“Alison, in this kind of job you have to keep your cool. You could have looked for Roland, or any one of us, to back you up.”

“I told him I was going to get security and he swore at me and stomped downstairs. So I guess I scared him off. I bet you’re putting me on probation again. Great. Send me away for keeping some maniac from destroying a Matisse.”

“Well, he would have pushed my buttons too.” I tried not to smile. “People can be exasperating. How old are you, Alison?”

“Twenty-four.” For the first time she looked straight at me through the ragged edge of her bangs. “How old was your daughter?”

“Sixteen,” I answered automatically.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Thank you.” There was an awkward silence in which I blinked away the threat of tears. “Well,” I concluded, composing myself. “I won’t take this any further. But next time I suggest you breathe deeply and count to ten—no, one hundred—before you bring out your big guns.”

We grinned at the same time. I exited the gallery in the direction of the offices. Though I had never been partial to The Boating Party, the blurred, candy-colored brushstrokes actively annoyed me now, the men striking poses in their undershirts, the woman in the bonnet ostentatiously kissing her little French dog. Not a sharp angle in sight.

•  •  •

The office area was large enough to be divided into separate rooms, but that would have gone against the spirit of the place. We each had a long table to ourselves, with bookshelves and bulletin boards creating zones of partial privacy while retaining a sense of collegial openness. The interns shared a table by the window.

“Claire,” I said, coming to a stop by her desk. We had the place to ourselves. “I have an idea.” Claire Tivington was director of education. I was assistant director, which was the way I preferred it, second in command. Her eyes lingered on her screen; we had a financial audit coming up. “I could do with a new project.”

She gave me her businesslike face. Fifteen years my senior, she was a no-fuss lesbian who dressed in pantsuits a little too tight and short in the leg; to the relief of the staff, she had finally let her eggplant-colored hair go gray. The instant Maddy was diagnosed, Claire had given me as much compassionate leave as I wanted, persuading a retired colleague to provide cover. Though we had always kept a professional distance, I was immensely grateful for her kindness. Now Claire folded her plump hands on the desk.

“One year is coming up, isn’t it?”

“I’m thinking it might be a good time to revive the England trip.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s look at dates and figures.”

“I was thinking early December.”

“That soon?”

“End of November is, you know, the anniversary.”

She gave a sage nod.