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She stares at her salad. Then she lifts her gaze to mine. To my surprise, her lips curve up, just a little. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” she says.
Her tone is a little snarky, but also holds some humor, and so I take a risk and start laughing, and to my relief she joins in.
“That was very cheeky of you both,” she says. “But I was young once, so I do understand.”
“I didn’t know where he was leading me,” I admit, “but once I realized I should have told him off and left the room.”
“Young love,” she says.
“I believe Richard and Pania did something similar once.”
That does make her smile. “That’s true.”
“I assumed when Whina found out about us that you were the one who told her, but she said that Wiremu from the Bay of Plenty Archaeology Group is her brother-in-law, and that’s how she found out. I wanted to take this opportunity to say thank you for not telling her.”
“I wouldn’t have done that,” she says stiffly. “He’s your boss, isn’t he?”
I blush. “Yes.”
“Is your relationship a long-term thing?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He says he’s in love with me.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“Yes,” I say shyly. I don’t want to talk to her about my love life, though. “It’s one reason I wanted to come here,” I say, determined to draw the conversation back to the museum. “I wanted to plead his case. I know that he’s come across as arrogant and overconfident, but he’s really not like that at all. The thing is… he’s got himself into a bit of a pickle with the museum.”
“Oh?”
“He’s an amazing fundraiser. He’s raised millions for the museum. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but he’s turned it from a stuffy old building into a modern work of art. He’s worked so hard. He’s the smartest guy I know, and the most generous. He wants to rebuild the west wing of the museum, and he’s had a top architect draw up the most amazing plans. He applied for a whole bunch of big grants and got them… but one by one they’ve all fallen through—the Penguin Community Trust, The New Zealand Creative Arts Association, the Taonga grant…”
“Yes, I heard about them,” she says. “I didn’t realize your museum was one of those affected.”
“We also had a storm in December that caused a ceiling to leak which damaged some exhibits. Fraser had to divert money to restore it. And he made the mistake of giving the go ahead to rebuild the west wing before the funds were secured.”
She leans back in her chair. “Oh…”
“He’d already met your father, and Sebastian had told him of his plans to donate the letters, as well as a significant sum of money. So at the time, Fraser had all this money coming in. But they’ve all fallen through, one by one. And so when your father died, it was the straw that broke the… well, you understand. He was very upset, by the way, and not just because of the money. He said Sebastian was a great guy, honest and down-to-earth.”
“So he must be under significant stress.”
“He is. And then, while we were in Tauranga, we… you know… and unfortunately it has only added to his problems because we work together.”
Isabel pokes at her salad. “I feel for him a bit more now. But it still doesn’t change my view. I don’t want the letters or the paintings made public. My family is too precious to me.”
“I understand. Whina and I talked about this, and we came up with a solution I’d like to put to you. Your father had alreadyloaned most of the letters to Rupert Hemingway for his book on conservation, plus the letters are on permanent display here in the house, so I’m guessing the family doesn’t object to them being publicper se. It’s the fact that one of the letters talks about more portraits, and the manner in which they were painted?”
She nods slowly.
I take a deep breath. “What if the museum agrees not to display or publish the specific letter that references the paintings? Instead, we would focus on Richard and Pania’s love story, as well as its historical significance, without drawing attention to the more intimate artwork. We’re holding a Valentine’s Day exhibition, and I think the letters could play a central role in the display. They’re a wonderful example of two cultures coming together, and of the power that love can have even when families have cultural and religious differences. That way everyone would get to see these really important historical documents, but we would be able to preserve your family’s legacy the way you wanted. We’d be willing to sign a legal agreement ensuring that the twelfth letter remained private, if you wish.”
She looks out of the window, at the garden. I drop my gaze to my salad and eat a piece of the chicken. I want to beg her, but I can’t force her to accept. I can only hope that my heartfelt plea has convinced her.
“Dad loved history and archaeology,” she says, her voice distant. “He told me about meeting Fraser.”
My eyebrows rise. “Oh, really?”
“He said he’d met this young guy who’d spoken so passionately about his objection to private collections. He admired Fraser a lot. Dad was very old school, and he knew he could be intimidating, but Fraser tackled him head on, and he wasn’t afraid to argue with him.” Her gaze comes back to me. “It shocked me, though, that Dad had changed his mind. Thoselast few weeks before he died, he had a serious bladder infection, and he struggled to remain lucid. He talked a lot about the state of cultural relations in this country, and said we should be open about our past, even though it might mean calling unwanted attention to ourselves. He’d never said anything like that before, and I assumed it was the infection talking.”