Author's note: I made a small change to the previous chapter (I removed the mention of the painting because I was a little ahead of myself.) Sorry.
Part 2
Hearing Henry rejecting Danny's package was heart-breaking. Thinking about Henry and Danny, I can't help but reflect upon my own problematic family relationships. A father I shut out until it was too late, a mother I love so much, and I will always be so grateful to, but was happy (?) to move 1700 miles away from. A sister I love too, but can't deal with at the moment. I sat with her number programmed into my phone, for what seemed like forever, but couldn't connect the call. Alex needs love and support, but I don't think I am strong enough for that at the moment. I just sat there, the digits blurring before my eyes. Orsino had it right, 'I myself am best, When least in company'. I can't talk to Alex, or Mom tonight.
Diary, today was a heavy day. The only other thing of note was another dance lesson with Ramon. The dance class was unremarkable actually, but the conversation was …. something. This case is under Oliver's skin too. He is such a closed book, but every now and again something ruffles his pages (Shane get more sleep, this analogy is terrible!) and he lets out a little nugget of truth. Do books impart nuggets? It's official, I am delirious.
More importantly than my murder of the English language, is Oliver beating himself up thinking that her leaving was his fault? Does he really think he stopped listening to his wife and ignored what she wanted and that is why she flew the matrimonial coop? I get the sense she is pretty good at getting what she wants. Shane, stop it, you have no right to wonder how she is affording her life in Paris, or her trip to Paris, or …. No McInerney, stop it!
Part 3
Well. It seems like I am not the only one missing regular sleep at the moment. Cora also appeared to pull an all-nighter, spending quality time with the Frontier Duchess. (Really Rita? What on earth were you thinking?) We arrived at the DLO to find Cora fast asleep at Oliver's desk. Leaving her to it, we escaped a little and opened the package.
Most of the time, I love Norman. He is gentle and quirky, and too sweet. Sometimes, Norman makes me crazy! Today was one of those days. Norman had an idea how we could find someone to help us learn about the artwork, but it took a blind date, aluminium siding, and toasters to get there! I really think that inside his head looks a little like the desk he built for me, no blood vessels or tissue, but cogs and gears, vacuum tubes and hand cranks. Anyway, he led us to a very interesting gallery (that I will be sure to return to without the other musketeers) where we got an expert opinion on the painting. I think Norman found the gallery fascinating too. I wonder if he knows how much one of those giant dust mites on gilded chairs sculptures was worth?
Hmm. Adulting is hard. There was a time when I would have known about the artist myself. I mean sure, the Hudson River School was my specialty, but I did follow plenty of contemporary artists too. Then my life got a little more … digital.
That painting was good. Not only faultless in execution, but also evocative. The story was tragic. Danny Barrett, also known as D. H. Rubrecht died in a loft fire three years ago. Reaching out to his father might have been one of the last things he did. Poor Henry.
Part 4
I am exhausted, but I can't sleep. I feel like my head is going in a million different directions. It must be fatigue that makes me think that something happened tonight when we rehearsed our dance, right? I have no idea. Let me begin cataloguing the day and maybe it will begin to make sense.
I began the day spent. Maybe I should more accurately say that the day before didn't technically end, and I may have stayed up all night researching the painting. Yep, that was it! Preparation for work included two cups of coffee before I even left the house, as well as quite a bit of concealer to try and hide my lack of sleep.
The plan was to gather at the Mailbox Grille for breakfast and to discuss the day's agenda. I may have been a little late, needing to sneak in to the DLO to gather the painting to prove my theory. Of course Mr Regulation O – SMC1 (that's the one that is, 'Whatever you are considering Ms. McInerney, don't.') was instantly all in about my removing the painting. If only he knew how much I had wanted to go back to the DLO last night to get it (and may have even got so far as to get into my car in my pyjamas (with an overcoat of course), and start said car, before driving around the block and returning home, not quite game to take that leap).
Sigh! Oliver O'Toole knows I have an art history degree, right? Yes Sherlock, I know that a group of three paintings is called a triptych. I could also tell you what a diptych, and a polyptych is, and that, although in common usage, quadtych does not appear in the dictionary. Also, why are you wearing argyle socks with a checked shirt? (I really need more sleep.)
Anyway, however annoying Oliver is, he came on board with my explanation of the painting and the fact that Danny and Sarah might have a child, therefore Henry might have a grandchild! Returning to the DLO, I continued my research and found that I was correct. Henry lost his son, but he still has a family. Telling Henry was hard, but there was some joy there too. He would never see Danny again, but he has a chance to know Dannielle, his granddaughter. Oliver was right, the painting was a message of hope. Poor Rita. I wonder if Norman will ever catch on to how lucky he is, and that an amazing, caring and clever woman loves him so much! Her book was her message of hope too – one that he failed to comprehend.
Okay diary, I can't avoid it any longer. I have no idea what tonight was about. What was going on? I mean, it started out as fun. Oliver seemed, happy, like he enjoyed me teasing him about the music. I thought he even liked my pick. And we were dancing together, better than we had before. It was easier, less awkward … until it wasn't. What did I miss? How could we have gone into a dip that we had rehearsed a dozen times before completely fine, and come out of it in such a mess? How could changing how we held our hands become such a catalyst? What was it that I was feeling? This was Oliver, my boss. My married boss, that I enjoy annoying, but that's it, right? I mean, there can't be anything else to it. I must be deliriously overtired, that all. That has to be all. But why did Oliver walk out on me like that? No walking me to my car, or getting my coat, just a precipitous escape, like I was suddenly terrifying.
Enough. I need to sleep, so that tomorrow I can pretend that nothing happened.