "Is this one of those weird modern art things some places have?" I called over my shoulder. If it was, I didn't like it. Not next to all these beautiful paintings. I turned to Bernard as he approached me from behind.
"No my dear, though I wish it were so. These frames are all we have left of what was stolen from here a number of years ago. They are left to pay homage to what was lost as well as to save the place should the artwork ever return to us." I only frowned, confused. Bernard sighed and began telling me of March 18, 1990.
I'm was never sure why this particular moment had stuck in my mind for so many years. Maybe it was because like CaraLee, Bernard genuinely seemed to care about me. Maybe it was because it was the first time I was exposed to true beauty. Maybe it was just that stupid sandwich that honestly would have been better without the cranberry sauce.
Odds are, however, is that those empty frames sparked something within me. Was there a frame out there in the world waiting for me to return home? Did I have a place where I was cared for so much, they would wait until the end of time for me to come back? If so, where was it? How was I supposed to know where to go? Should I even bother caring?
That, of course, was assuming I was the painting. What if I was the frame waiting for something to return to me? And if that was the case, what was I waiting for? How long was I going to have to wait? And again, should I even bother caring?