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I tell him I missed him too, and he lifts me onto the countertop and presses himself against me.

I did miss him, and now I remember why. But later, I wonder why it’s so difficult for him to appreciate my feelings for Party .

It’s a masterpiece many people are clearly willing to spend tens of millions of dollars on.

It’s not just me who’s in love with her.

Sometimes I think the man’s capacity for empathy is limited.

THE PRESS RELEASE goes out the next morning, which causes a small flurry.

Wyatt answers the media’s questions, and just as he claimed, by afternoon it calms down.

No news vans to be seen. Some reporters are probably still hovering, but the building has instructed the doormen to get rid of anyone loitering on the sidewalk and to only allow those with a verified purpose into the lobby, so it feels much less threatening.

I’m going to hole up for today and get back to my normal life tomorrow.

In the most perfect world, I’d be able to keep her here with me, but as I don’t live in that world, I call Jonathan to discuss the best spot for Party ’s temporary placement.

“How about the MFA? Or the Fogg at Harvard?” I suggest. Both museums have large Impressionist collections, and, even better, they’re local.

“Going to be a problem because of your short timeline,” he tells me.

“Wouldn’t they jump at the chance to have a Manet?”

“They probably would, but they’re huge organizations, run by bureaucracies and steeped in layers of rules and regulations, strict development policies, grant restrictions.

Curatorial departments, acquisition teams, boards.

And they’re going to need detailed documentation before they make a decision—provenance, authenticity, expert opinions on Party ’s significance within a larger context—which could take you months to get. ”

“I just want to loan it. I’m not looking for them to buy it.”

“Loan or purchase, they have reputations to maintain. Can’t go around accepting and hanging a random painting without knowing if it’s the real deal.”

“The Columbia took her right away.”

“Because they’re small. Much less bureaucracy. And it fit both their collection and their mission, which have nothing to do with the painting’s provenance.”

I’m at my desk, Party right across from me. I miss her already. “Is there a small one nearby?”

“I did some checking after we talked the other day, and while there are lots of them, most wouldn’t be a good fit. The closest possibility is the Hamlin Museum in Waltham.”

“You think they’d be willing to take her?” Waltham is a suburb a couple of rings outside Boston. A half-hour drive without traffic. Not as close as the MFA or Cambridge, but workable.

Keyboard clicks. “Curator’s name is Haley McGrath. Probably too late to contact her today, but worth a try.”

“Thanks, pal. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

That night, I have another Berthe nightmare.

In a museum I’ve never seen before. Poorly lit.

Low ceilings. Very un-museum-like. I’m in a gallery containing at least twenty gilt-framed paintings, and each is Party on the Seine .

All but one are a quarter of the size of my Party , while the largest is at least twice the expanse of the original and commands an entire wall.

And from there, Berthe commands the room.

Standing a few steps back from the railing, she lifts her hand imperiously and points an index finger at the closest Party .

It goes completely black. All color, all light, all resonance sucked out.

Dead. She moves on to the next. Dead. And the next.

Dead. And then the next. When her painting is the only one still containing life, she spirals her arm upward, stops when it’s fully extended, and stares right at me.

Then she slams the arm downward. As goes her arm, so does the painting. Dead.

I bolt up in bed and, just like the last time, go into the living room, terrified that Berthe might have destroyed her own painting. And, of course, she hasn’t. Because she’s been dead for over 130 years. Party is fine, colors glowing, partyers enjoying their journey down the river.

Then I catch a whiff of a sweet, almost powdery scent—violets?—and I hear a voice in my head. Berthe’s voice, I somehow know. “Do not do this,” she tells me. “If I’m shown like this it will do irreparable harm. And then worse will follow.”

IT’S GOOD TO be back in the office, beyond my square white walls, the confines of my own concerns. The day whirls around me, keeping me busy and distracted. My nightmare is now in the hazy past, although I can’t shake the notion that Berthe was trying to send me a message.

But it was me sending the message. Another hackneyed one: that I don’t want to give Party away. My oh-so-clever subconscious. Yet hearing voices is a whole other thing, a sign of psychosis—like hallucinations, now auditory as well as visual.

Late in the afternoon, I get a chance to call Haley McGrath at the Hamlin Museum. She’s heard about my situation—who hasn’t?—and is excited to talk to me about it. “Obviously, I’ve never seen Party on the Seine myself. So, tell me, is it as magnificent as they say?”

“More,” I assure her, and explain why I’ve called.

There’s a long pause. “What an incredible offer,” she says, but her tone says the opposite.

“If it’s good with you, I’d like to do this as soon as possible.”

“I, I can see why you’d want that. Makes sense…”

“Is there a problem?” I ask, knowing there is.

“I’m really sorry, Ms. Rubin. I’d love nothing more than to have Party on the Seine in our museum, but it’s impossible.

We have no paintings of its stature here, and a very small endowment.

It would surely bring more traffic through, but even with an increase in admission fees, we wouldn’t be able to afford the additional staff this would create. Or the insurance.”

I TELL WYATT I’m working late, but I leave the office early.

It’s freezing out, and as I trudge toward Tremont Street, I ruminate.

If the Hamlin can’t afford Party , it’s likely no other small museum will be able to either.

And the bigger ones will take months, maybe years, to even consider the loan.

Because of the pending suit, I can’t sell her to anyone but Damien—which isn’t happening.

And after the media mess, I can’t keep her where she is.

I suppose the next logical step is a storage facility that can provide the kind of environment she needs, but the idea of her being locked up in a dark cell beyond my reach is disturbing.

But first, I have to find out what those conditions are.

When I get home, I check, and it turns out Party needs a steady temperature between 60 and 75 degrees, consistent low humidity, no direct sunlight, indirect lighting, good ventilation, regular pest control, and the absence of pollutants, including dust, smoke, and chemical vapors.

These restrictions narrow the possibilities considerably, as do the websites’ warnings that anything of value needs to be properly insured, as the facilities have no coverage for the contents of individual units.

Not to mention how pricey the ones that have any kind of temperature regulation are.

Despite the increased cost, none of these provide humidity management or ventilation, and although they all have regular services to eradicate insects and rodents, these necessitate spraying chemicals throughout the facility.

Damn. I can provide a better environment here.

The temperature would be no problem. I could buy a humidifier and an air purifier, keep the shades down, find an eco-friendly pest service, hire a guard.

Except that Wyatt just released a statement declaring that Party was being transferred to a more secure location.

An action that has to be done in order to placate the media, as well as Alyce, the building manager, who I’ve heard is upset by the “infamy” the painting has brought to her building.

A bit hyperbolic, but she, too, needs to be appeased.

Over a sleepless night, I rehash my options and become despondent over the lack of any.

At work the next day, I revisit the idea of keeping her, which I decide again is completely unworkable, silly, even.

But when I get home from work, I sit on the couch and look at my marvelous painting—Berthe, édouard, my family—and I find myself wondering if there might be a way to safely keep her with me.

I once again ask Berthe what we’re going to do, but she just stands at the railing staring out at the opposite bank.

So real, so unfathomable, so beautiful. édouard must have known her well, to be able to portray her so fully, to dig into her soul like that.

If I commune with her, maybe a solution will come to me—one that won’t lead to Berthe’s “irreparable harm.”

Really, Tamara?

But suddenly, it does. I’d read about this painter, Claire Roth, who did such an impressive job forging a Degas painting that she fooled the curators and authenticators at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

Although she was a talented and schooled artist, which I certainly am not, maybe I don’t need to be as skilled.

Or even be a forger. I just need to follow in her footsteps, swapping a fake for the real thing.