Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

Simon and Dorothea by Eleanor Boylan

The elegant museum in Sarasota glittered with Christmas lights, but in one of the galleries, something different glittered...

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Simon Judson, his mind a million miles away, “the museum will close in fifteen minutes. This is the last room on your tour. As you leave, kindly take the stairs in the hall, which lead to the parking lot. Now,” he dragged his mind back to the job, “if you will observe the painting on the wall behind me...”

Simon went on, looking unseeingly at the faces in the group before him. He was thinking that seven o’clock would be too early. There were bright gleams in the Florida night sky at that hour, and the area blazed with Christmas lights. If he was even seen on the museum grounds after hours it would be all over before it began. He could hear his boss saying, “That’s what I get for hiring a black kid.”

He continued, glancing back at the painting, “This is the portrait in oils of Dorothea Fox-Nugent, founder of the museum. It was commissioned by her husband, a wealthy businessman, for the opening of the museum in 1935. That opening, which was held on Mrs. Fox-Nugent’s fortieth birthday, was the event of the year in Sarasota and was attended by this city’s most distinguished society.”

Even eight o’clock would be risky, he thought, and if there was a moon... He went on, “Mrs. Fox-Nugent is wearing a sky blue satin evening gown designed for her in Paris especially for the occasion.” Here Simon smiled a little, as he had learned to do. “Some members of proper Sarasota society of that day considered the gown a bit daring and décolleté.”

A little girl in the group said, “What’s decol — decol — what?” and everybody laughed.

Simon smiled at her. “It means very low cut. However, Mrs. Fox-Nugent was noted for her daring — and for her diamonds. Observe that she is wearing a tiara, rings, necklace, and earrings of these jewels. She was considered striking rather than beautiful, with dark brown hair and a diminutive figure.”

“What’s dimin—” the little girl started to say, but her mother shushed her.

“Very small,” said Simon patiently. He was thinking that “very small” might also describe his chance of getting away with tonight’s crazy plan. Glancing at his watch, he continued, “The museum is a replica of a sixteenth century French château. It was built here in Sarasota by the Fox-Nugents not only as their home, but also to house the splendid collection of paintings and sculptures acquired during many years of travel. Upon opening it to the public, the Fox-Nugents moved their living quarters to the spacious top floor of the château. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Fox-Nugent continued to expand the collection until her own death in 1960. With its fine view of the Gulf of Mexico, this small but elegant museum is one of Sarasota’s most popular attractions.”

A man in the group asked, “Is it owned by the city?”

“Excuse me?” Simon’s thoughts had begun to wander again. Suppose somebody saw the stuff in his locker...

“I said, does the city of Sarasota own this place?”

“No. The Dorothea Fox-Nugent Museum is privately owned and operated by a board of trustees.” He moved forward. “Please take a few minutes to look around this room, which holds the finest paintings of the collection. On the right wall you see a Copley, a Sargent, and a Tintoretto. On the left wall, a Hals and a Veronese. On the rear wall,” he knew his voice changed as he got to the rear wall, “is an early Van Zeller, one of his most beautiful Nativities. It depicts Mary, Joseph, and the child Jesus in a raised structure resembling a dovecote.”

Simon was always annoyed by the people in these groups who, instead of turning to look at the works of the masters, continued to gawk at the portrait of Mrs. Fox-Nugent. When they raved about it he always wanted to say, “It’s nothing but a second-rate pretty picture and it doesn’t belong in here.” In a way, though, it did. Her museum had been a wonderful gift to the city, and the lady probably deserved to be surrounded by her best treasures. But in Simon’s estimation, the portrait was flashy and too flattering. He’d seen photographs of Dorothea Fox-Nugent and learned a lot about her during his training course. He respected what she’d done for Sarasota, but he thought she looked rather bossy and stuck up.

He said, “Are there any questions?”

Staring at him, a fat woman asked, “How old are you?”

Simon wanted to say, “I didn’t mean personal questions,” but he smiled politely.

“Twenty.”

The little girl asked, “What’s your name?”

“Simon.”

Now everybody was staring at him. He was used to it. He knew he looked great in the red museum blazer, and as the only black tour guide he’d be bound to attract attention.

An elderly man asked, “Are you a student?” to which Simon nodded. “Where?”

“The Ringling School of Art.”

The man smiled. “You’re very well versed in your subject, young man. You give a good tour.”

“Thank you.” The closing bell rang shrilly. “And thank you all for coming. Let me remind you that the museum is not open on Christmas Day.”

There was a patter of applause and the room began to empty. Simon waited until the last person had cleared the door then snapped off the lights. Through the dimness he could still see the gleam of Mary’s halo in the Nativity. He smiled at it thinking, Just a few more hours and you’ll be mine, all mine!

He hurried down the hall to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The room was bare except for some lockers and a few chairs. He hung up his blazer and tie, took off his white shirt, and pulled on a T-shirt. Then he got out of his trousers and into jeans. Standing before his locker mirror, he was smoothing his hair when a middle-aged fellow guide came in. Simon closed the locker door quickly and said, “Hi, Bill.”

“Big Saturday night date, Si?”

“Just Volanda.” He hated having to sound casual about Volanda because he liked her so much, but everything he said tonight had to sound casual. He turned the key in his locker and went out, telling Bill to have a nice weekend. He was fighting panic. If anything went wrong he’d lose his job, maybe go to jail, and his mother and Aunt Hannah and everybody he knew would be shocked and disappointed — everybody but Volanda. She’d suggested it and said it should work.

Bolstering his courage with that thought, Simon walked down the hall, passing other guides coming off duty. Their pleasant “good nights” made him feel horribly guilty; he was the youngest of them all and knew he was something of a favorite. Stairs took him to a door that opened onto the beautiful garden of the museum. The winter was unusually warm, and the place was a riot of flowers under bordering palm trees. Visitors were still straggling down the gravel path toward the big iron gate that formed one of the two entrances. The grounds were surrounded by a ten-foot-high red brick wall, and Simon had decided that this back gate would be better than the one to the parking lot, which was visible from the street.

Mr. Fitz, the head gardener, herded out the last of the visitors and started to close the gate, looking over his shoulder.

“Last call. You going out this way, Si?”

“No, I was just, er, thinking how pretty the garden looks.”

“I never thought you were much for gardens. You’re usually roaring off on that motorcycle of yours.”

“It’s in the shop,” Simon lied. “I gotta hike to the bus stop.”

“I’m out of here in five minutes.” Mr. Fitz pocketed his keys. “Give you a lift?”

“Oh — no thanks.” Simon backed hastily inside. “Come to think of it, a friend said he might pick me up.”

He joined the parade of employees moving toward the door to the parking lot. A beverage machine stood there and Simon got himself a soda. Then he walked across the lot and halfway down the drive. He sat on a stone bench and opened his soda. Trapped without his bike, he waved at the stream of departing cars, declined offers of lifts in favor of the non-existent friend who was picking him up, and glanced often at his watch with what he hoped looked like a “waiting” frown.

Now the parking lot was deserted except for the night watchman’s car. This week it was Mr. O’Malley, and right now he’d be having his supper in the little sitting room behind the office where the rather antiquated alarm system was. The museum had never had a break-in. Simon had learned in casual conversation with Mr. O’Malley that the watchman’s rounds were every three hours beginning at eight o’clock. Plenty of time if all went well. Simon had told his mother that he and Volanda were going to a movie so she wouldn’t expect him; she was the kind of mom who tended to “expect” you even though you were twenty.

He stuffed the soda can in a receptacle and went down the drive to Sun Circle with its pretty walk curving along the gulf, then up Sapphire Drive to the bus stop and the sign that read DOROTHEA FOX-NUGENT MUSEUM with an arrow. There were nice homes along here and some traffic now, but it would taper off later. Simon knew this because he and Volanda had walked around the area last night. He supposed he should eat something, but he doubted if he could swallow a crumb. Maybe a candy bar would go down. He strolled another block to a Quickmart and bought one. Then he crossed Route 41 and went into the crowded lobby of the Days Inn. He sat down in a corner with a magazine in front of his face and stared at it. And stared at it for what seemed like an eternity.

At eight thirty it was dark, at least as dark as it was going to be with that gorgeous big old moon hanging up there. Simon recrossed Route 41, walked back along the now quiet Sapphire Drive, and stood at the foot of the museum driveway. The château was on a rise and he looked up with a funny chill at its silhouette towering behind the wall. The wall itself cast a deep shadow, but the slope up to that protecting darkness was silvery bright. He figured it would take him ten or eleven seconds to sprint up, and if he was seen that was the end of him.

Simon took a deep breath and dashed. He reached the wall and leaned against it gasping for breath, looking and listening. Not a sound. Not a soul.

Simon strained his eyes through the darkness. Now he was glad for that moon. He needed to locate the head of the figure of Neptune with its spiky crown that would be his guide to the gate; it was about forty feet away around a bend in the wall, rearing up blackly in the moonlight.

Simon grinned to himself as he crept along in the shadows. He was thinking of the many times he’d stood in the garden and droned, “This fourteen-foot iron sculpture of the god of the sea was acquired by Dorothea Fox-Nugent on a trip to Italy in 1920. She had it shipped to Florida and placed at this gate, appropriately in view of the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico.” Thanks, Dorothea, he thought. It’s a great guide. The gate was a cinch to climb, and he dropped into the sweet-smelling garden.

The door he wanted was at the foot of a loading ramp at the rear of the château. Simon ran across the garden, leaping flower beds and feeling in his pocket for the key. It better fit. The locksmith had called the original an “old timer” and said he hadn’t seen one like it in years. Simon had told him it came from his grandmother’s attic in Georgia. He walked down the ramp and put the key in the lock. It turned.

He stood for a few seconds, telling himself to calm down or take it easy or whatever you’re supposed to do when your heart is racing. Then he opened the door and beamed his pocket flashlight around the pitch-dark storeroom. There was an elevator on one side and cement stairs on the other. He started up the stairs, his sneakers seeming to squeak loudly in the utter stillness, and went through the door to the main hall of the museum.

Moonlight streaming through the casement windows made all the familiar furniture and tapestries look ghostly and different. Simon stood still, listening. Faintly, from across the great hall and down a corridor, came the sound of Mr. O’Malley’s TV. Simon looked around, feeling like the intruder he knew he was. He shouldn’t be here alone. He should be saying to fifteen or twenty people, “This was the grand hall of the château, where families gathered and from where they mounted the stone staircase on your right to the bedchambers above. Mrs. Fox-Nugent had those rooms designated as galleries. Now, if you will follow me...”

He roused himself. The heck with “follow me.” There was no one to follow him as he took the stone steps two at a time. He didn’t need his flashlight here, he knew every inch of the hall, and he waved to the paintings and patted the marble behind of a Venus as he ran by. Now he turned a corner and reached a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. It took only a minute to get the gear from his locker, then he was back down the hall to Her Place, as the staff called the room where Dorothea Fox-Nugent’s portrait hung. He beamed his light around the room and almost laughed out loud. He’d made it!

Quickly, Simon moved to the one big window across which heavy velvet draperies were always drawn to keep out the damaging sun. He made sure there wasn’t a chink, then reached for the wall switch. The room lit up and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction and got to work.

First he unfolded his easel and set it before the Van Zeller Nativity, then unrolled a canvas and thumbtacked it to its wooden frame. Next he pulled forward a wrought-iron table from which he lifted a porcelain shepherdess — careful here, it was immensely valuable — and set it on the floor at a safe distance. A Florentine stool proved just the right height, and Simon opened his paints and sat down. He was alone with one of the most beautiful paintings in the world and about to make the best copy of it ever. He scanned his canvas — the light wasn’t great — and found the pencil sketch he’d made. Then he looked over his shoulder at the portrait of Dorothea, blew it a kiss, and said aloud, “I know you don’t approve of liquid paints in the galleries, honey, but please don’t snitch, and Merry Christmas.” He began to mix his paints.

“Snitch? I shall have you arrested.”

Simon sat still, petrified. He forced himself to look around the room at the empty shadows and the dark of the door. No one. Then a rustling sound from the portrait drew his eyes. Dorothea was stepping out of the frame, satin dress shimmering, diamonds sparkling as she descended to the floor, leaving a faded image on the canvas behind her. She was surrounded by an odd, pale light.

Dazed, Simon heard himself say, “A ghost. A real see-through ghost...”

“You aren’t afraid?”

Sure he was terrified, but he tried to shore up his courage with a little joke. “I guess... better a ghost than the guard.” Not funny. He could only swallow and keep staring.

Dorothea drifted nearer. “You realize that I could touch the alarm and the police would be here in three minutes.”

This made him say, “Well, not really three, and I could be out of here in two. I know the joint. I work here.”

She swirled back from him, her eyes flashing almost like her jewels. “Don’t you know enough to stand up when a lady comes in the room?”

Shakily, Simon stood up. “I guess the way you came in was so weird I forgot to.” He faced her, slowly beginning to realize that he had nothing to fear from this spook except the possibility of being thrown out. She returned his look with an icy stare and said, “I once had a little stableboy who was a Negro.”

“Figures.”

“He was also a thief.”

Simon shrugged. “Maybe he thought that if he belonged to you, then what you had belonged to him.”

“He didn’t belong to me!” The light around her flared. “He was a servant, not a slave. Good heavens, how old do you think I am?”

Simon said in his tour guide voice, “She was born in 1895 in New York City of Irish immigrant parents. Self trained, she became secretary to the millionaire banker Everett Fox-Nugent and married his son, Everett Jr., in 1915, et cetera, et cetera. I probably know everything about you there is to know.” He looked longingly at his easel.

“Then you know that I left strict provisions in my will regarding this museum. Visitors may be allowed to dry sketch but no liquid paints are permitted in any of the galleries.” She pointed indignantly at his paints, then gasped. “The shepherdess! Where is it? That is one of the most valuable—”

“—items in the collection.” Simon was getting impatient. “Executed in 1710 by Henri Duvivier, blah, blah, blah, and there it is safe and sound. Look, lady, I’m not hurting anything, so just listen to me for a minute, will you?”

She glared at him but was silent. Simon went on in the most polite voice he could muster. “My name is Simon Judson and I’m an artist; that is, I want to be one. I took a job here as a tour guide because I love this stuff. I go to the Ringling School of Art and our assignment over the Christmas vacation is to make a copy of a famous Nativity. That Van Zeller,” his eyes went to it lovingly, “is one of my favorite paintings.”

“There are postcards of it in the gift shop.”

“I don’t want to copy any dumb postcard!” He bit his lip, not wanting to sound rude. “I want to sit here with it, just Van Zeller and me.”

“Oh, you are to be given special privileges, are you?” she said sarcastically. “You are to be allowed to splash your paints—”

“I’m not splashing!” Simon was getting mad. “I’m being real careful and I only have three nights. The day after Christmas they’re starting to make more storage space in the basement and the door I stole a key to will be boarded up so when...”

“You stole a key?”

Oops — wrong word. “I mean, I borrowed it to have a copy made. I’m not a thief like that poor little stableboy of yours.” He couldn’t help adding, “And I’ll bet he was just taking some food home to his family.”

“On the contrary, he stole something very precious to me.”

“Then you should be glad all I want to do is paint.” Simon was beginning to feel desperate. “Please let me stay — please, lady!”

“Stop calling me lady. It’s ignorant. My name is Mrs. Fox-Nugent.”

Simon grinned at her. “Your name is Dorothea. One heck of a pretty name, I must admit.”

She stood still and her milky face under all that dark hair changed slightly. Had he gotten to her with his little compliment? She said, looking at his paints, “Certainly this idea of yours is ingenious.”

“It was my girl’s idea.” Simon took this as the go-ahead and sat down, picking up his brush. “She’s the ingenious one.”

“Also the mistaken one.” Dorothea’s surrounding light flared. “The rules of this museum must not be violated.”

“Who’s violating? I just wanted—”

“I don’t know who you think you are, other than a common housebreaker, but you will leave this museum immediately.”

Simon sat seething, then he stood up and said, “I’ll tell you who I think I am. I’m an unlucky guy who had a good thing going till you came along and blew it.” He collapsed his easel with an angry snap. “How the heck did you swing this, anyway? I thought people died and stayed dead.”

“There are certain outrages,” she was moving along the wall looking at the painting, “that one may be allowed to return and rectify.”

“Well, consider yourself rectified.” Frustrated and angry, Simon began setting the room to rights. “You can go back to your heavenly rest and feel good. Maybe I’ll get a job at Burger King. They might even let me come back after hours and paint the Whoppers — or would that be violating the place?” He walked to the door. “So long, Dorothea, and thanks for nothing.”

But she was gone. Simon shrugged and went back down the hall to his locker. He stashed his gear, then retraced his steps to the basement. As he beamed his light on the door, Dorothea’s voice said, “I am dismayed.”

It made him jump. She was hovering near the elevator.

He said, “Will you kindly stop following me? I said I was going, didn’t I?”

“Dismayed!”

“Why?”

“The security here is deplorable. If you were able—”

“Relax.” Simon opened the door. “With a gimmick like you, who needs security?”

He turned the key behind him and walked up the ramp. What a rotten break. He stood for a minute letting the breeze from the gulf cool his hot face. What the heck had really happened? He knew guys who took stuff they said gave them crazy dreams. What had he taken? A soda and a candy bar. Dorothea had seemed real enough in there; out here she was nothing and nowhere. He was tired, that had to be it. He’d been concentrating on this crazy plan and blown his brains.

Simon got over the fence and back to the street. Funny. He’d been so scared and careful going in, now he didn’t give a darn what happened. He never wanted to go back to the place. He’d phone in tomorrow and say he was quitting.

Trudging back to the bus stop, Simon desperately wished he had his motorbike. He’d known he couldn’t bring it today and he’d left it at Volanda’s house.

Volanda. His heart sank. How was he going to tell her about this nutty Dorothea business? He couldn’t. She’d think he was bats and maybe he was. What made it worse was that the idea of going in there to paint after hours had been Volanda’s and it had seemed like such a good one.

At the corner he looked at his watch. He knew the buses ran till ten; thank goodness, here came one now. He boarded and sank into a seat. Volanda was working the late shift and he’d promised to stop in and tell her how it went. It went crazy, but how could he tell her that? Simon stared out at the dark streets as the bus drove through Newtown. The nursing home where Volanda worked, Senior Years, was only a few blocks from her home. Simon had gotten very familiar with Senior Years in the last few months because of Uncle Willie.

He got off the bus and walked the block to Senior Years. It was at the end of the street across from the Baptist church. There was a service and the organ was playing “Silent Night.” Less than a week till Christmas, Simon thought, dreading it.

He said to the woman at the desk, “Hi, Mrs. Bowles.”

“Hello, Si. She’s with your uncle.”

“How is he?”

“Not good, honey.”

The waiting room was dim and small and smelled of medicine. Mrs. Bowles took off her glasses and stood up.

“I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

She went through some folding doors and Simon sat staring at the wall. Uncle Willie, whom he loved, was “not good.” Of course, Uncle Willie hadn’t been good in quite a while, but as Simon’s mother would say, “He’s darn good for eighty-two.” But Mrs. Bowles had sounded different just now.

The folding doors reopened and Volanda came out. She was a year older than Simon, pretty and smart, and he felt lucky that she liked him. She wore the blue and white pantsuit of the nurse’s aide and looked like a million in it. Her hair was in neat cornrows, her brown eyes alert. She beckoned to him.

“I want coffee.”

They went down the hall to where the bright lights of the cafeteria and the smell of coffee were a little more cheering. Volanda headed for a big urn, looking back at Simon, her face eager and expectant. She said, “So how’d it go?”

“Sit down, babe. I’ll bring it. You want a doughnut?”

“No thanks.”

Simon carried two cups of coffee to the table. There was a scattering of other people and some of them nodded to him. Volanda leaned forward, chin in hands.

“So tell me.”

“I forgot your cream.”

“The heck with the cream. Si, tell me.”

“Well, it worked and it didn’t.” Simon reached for the sugar dispenser. “I got in okay and got up to the room, but I was real nervous and I don’t want to go back.”

“What?” Her disappointment was instant.

He spoke very rapidly. “I kept worrying the whole time about what if I got caught. Besides, the light wasn’t great.”

“Si—” Volanda looked at him intently. “—were you seen? Is that it?”

He shook his head. At least he could say truthfully, “I swear, not one living person saw me.”

“Then why?”

“It’s too risky, Voley, and the basement door is going to be sealed up anyway. I’m not going back there ever again!” He stirred his coffee, looking down at it.

Volanda sat still for a few seconds, then pushed her cup away. “I guess it was a dumb idea.”

“It wasn’t, it wasn’t!” He felt awful. “It was a great idea and you were a genius to think of it.” He touched her hand. “It was you who told me to go work there in the first place, remember? And I love it. But I need to make better money.” A newspaper lay on the chair beside him and Simon picked it up. “There’s tons of places pay better than that museum.”

Volanda pulled her coffee back and began to sip it. Simon felt worse than ever. “Mrs. Bowles said Uncle Willie is bad,” he said.

“He is.”

“Can I see him?”

“Finish your coffee first.” She looked out the window at the dark street. “Funny. I got the idea from him.”

“From who? What idea?” Simon was reading an ad for help at a Waffle House.

“The idea for you to work at the museum. I never told you, did I?”

“I guess not.” He was intent on the ad. The place was near where he lived.

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

“About what?” And it was open all night. He’d call as soon as he got home.

“Uncle Willie.”

“What about him?”

“It seems that when he was a little kid he used to work for Mrs. Fox-Nugent. He was a stableboy. And one day she fired him for something he didn’t do.”

Simon sat so still and stared so hard at Volanda that he was afraid she’d ask what was the matter. But she was sipping her coffee and still looking out the window.

“He said he never told his parents because he was scared about something, I didn’t catch what, so he just said Mrs. Fox-Nugent didn’t need him any more. I guess it was a real blow to the family, losing the money and all. It happened around Christmastime, which made it worse. Poor guy. I guess he never got over it. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten when it happened.”

“What did happen?” Simon kept his voice steady.

“I think he was accused of stealing something.”

Simon, his heart pounding, put the newspaper down and leaned across the table. He said, “Tell me everything Uncle Willie told you.”

Volanda looked surprised. “It’s not important now, Si, just kind of sad.”

“It’s important to me. Believe me, it’s important to me.”

She folded her arms on the table. “Well, let me think...”

This was one of the things Simon liked about Volanda. She never told you to “forget it.” If you told her something was important to you, she believed you. And man, was this important.

“I was giving him his bath one day—” Volanda smiled. “—and we got talking about you. I said I thought you were going to be a really good artist and Willie said he used to pay for your drawing lessons when you were a little kid because he’d always loved to draw too. ‘Si gets it from me,’ he said, real proud. Then all of a sudden he said, ‘Maybe some day he’ll paint a picture that’ll hang in Mrs. Fox-Nugent’s place, and he can tell her I wasn’t a thief!’ and he began to cry. That’s when I got the idea that if you could sneak in there and copy that picture you like, well, you’d kind of get even with her for — Si! What’s the matter?”

His chair had gone over backward as he leaped to his feet. “I gotta see Uncle Willie!”

“Sure, but what’s the rush?”

“Come on!” Simon pulled Volanda across the cafeteria and halfway down the hall before she managed to yank her hand away.

“Simon Judson, what is this?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“You’ll explain now.” When Volanda stood like that with her arms folded you didn’t mess around. Simon leaned against the wall, wanting to beat his fists into it. That arrogant, high and mighty hunk of mist telling him that Uncle Willie was a thief! But he had to stay cool, had to come up with something Volanda would buy.

“A guy from some magazine came in this morning. He’s doing a story on the museum, and he was asking us if we knew any, well, out of the way facts about the place. I could tell him my uncle used to work there and if Willie can give me—”

“But you’re quitting.”

“No way!” Simon grabbed her hand again. “And I’m going back there tonight to paint!”

“Si,” Volanda whispered as they went into the darkened room, “you’re crazy. First you say it’s too risky, then just because some writer—”

“Shh.” He put his finger on her lips and they walked toward the bed beside the window. In one of the others a man sat up weakly and called to Volanda and she laid him gently down again. Simon couldn’t tell at first if Uncle Willie was asleep. He was lying very still and in the dim light seemed tiny. He’d never been big; when Simon was twelve he was taller than Willie. But tonight the figure in the bed looked like a little kid. He seemed to have shrunk just in the last week.

Now Simon could see that the dim old eyes were open. Volanda went to the other side of the bed and leaned over. She said softly, “Your favorite person to see you, honey.”

“Si?” The skinny little hand moved on the sheet. “That you, Si?”

“How you doin’, Unc?”

“Doin’ fine. I got Voley.” He looked up at her the way you’d look up at an angel. Then his eyes moved and fastened on Simon. “What’d you paint today?”

“Oh, a couple of masterpieces.” Simon sat on the bed and took the frail old hand.

“That’s right!” Uncle Willie nodded with amazing vigor. “You just keep paintin’ them masterpieces.”

“But I’m mad at you.”

“Mad at me? You mad at me, Si?” It was a distressed, cracked whisper and Volanda frowned and shook her head. Simon said quickly, keeping his voice low, “Not really mad — just kind of surprised. You’ve been telling Voley stuff you never told me. You been holding back on me, Unc.”

Simon made his voice light and kidding and was relieved to see Willie smile a little. He said, “What I hold back?”

“Well, like how you used to be a stableboy for Mrs. Fox-Nugent.”

The change in the old face was instant and awful. The eyes widened and there was a feeble effort to sit up. “But I never done it! I never stole it! I just took the rolls that was already in the garbage pail!”

Simon’s mouth went bone dry. Volanda gave him a mad look and gently pushed Willie’s head back on the pillow. She said, “Don’t think about it, dear. Simon’s leaving now.”

“What did Mrs. Fox-Nugent say you stole?” Simon held tight to the calloused little hand and didn’t look at Volanda.

“He say I stole it. He tell her that!”

“Who? Who?”

“The big fella! Scared me to death! Say he cut my tongue out if I tell on him!”

“Who? Who was the big fella?”

“Simon!” Volanda started around the bed. Willie’s head was turning back and forth on the pillow. He murmured, “That waiter. Fella came in to help at the dinner party.”

Volanda grabbed Simon’s shoulder and turned him around. “Are you nuts, making a disturbance in here at this hour? If I’d thought you were going to...”

But Simon did not hear the rest. He was striding to the door and now he was out of the place and running down the street. There were people on the sidewalk and he knew they turned and looked at him but he didn’t care. He was madder than he’d ever been in his life. His mind was empty of everything but the sound of the quavering old voice and the words, “I never done it! I never stole it.”

He reached the house on the corner where Volanda lived with her mother and two little brothers. As he pulled open the garage doors one of the little brothers called from an upstairs window, “You taking your bike, Si?”

“Sure am. What are you doing up at this hour, Tyrone?”

Volanda’s mother came to the window and shooed the boy away. She said, “I only just dragged him out of that garage half an hour ago. He’s been sitting in there all day looking at that motorbike like it was something holy.”

“I was guarding it for you, Si,” came Tyrone’s voice from the depths of his room.

“You shush and go to bed,” Volanda’s mother said. “Simon, where’s Voley?”

“Still at work. I dropped in there. Thanks for guarding the bike, Ty.”

He rolled it to the street, then got on and gunned it. He told himself not to go too fast. He didn’t want to be stopped, no sir, not tonight. When he got back to Sapphire Drive he drove slowly to the museum entrance. Would his luck hold? The area was deathly quiet and nice big clouds sailed over the moon. Simon ran the bike up the slope and along in the shadow of the wall to the crown of Neptune. He put down the stand and muttered, “Be a good guy, Nep, and guard it for me like Tyrone.”

Now he was over the fence and down the ramp. As he put the key in the lock he looked at his watch; twenty minutes till Mr. O’Malley’s rounds. Just time to face the lady down! Simon sped along the corridor and pulled up breathless before Dorothea’s portrait. Scared to think she might actually reappear, but knowing he’d be furious if she didn’t, he said aloud, “Dorothea! You owe me!”

The canvas quivered and dissolved, and she stepped out with her jewels flashing. Simon gulped, but hung onto his cool. Dorothea said, “What a vulgar expression. I owe you nothing.”

“Oh, no?” He imitated her voice. “ ‘I once had a stableboy who was a Negro and he was also a thief.’ Well, he was also my uncle and he was no thief. He was just a poor little kid taking some garbage home to his family and you believed a creepy waiter who accused him of stealing. And don’t tell me you don’t remember it!”

“I remember it vividly.” Her face had changed slightly. “The boy’s name was Willie.”

“Well, Willie’s an old man now and he’s never gotten over the rotten injustice of it.” Simon knew his voice was shaking. “It screwed up his family too, and that’s what I mean when I say you owe me and him.”

He paused for breath and heard, to his dismay, a step on the stairs and saw the beam of an approaching flashlight. Simon dived behind the window draperies. He stuck his head out and whispered to Dorothea’s shimmering form, “Scram, will you? That’s the least you can do for me!”

But she remained there, motionless and bright. This is the end of me, Simon thought. No, he had one chance. He pulled his T-shirt up to his shoulders; if he covered his face with it and made a run for the hall... He peered through a tiny gap in the curtains. Mr. O’Malley stood in the door.

Dorothea said, “Be careful not to drag on those draperies. They’re very old.”

Mr. O’Malley beamed his light around the room and went off down the hall. Simon emerged, pulling his shirt down and staring at Dorothea.

“I’m the only one who can see you or hear you?”

“Certainly. You are the miscreant.”

“What’s a miscreant?”

“Someone who has done something wrong.”

Simon said slowly, “Suppose someone has made a little kid’s life miserable. Would that someone be a miscreant?”

Dorothea’s light flared, then dimmed, flared, then dimmed, as if controlled by disturbed vibes. She said icily, “Will you have the common courtesy to listen to my side of the story?”

“Okay, okay. Don’t blow a fuse.” He walked to one of the big carved chairs that stood against the wall, sat down, and leaned back. “Sure. Let’s hear your version, Dorothea.”

“I suppose you realize,” she floated to a chair against the opposite wall, “that it’s very impudent of you to continue to call me Dorothea.”

“Impudent?” Simon grinned. “Now, there’s a word I do know. Uncle Willie used to say to me, ‘You too impudent. You just quit being so fresh and impudent.’ ”

“A pity you didn’t take his advice.”

From across the room she looked like a blurry rainbow, the dark wood of the chair showing through her. Simon decided this was either happening or not happening, but in either case, he had to keep that cool. Dorothea said, “Willie must be your great uncle.”

“My mom’s uncle.”

“Are your parents living?”

“I wouldn’t know about my dad, he split a long time ago. I live with Mom. She teaches school in Sarasota.”

“Where does Willie live?”

“With us till a year ago, then he got real sick and now he’s in a nursing home in — hey!” Simon sat up straight. “What’s with all the questions? I thought you were supposed to tell me—”

“Be quiet.”

Dorothea drifted up from the chair and began to move about the room. Something told Simon not to say anything. He watched as she clasped and unclasped her hands and twisted her glittering rings. Then she stationed herself before the Van Zeller Nativity, her back to him.

“It was a beautiful, warm night just before Christmas in the year 1925. My husband and I had given a dinner party, then attended a concert. We returned home about eleven o’clock. The servants were still cleaning up. It had been a large party with tables in the garden and there were several hired waiters in addition to our own staff.”

Dorothea turned and drifted back to the chair, hovering there. “We got out of the car and my husband stayed to speak to the chauffeur. I started up the steps to the front door. At that time the entrance to the château was on the east side—”

“—where steps of Italian marble led to the graceful doorway with a fan light.”

Simon hardly realized he was speaking; he’d uttered the words so often that he went on automatically. “But when the château became a museum in 1925 the entrance was changed to the west side of the building to accommodate a parking lot.”

Dorothea said, after a pause, “I always regretted that change. Those steps had such a lovely view of the gulf. I remember standing there that night listening to the waves.”

Was he crazy? Simon had the feeling of standing there beside her. He shook himself mentally and said, “Go on.”

“I was just about to enter the house when I heard voices coming from the kitchen garden that bordered the stable. One voice was loud and angry, the other young and frightened. I thought I recognized Willie’s as the frightened one.”

Simon couldn’t help saying, “How come you recognized the stableboy’s voice? You couldn’t have talked to him that much.”

“On the contrary, I talked to him quite often. Willie was a favorite of mine.”

That shuts me up, thought Simon. But he wasn’t making any judgments about Dorothea till he’d heard her story.

“Willie,” her eyes traveled across the paintings over his head, “was very bright. Only a week before the night I’m speaking of, he had his tenth birthday. He told me that his whole family, and I gather it was a large one, had scraped together two dollars and bought him a set of drawing pencils. He loved to draw, but of course, you know that.”

Simon blinked his eyes to keep back sudden tears. He said as calmly as he could, “So you heard voices in the garden. What did you do?”

“I went back down the steps and along the walk. There was a full moon and I could see Willie and one of the hired waiters. They were scuffling and Willie was crying. As I came near them the man said something quickly to Willie, I don’t know what.”

“I do.” Simon sat forward. “He said, ‘I’ll cut your tongue out if you tell.’ ”

Dorothea looked at him in silence, then she said, “Naturally, I had no way of knowing that.” She moved, rather uncertainly, he thought, and went on, “I said, ‘Willie, what’s the matter? Don’t be afraid to tell me,’ but he just kept crying. The waiter said, ‘He stole that valuable napkin ring of yours, ma’am, the one with the blue stones, and I’m trying to get it back for you.’ I put my hand on the child’s shoulder — I remember how it trembled — and said, ‘Willie, if you’ve taken something that does not belong to you, all you have to do is give it back and we’ll forget it, otherwise you’ll have to be dismissed.’ He suddenly tore himself loose and ran toward the gate. The waiter took off after him, but Willie was like a frightened rabbit and disappeared in the darkness. I felt very bad.”

Simon waited. There had to be more. Then he said, “So?”

“So?” Her voice was at its haughtiest.

“So what did you do next?” He was getting impatient.

“There was nothing to do. The napkin ring was not recovered and Willie never came back.”

“Of course he didn’t.” Simon was on his feet. “He was scared to death! Why didn’t you send for him and give him a chance to—”

“Send for him?” Dorothea’s light blazed. “My dear young man, have you any idea what the South was like in 1925? Why, children of the poor were often employed without even asking their last names. I couldn’t have told you Willie’s. No one on the staff knew where he lived and once he vanished he was like a drop of water in the gulf. And I repeat, the napkin ring was never recovered.”

“Willie didn’t take it. That lousy waiter did.”

“That occurred to me, and standing there in the garden I explained to the man that the napkin ring was not valuable at all, that my husband had bought it for me from a street peddler in Madrid on our honeymoon, and that I cherished it for that reason alone. I told him it was probably worth about three dollars, as he’d find out if he tried to sell it. Then I offered him fifty dollars to return it. He was unable to produce it.”

Simon said desperately, “There were other hired people. One of them—”

“Goodbye. Please leave the museum at once or I shall—”

“Wait! Please!” Three strides took him to her and involuntarily he put out his hand to detain her. He felt, instead of the satin of a sleeve or the flesh of a hand, only emptiness. She seemed to shrink from him. Simon stepped back bewildered, then suddenly laughed. He mimicked her tone again.

“ ‘I shall touch the alarm and the police will come!’ Honey, you can’t touch anything, can you?” She was motionless and silent. “You can’t even report me to the guard.” He chuckled delightedly. “I’m the only one you can mess with, just me, the — what was that word? — the miscreant, right?”

Dorothea’s light flared jaggedly but still she was silent. Simon began to stroll around the room. “Why, I could rip this place off and you couldn’t do one thing about it.” He turned and faced her. “You’re a faker, Dorothea, and you’re just lucky that I’m not a thief.” He walked to the Nativity. “Neither was Willie, and I’m going to prove it to you.” He touched the painting lovingly. “It’s too late tonight, Jesus, honey. But I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll have two nights to put you and your folks on my canvas. And if Dorothea here wants to join us, why not? We can all rap about art. How about it, Dorothea?”

He turned, but she was a painting again.

Elated, Simon retraced his steps and reached his bike, but as he rolled it down the slope, his morale dissolved. Sure, he’d won the first round with Dorothea, but would she eventually get him on points? Uncle Willie’s innocence had suddenly become the big issue, and how do you go about trying to right a seventy-year-old wrong when the accused person is dying and the accuser is dead — well, not that dead...

His brains in a knot, he tooled up Sapphire Drive in the inky darkness of one A.M., crossed South Trail, and reached Fortieth Street. His mother and Aunt Hannah had made their home real pretty. Aunt Hannah was Uncle Willie’s twin sister, a ninety-pound cleaning machine. The garden was his mom’s thing.

Simon got off the bike a little way down the street and walked it to his driveway. The garage was open. He rolled the bike in and secured it, wishing he didn’t have to pull the door down but, of course, he must. The sound always woke his mother up, and he didn’t feel like having to fake answers to her questions about how the movie was. As it turned out, he didn’t have to.

The light in the breezeway was on. Simon walked through and into the kitchen. His mother and Aunt Hannah were sitting there, coffee mugs on the table. “What the heck are you two doing up?” he asked.

“Willie’s very low, Si,” his mother said.

“Couple of more days, they told us.” Hannah’s frail old hand trembled as she lifted her mug.

He couldn’t say, “Yes, I know,” so he sat down and asked, “When were you over there?”

“I went over after lunch,” said his mother. “Then I came home and got Hannah and we went back for a while. Want some coffee?”

Simon shook his head, reached across the table, and squeezed his mother’s hand. Then he reached for Hannah’s, but she was clutching something on her lap.

“What’s that?” he asked

“Oh...” She shrugged her skinny little shoulders and brought up a worn brown paper bag. “I couldn’t stop thinking about Willie when we got home and I drug this out of the closet. It’s a bunch of old pictures. We’ve been looking at them and kind of crying some. That Willie, he was so handsome.”

Simon looked at the bag, his heart beating a bit faster. “Are there any of him when he was a little boy?”

“Are you kidding? Who could afford a camera back then?” Hannah slid some of the pictures on the table and his mother reached for one. She said, “Here’s my favorite. He was eighteen and he’d just enlisted in the army.”

But Simon only glanced at the guy in the uniform. He’d caught a glimpse of a familiar face in a crumpled photo turning yellow. There were two people in it, a little black boy and a white woman. The boy could be any boy, even though he knew it was Willie, but the woman could only be one person. They were standing before the stable — how often Simon had described it as a model for its time — and Dorothea’s arm was around Willie’s shoulders.

“What you got there?” Hannah leaned over to look. “Oh, that’s that rich lady Willie used to work for. She started that place you work in.”

Simon couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. The droopy little shirt, the ragged pants, the big smile, the encircling arm. Dorothea looked dashing in riding clothes; there were a lot of pictures of her in that outfit in the museum. He swallowed and said, “I wonder who took this.”

“Most likely her husband. They was real fond of Willie. We thought it was mean of her to let him go, and at Christmastime too. He always felt bad about it.”

Hannah reached for the picture, but he said, “Can I keep this?”

“Sure, honey.”

He sat staring at it as Hannah limped to the door, grumbling about her arthritis. His mother was washing the mugs. She said, “What hours are you working tomorrow?”

“Noon to closing.”

“Then you can go over and see Willie in the morning.”

“Yeah, I will.”

Good thing Volanda had worked late tonight; she wouldn’t be there in the morning to bug him. He had to pump poor Willie for information while there was still the possibility of learning more.

When Simon walked into Senior Years at eight o’clock next morning the daytime lady, Mrs. Woodman, waved to him and he went through the doors and into Willie’s room. It was too early for visiting hours and there were still breakfast trays on beds and baths in progress, but everybody knew that Willie didn’t have long. A nurse was holding a glass of juice under Willie’s chin. She said, “Good timing, Simon. Make him take this.”

“Sure.” She drew the curtain around them and left. Simon sat on the side of the bed. Willie’s mouth was set in a tight slit. He opened to say, “Why ain’t you in school?”

“It’s Christmas vacation.”

“Then why ain’t you painting?”

But Willie turned his head away and gazed out the window. He said, “Guess who I was talking to just now.”

“Who?”

“My mama.”

Simon was accustomed to Willie wandering in and out of time; today it could be useful. “What did your mama say?”

“She says she like that picture of the heron I done.”

Perfect. “Now, that’s a coincidence. I was just talking to somebody else who likes your pictures.”

Willie’s eyes turned back to him. “Who that?”

“Drink some of this and I’ll tell you.”

Willie sipped weakly. Simon put the glass down and said, “Mrs. Fox-Nugent.” He waited but Willie didn’t react, so he went on cautiously, “She asked me to tell you something.”

“Mrs. Fox did?” Willie shook his head slowly. “No, she wouldn’t have anything to say to me. She mad at me.”

“Not any more,” said Simon quickly. “She knows now you didn’t steal that napkin ring.”

“Napkin ring? Napkin Ring? What’s that?” Willie’s face was a blank, then it lit up. “Oh, you mean — why, I thought it was a lady’s bracelet! And she knows I didn’t steal it? Then she found it!”

“I guess so.” Simon was at sea but kept going. “She didn’t say where she found it, though. Would you know?”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Willie was almost crying. “I was too scared to go back ’cause of that big fella so I give it back the best way I could and now she found it! Oh, that makes me so happy!”

What the heck was this? Simon said urgently, “Uncle Willie, what do you mean you ‘gave it back’? You said you never took it.”

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” The voice was going shrill.

“Simon!” Volanda stood beside him. “Are you on this kick again?”

Simon said sulkily, “What do you do, work here around the clock?”

“Practically, when we’re shorthanded.”

“Voley.” Willie was struggling to sit up. “She found it! Mrs. Fox found that thing!”

“Sure she did, honey, and why isn’t this juice gone?” She held the straw to his lips. “Come on, a sip for me and a sip for Si and a sip for your mama and a—”

“First he says he didn’t take it—” Baffled, Simon stood up. “—and then he says he gave it back. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to!” Volanda was really mad now. “And I wish I’d never said a word about all this. If I’d thought you were going to get so hung up...”

But Willie had begun to talk quietly, his eyes closed. “Oh, them soft white rolls her cook used to make, and half the time they didn’t all get ate up, bits of ’em, sometimes whole rolls in the garbage pail on the back porch. Oh, I’d fill my pockets... especially that night with all the company I knew they’d be throwing stuff away, maybe even meat, and I waited and waited and the dinner party was done and big hunks and chunks start coming out to the pail and I’m filling my pockets and even my shirt and then—” His eyes flew open. “—out he come!”

“Who? The big fella?” Simon looked imploringly at Volanda, but she said nothing, maybe because Willie’s voice was so steady. But she had her finger on his wrist.

“Oh, my, was he big!” The eyelids drooped again. “And he starts going through the garbage hisself like he was crazy, and I got scared and run down the steps, but he run after me yelling that something wasn’t in the pail that he put there hisself so I must have took it and he starts pulling stuff out of my pockets and then,” the eyes opened again, “Mrs. Fox come.”

Tears began to roll down Willie’s cheeks. Simon took Volanda’s hand and said in a half whisper, “This is the first time he’s ever been able to tell anybody what happened. We gotta let him finish.” He sat down on the bed again. “And then you made a run for it, didn’t you?”

“Oh, did I run!” Willie clutched at the sheet. “I got out of that gate and halfway across the field in the dark, not even knowing where I was going, just grabbing my pockets to see if I had anything left, and then I felt it!”

Simon knew that Volanda had drawn closer to the bed and was listening as breathlessly as he was. Suddenly Willie’s arm shot up in the air.

“I pulled it out — it was still half stuck inside a roll — and I could see by the moon it was something shiny. I thought it was a lady’s bracelet and I was so scared I nearly went to the ground. I had to get it back to Mrs. Fox but I knew the big fella was waiting to cut my tongue out so how could I? So I just did the best I could and now she’s found it and I can go back to work for her and not be scared no more.”

The weak old voice stopped and Willie, smiling, seemed to doze. Volanda whispered, “Let him sleep.”

“But how did he give it back?” Simon was frantic.

“Come down to the cafeteria. I bet I know.”

Volanda leaned forward, her elbows on the table. She said, “First, tell me where it was found.”

“Where what was found?”

“The napkin ring, of course.”

Simon gasped and said the coffee was too hot. “It was never found. I just said that to make him feel happy.”

She looked disappointed, then touched his hand. “That was nice, Si. I’m glad you did it.” She brightened. “But it could have been found. Want to hear how?”

Simon nodded somewhat dazedly. Her sudden interest delighted and alarmed him. He had this nutty secret to keep...

Volanda said slowly, “Here’s what I think happened: Willie ran back toward the château and when he got near the gate,” her eyes sparkled with excitement, “he threw the napkin ring over it, then beat it for home.”

Simon stared at her. “He... threw it... over the gate? But if it landed in the garden why wasn’t it found?”

“Why should it be? Nobody was looking for it.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds, then Simon said, “If I thought there was even the slightest chance, I’d search that garden with my bare hands.”

Volanda shook her head as she stood up. “After all the years and all the changes...”

“I know. Hopeless.” He swallowed his coffee and thought for a moment.

Volanda said, “I hope you’re going back to paint tonight.”

“I sure am. And tomorrow night too. I owe it to Willie. If I could only—”

“Si,” her voice was gentle, “you’ve given that dear old soul peace of mind at the end. That must make you very happy.”

It did. But how could he tell her that another, overwhelming urge was blotting everything else from his mind?

A ghost had to be convinced of Willie’s innocence.

“So it made sense right away when Volanda said that.” Simon mixed his reds, looking back and forth at the Nativity.

Dorothea hovered behind him. She said, “You’re quite good.”

“I’m quite crazy. This light is terrible. But Van Zeller and I are alone together. That’s what matters.”

“Alone?” Her voice was sharp. “That’s hardly courteous. May I remind you that I am also present?”

“And may I remind you that you’re crashing the party?” Simon put his brush down and stretched. He’d been working for more than an hour. “Can’t you just see the poor little guy pitching the thing over the gate and figuring he was ‘giving it back’?” Dorothea drifted a short distance away. “You buy it, don’t you?”

“Buy it? I don’t understand.”

“You believe now that Willie didn’t steal the napkin ring?”

“I believe that he didn’t take it, but not that he didn’t keep it.”

Simon glared at her. “What the heck do you mean?”

She said slowly, almost reluctantly, “It did occur to me that the ring may have dropped when Willie was being chased, and I had every inch of the grounds thoroughly searched the next day. My workmen fine-combed the entire garden.”

Simon sat still. “So you still think he stole it?”

“I think,” her voice was oddly gentle, “that a little boy who was very poor and who suddenly found himself in possession of what appeared to be a valuable article would find it very hard not to keep it.”

Simon began to burn. “What about him saying he gave it back?”

“Perhaps he thinks he did. He’s very old and you say his mind wanders.”

“Willie was reliving that night clear as a bell.” Simon was on his feet. “He remembers thinking it was a piece of jewelry and he kept saying ‘I gave it back! I gave it back!’ ”

“Then where is it? And I believe the guard is due presently.”

Startled — he’d been so absorbed he’d forgotten to watch the time — Simon slid all his gear behind the long tapestry on a table, snapped out the light and dove behind the curtains as a light flickered in the hall.

“I explored one other possibility,” Dorothea said as Mr. O’Malley’s light beamed around the room. Simon wished she wouldn’t do this. He realized the man couldn’t see or hear her, but it gave him the jitters to think of her shimmering away out there and talking casually. “I inquired at the pawnshop — there was only one in Sarasota — and nothing of the kind had been brought in.”

Mr. O’Malley moved on and the sound of his footsteps faded. Simon emerged and snapped on the lights. He said, “How would a ten-year-old kid know anything about a pawnshop?”

“He probably wouldn’t, but his parents might.”

Simon turned around so fast he’d have bumped into her if there had been anything to bump into. “Sure, that’s what you think! He’d give it to his folks and they’d pawn it!”

“I only mention it because—”

“—because it’s what you figure a poor black family would do.”

“Correction: any poor family.” Her light blazed. “My own family was very poor. We lived in a New York City slum and there were many trips to pawnshops. I had no money at all when I married Everett Fox-Nugent. He bought me that cheap little trinket because I liked it, but he said, ‘I’ll teach you to recognize beautiful jewelry and great art,’ and he did. He was a dear, kind man, and that napkin ring lay at my place at the table every day. I treasured it, and when it was lost I offered a reward of one hundred dollars for its return.”

Simon had stood motionless as she spoke. Now he pulled his gear out from behind the table and sat down. He looked at his paints but he couldn’t make his hands move. There was no sound behind him and for a few seconds he thought Dorothea had departed. He turned his head slightly and knew she was still there. He made himself reach for his brush, and said, “I wish you’d get back up in that painting and stop bugging me.”

“What is your opinion of that painting, by the way?”

“I suppose it looks like you.”

Dorothea sailed around him and stood directly before the Nativity. “Such a question calls for a gracious answer, something complimentary or gallant. You have no manners.”

“Neither do you, sister. You’re standing right in my way.”

She moved to one side and her voice quivered a little. “I was never really beautiful but I had good hair and a fine figure. Everyone said I had a fine figure.”

Simon suddenly felt almost sorry for her. He gave her a quick look up and down, winked, and said, “And for once everyone was right.”

The effect of those words was astonishing. Dorothea’s light turned bright pink. Was she blushing? She drifted toward her frame and said in the gentlest tone he’d heard her use, “I’m sorry about Willie and I respect your loyalty to him. Good night, Simon.”

It was the first time she had spoken his name and it affected him strangely. He stood up quickly. “Dorothea, wait.” She turned. “Tomorrow is my last night here.”

“And mine too.”

“Maybe... between now and then...” He began to feel the futility of his words even as he spoke them. “Willie can tell me something that will prove...”

“Of course, that would be splendid.”

And of course, that will be impossible, Simon thought as she stepped into the frame. He closed his eyes, suddenly unable to bear being in this room another minute, unable to face the thought of returning without tangible proof of Willie’s innocence. Tomorrow night Dorothea would probably be kind and forgiving as they said good-bye, but he didn’t think he’d like her kind and forgiving; he liked her haughty and challenging. He took his picture from the easel — it was almost done and he could finish it from memory — and leaned it against the door. He carried his gear to the locker, then came back to the room and walked to the light switch. He stood looking at the painting of Dorothea, then whispered, “So long, Dorothea, it’s been real.” He began to laugh a little, but he knew the laugh had some cry in it. Had he half fallen in love with a dead white woman twice his age whom he would never see again? What a hoot. He snapped off the light.

Simon picked up his picture, holding the wet canvas at arm’s length, and walked down the corridor. He descended the stone steps, forgetting that at the bottom was a statue of a satyr, one hoof playfully extended. The next thing he knew his painting had clattered to the floor and Mr. O’Malley was running toward him with his torch and yelling, “Simon? Si?” in a horrified voice.

Of course, it was awful an hour later — the sun was barely up — when Simon called Volanda and told the sleepy, bewildered girl to come to his house right away. When she arrived he sat her down at the kitchen table with his equally sleepy mother and Aunt Hannah and told them everything.

Everything except, of course, about Dorothea.

All three women began to talk at once. His mother said that at least he hadn’t committed any crime but she couldn’t believe he’d have been such an idiot. Volanda cried and said it was all her fault, and Aunt Hannah didn’t seem to know just what had happened, but if it was bad she was grateful Willie wouldn’t know about it.

Simon stood up. “I’m going over to see him now.”

His mother said, “You haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and he won’t know you now.”

“I just want to sit with him.”

Volanda stood up. “I’ll drive you.” When they were alone in the car she said, “Of course, you’ll be fired.”

“Oh, sure. Maybe worse. I have to go back there at eleven o’clock and face the board of directors. At least my boss trusted me to come home. Mr. O’Malley told him why I was there.”

Volanda started to say, “I wish I hadn’t...”

Simon touched her hair and said, “Let’s not wish anything.” Except, he thought, that Dorothea could have known Willie tried. I gave it back the best way I could. Oh, Unc, honey, what way was that?

An hour later he woke up wondering where he was. Someone was shaking him and saying it was ten thirty and if he didn’t show up at the museum they’d be madder than ever at him. It was Volanda and he was in a chair beside Willie’s bed. A tall man was standing on the other side, his finger on the frail wrist. Volanda said, “This is Dr. Francis.”

Simon struggled up and said, realizing it sounded dumb, “How is he?”

“He’s in a coma. He’ll probably slip away today or tomorrow.”

The doctor nodded to them and walked away. Volanda said, “Want me to drive you to the museum?”

“No, just back to my house for my bike. When they let me go, if they do, I’m coming back here.”

A half hour later Simon set the brake on his bike and drew a deep breath. There were only three cars in the parking lot. The museum wasn’t open on Monday, for which he was grateful; he didn’t feel like facing any of his co-workers. He walked into the office prepared for anything except what followed.

Sitting around were five people: his boss, Mr. Lucas, looking grim; Mr. O’Malley looking anxious; two old guys looking serious; and an old lady looking curious. She wore a big straw hat perched on top of frizzy white hair. One of the old guys started to talk right away.

“Sit down... er... Simon, isn’t it? This is most distressing for all of us but we’re going to do our best to be fair. Above all, none of this must get into the media. We do have to discharge you, I’m sure you know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The inventory people have been here since six o’clock this morning. There appears to be nothing missing and nothing damaged. But you did enter the museum illegally. How?”

“With this key.” Simon laid it on the desk. “It’s a copy of the one to the basement storeroom, and it’s no good now because that entrance is getting boarded up.”

Old Guy Two said, “We’re told that in addition to working in the museum you are also a student at the Ringling School of Art and that you wanted to copy a painting here.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause when nobody knew what to say. Then Old Guy One said, “The security doesn’t seem to be—”

“Nothing wrong with security,” Simon said quickly. “Mr. O’Malley never missed his rounds. He couldn’t have spotted me, I was too careful. There was nothing to spot.” Unless, he closed his eyes, unless you’re a certain kind of miscreant, then you’ll be spotted by a pair of eyes flashing like jewels.

The old lady, who was about the size of Aunt Hannah, began to chuckle. She said, “You must have wanted to paint that picture very much, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.”

“And museums have stuffy rules, don’t they?”

“I guess they have to.”

Mr. Lucas had been fidgeting. He said, “Well, the important thing is that none of this gets out, especially considering tonight.”

What was tonight? Simon searched his memory. Weddings were often held on the museum grounds and there was a big one tonight. Guides were needed to show guests around, but Simon hadn’t signed up because of Uncle Willie.

Mr. Lucas went on, “When you clear out your locker, leave your blazer here in the office.” He took an envelope from the desk drawer. “This is two weeks’ pay. I think you’ll agree we’re being generous considering the circumstances.”

“You sure are.” Simon stood up. “And thanks for not giving me a hard time. I loved working here and I’m sorry I loused up.”

The old lady suddenly said, “Where is it?”

Simon moved to the door. “Where’s what, ma’am?”

“The picture you painted.”

“I confiscated it, Mrs. Mills,” Mr. Lucas said hastily. “It’s right here.” He turned it around where it stood against the wall.

“Why, it’s the Van Zeller Nativity, one of my favorites.” She reached for a cane that lay across the chair beside her and stood up. “Give it to me... Not bad at all.” She extended the painting to Simon. “Finish it — at home, needless to say.” She chuckled, “I just might buy it.”

Nobody was saying anything, least of all Simon, who was speechless. Mrs. Mills went on, still chuckling, “That was quite a caper, Simon, and I for one almost wish you’d gotten away with it. I can just picture you sitting there under Dorothea’s very nose. She must have been turning in her grave. I knew her, you see.”

Simon wanted to cry, “So did I!” He said, “Did you, ma’am?”

“Yes, Dorothea and I were great friends. She was considerably older, of course, and she taught me a lot about art. You might say she was a bit of a know-it-all, but you couldn’t help loving her.”

No, no you couldn’t.

Mrs. Mills waved her cane to the men who stood like dummies — this lady sure was head honcho — and walked to the door. Simon opened it and went out after her. She was still talking.

“My husband and I were collectors too, but not nearly on the scale of the Fox-Nugents. I remember once...”

She chatted on and Simon felt obliged to listen even though he desperately wanted to get back to Uncle Willie. So he stood there patiently and was glad afterwards that he did.

“And one of Dorothea’s treasures was something we gave her, a silver soup tureen, attributed to—”

“—the great German silversmith, Erich Bonhof, circa 1750.” Simon smiled down on her. “Gift of Dr. and Mrs. Kenneth Mills and used by the Fox-Nugents at all important dinners.”

Mrs. Mills burst out laughing, pushing her straw hat back on her head. “Young man, you’ve certainly done your homework.” She went on to lecture him on his stupidity in blowing the job, but Simon hardly heard her. Two words in his speech about the soup tureen had triggered something in his head. He said, “Mrs. Mills, I’ll bet you and your husband were invited to a lot of those important dinners.”

“All of them.”

“Did you ever notice anything, well, unusual about Dor, er, Mrs. Fox-Nugent’s place at the table?”

She looked at him in surprise. “You mean that lumpy little napkin ring with the fake stone?”

“Yes.”

“Heavens, I haven’t thought about that in years. And they told you about it in your course? Yes, it had some sort of sentimental value and Dorothea was very upset about its loss. As I recall, it was stolen — around Christmastime, I think — by some child who worked on the place and who—”

“—who is my uncle,” Simon knew his voice was shaking, “who never stole anything in his life and who is dying right now so I’d like to go be with him. Thanks for returning my painting.”

He almost ran down the hall, his eyes blinded by tears. He mopped them as he threw stuff from his locker into a tote, picked up his easel, and went down the back stairs and around the garden to the parking lot. He strapped the easel and his painting to the bike and thought, as he coasted down the driveway, that he must have dreamed everything that had happened and that it would be good to work at a down-to-earth place like the Waffle House.

He had to wait half an hour before the manager could see him but the guy was nice and said he could start Friday. Simon thanked him and went out and sat on his bike, staring at the side of the building. This had to be the right thing to do. He’d blown it at the museum and let his family down. Aunt Hannah was right; it was a good thing Uncle Willie never had to know. Uncle Willie. Simon started up and headed for Senior Years. As soon as he turned into the street he knew something was weird.

Simon drove down the block to where a Rolls Royce was parked before Senior Years. A man sat at the wheel reading a newspaper and a bunch of people were standing around staring at the car. Simon secured his bike and walked up to the front window. He said, “Mind if I ask whose car?”

“Mrs. Kenneth Mills. She’s visiting somebody in there.”

Simon went inside. A slightly dazed Mrs. Woodman was standing at the window gazing out at the Rolls. She said, looking at him in awe, “The lady wants to see you. She’s with your uncle.”

Simon walked into Willie’s room, not liking this. Whatever crazy reason Mrs. Mills might have for coming here, it would only remind him of Dorothea and the museum and he wanted to forget both. There was the big straw hat, and beside it was Volanda, who hurried toward him with a bewildered shrug. Mrs. Mills was sitting beside Willie’s bed gazing calmly at the quiet face. She said, “Simon, I told this young lady that I do have a reason for coming here, because if you think I’m following you around just because you’re young and handsome you’re only partially right.”

Volanda began to giggle and Simon looked into the twinkling old eyes under the hat, then at Uncle Willie. He said, “I don’t think we should talk here.”

“Quite right.” Mrs. Mills stood up and reached for her cane. “I just wanted to see this gentleman, the one you said was accused of theft so long ago but didn’t do it. Where can we discuss this?” Mrs. Mills looked at Volanda. “Will you come with us?”

She said, “Si, go to the cafeteria with Mrs. Mills. I should stay here. There might be a... a... change.”

Simon put his lips to the side of Volanda’s head, then walked beside the wiry old lady to the door. She said, “Is the coffee here any good?”

“Not bad. How did you find this place, Mrs. Mills?”

“I asked at the museum for your home phone number and your aunt said you’d be here.”

Simon knew that curious eyes followed him as he and his odd companion entered the packed cafeteria and looked for a cleared table. There wasn’t one, so Mrs. Mills sat herself down in the first empty chair and started pushing dishes aside. Simon said, “Let me—”

“I’ve seen dirty dishes before. Get the coffee, black for me. I want to show you what I found in Dorothea’s desk.”

Simon’s heart did a thump. He went to the urn and poured two cups. When he got back to the table Mrs. Mills was opening her handbag. She pulled out a worn leather book and a pair of glasses and said, “Did they tell you in your instruction course that she kept a diary?”

“They told us she kept a strict record of all her art purchases.”

“I mean a personal diary. I was pretty sure it would still be up in her living quarters to which I have access. Sure enough, it was in her desk. You’re right, this coffee isn’t bad.”

She sipped appreciatively, then began turning the stiff, yellowing pages of the book. Even looking at it sideways Simon recognized Dorothea’s handwriting — it was all over the museum — and now here it was at his elbow about to speak to him before he was born.

“Listen to this.” Mrs. Mills pressed the book open and started to read. “ ‘December 20, 1925. Something very upsetting happened last night after the dinner for the ambassador. Our little stableboy apparently stole the utterly valueless but dear to me napkin ring that Everett bought me on our honeymoon. He ran off with it after a scuffle with a hired waiter. I’m very upset. I like the child. I hope he has the courage to return it. I’ll reward him.’ ”

Simon sat like a statue as Mrs. Mills turned some pages. She read on. “ ‘No sign yet of little Willie. None of the servants seem to know where his home is or I’d go there. I suppose I’ll forget the whole episode in time. Why does it trouble me? Probably because the child was too appealing.’ ”

Mrs. Mills closed the book and picked up her cup. “So you see, she cared enough about the boy to feel bad that he would steal something. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”

“No,” Simon said, feeling worse, “because he didn’t steal anything. Some waiter stuck the napkin ring in a roll and Willie got it by mistake. He tried to give it back but he can’t remember how.” He knew Mrs. Mills was looking at him in bewilderment, but what was the point of going into it? He stood up. “Thanks for coming here, Mrs. Mills, and for reading me that.”

“Simon,” she put her hand on his arm, “I want you to go back to work at the museum.”

He looked at her in astonishment. “I’ve been fired, remember?”

“Not if I say you haven’t.” He believed her. “As the senior member of the board, I have the last word on such matters and I think you should return.”

“No!” It burst from him. “I never want to see the place again!”

Was she pleased that he sounded so shaken? He didn’t care.

“You’re being childish. It’s the ideal job for you. Admit that you love it there.” I did, I did, until... “You just made a silly mistake that didn’t hurt anybody or anything.” She handed him her cup. “Get me a touch more. Besides,” she began to smile, “I rather think Dorothea would agree with me.”

Oh, you don’t know her as I do! She wanted to throw me out!

“So report to the museum tonight for that wedding. Bring that pretty nurse with you. The bride’s grandmother is a friend of mine and we lug all our friends to these things. I get the impression that Volanda — charming name — is special to you. Now, my coffee, please.”

Simon walked to the urn in a turmoil, paid for the coffee, and followed Mrs. Mills down the hall. At the front door she drained her cup and handed it to him, smiling brightly. “See you tonight.”

Volanda said of course he should go. “And of course you’ll go back to work there! She’s a sweetie!” When Volanda was excited her brown eyes had lights in them. “Oh, Si, I’m so happy!”

“I’ll only go tonight if you will.”

She thought for a minute. “Sure, I’ll come later if your mom or Aunt Hannah can come here.” She put her arms around him. “Si, don’t laugh, but it’s almost as if Mrs. Fox-Nugent knew and was trying to make it up to Willie.”

But he was sick at heart because Mrs. Fox-Nugent still thought he was a thief.

Simon loved to see the museum lit up for Christmas. Add a wedding and, wow.

Cars lined Sun Circle and halfway up Sapphire Drive, which meant the parking lot was full. As he walked his motorbike up the driveway, music floated down from the garden. He walked into the office where five guides were already assembled and retrieved his blazer from the back of the chair. Somebody asked what it was doing there and he said the lining had needed mending. He put it on, hoping that its presence here meant that Mrs. Mills had broken the news of the miscreant’s return. Apparently she had, for when Mr. Lucas came in his eyes flicked past Simon with no signs of surprise and he began to speak quickly, looking hot and nervous in his white dinner jacket.

“You all know these private affairs require extra vigilance. The grounds are where you’ll be needed first. The ceremony will be held in the Neptune Grove followed by dinner and dancing. It’s supposed to stay warm so everything will happen out there and people can ask you about the outdoor exhibits. No indoor tours till after the tables are removed. The bride’s mother says you’re welcome to help yourselves at the buffet, but keep circulating and be available for questions. There are some young children, so watch out they don’t climb on things.”

“They love the Etruscan bull,” said somebody.

“And St. Francis’s wolf,” said somebody else.

“Well, this is a museum, not a playground.” Mr. Lucas’s voice was growing irritated. “Just keep your eyes open.” He took a paper from his desk. “There are about a hundred guests, so when the tours start, make it groups of twenty. We don’t want to be here all night. Go in this order.”

A paper was passed around and Simon saw that his name had been added in pencil at the bottom of the list. Good. Volanda would be late; they could leave together.

“Come meet your hostess,” said Mrs. Mills as they filed out to the hall. She’d replaced her hat with a red hibiscus stuck jauntily in her hair and wore a long, flowered dress. Simon felt a real fondness for her as she smiled around at them, winked openly at him, and preceded them to the garden.

Brilliant flares in each corner, candles on the tables, and a magnificent Christmas tree made the music-filled enclosure an enchanted place. Guests laughed and chatted and circled the buffet. Simon wondered, was it like this the night that Willie waited and waited to get at the garbage pail?

Mrs. Mills led them to a tall, rather distracted-looking woman talking to the bandleader. She nodded to them, asked that when the band played “Here Comes the Bride” would they please round up everybody who might be wandering around looking at statues or whatever and get them over to the Neptune Grove for the ceremony. Then she said she really appreciated their coming and the bar was over there.

Simon got a soda and turned to find Mrs. Mills behind him. She said, “You’re a good sport.”

“I’m a good sport? I feel so darned lucky to be back I don’t know what to say, except thank you.”

“That’ll do.”

He looked around the lovely, flickering scene floating in music. “Was it like this the night...?”

“Very like. Not a wedding, of course, but quite a grand affair in honor of the French ambassador. I remember Dorothea wore the blue satin evening gown she was painted in because it was designed in Paris.” Her eyes fastened on his face. “Simon, you started to tell me something about Willie this afternoon but you didn’t finish. What was it?”

The music seemed very far away. He said, almost mechanically, “Willie was already out that gate when he found the napkin ring buried in a roll in his pocket. He was scared to death of the waiter who’d stolen it so he gave it back to Mrs. Fox-Nugent the best way he knew how. Those are his words, ‘I gave it back the best way I knew how.’ Volanda thinks he threw it over the gate, in which case,” Simon looked around in a near trance, “it’s in this garden somewhere.”

“Young man,” said a voice at his side, “can you tell me about the marble geese at the fishpond?”

“No one can tell you better.” Mrs. Mills smiled and moved away. Simon followed a stout woman with many bangles toward the pond. He began automatically.

“The geese were among the first acquisitions of Mr. and Mrs. Fox-Nugent, who found them in Spain. Originally there were six, but two were damaged in transit from Barcelona. They are believed to be the work of Carlos de Leon, a fourteenth century worker in marble. Also, notice the mosaic around the pool’s edge...”

As Simon talked, other guests gathered and he moved from object to object, hardly knowing what he was saying. Somewhere in these shadowy grounds a little trinket lay buried, trodden deep in the course of decades, proof positive that Willie, in those bewildering words of his, had “never taken it but gave it back.”

Simon herded his group toward Neptune’s grove as a procession of bridesmaids emerged from the side door of the museum, followed by the pretty bride and her father. Simon’s eyes wandered to Neptune looming high above the wall, his harpoon lifted. It was that iron crown backed by the moonlit sky that had guided him to the gate the last two nights.

The ceremony began, and from the back of the crowd where Simon stood, the elderly clergyman’s voice was faint and indistinct. Simon strolled over to the gate and stood looking through its tracery at the shining path across the gulf. He was thinking of Dorothea’s words, “I remember standing on the steps that night listening to the waves.” And as she stood there Willie was wrestling with the waiter and crying.

I gotta just forget the whole thing, Simon thought desperately. I gotta forget it right now and for good.

Suddenly, the bandleader was announcing the bouquet toss. The bride was standing on a chair and a lot of the girls were gathering with much laughing and squealing. The band did a flourish, and whoosh! That great bunch of flowers and ribbons sailed high in the air and landed smack in Neptune’s crown!

There was a burst of laughter and shouting. Like a flash Simon was through the crowd, reaching Neptune none too soon. A couple of kids were already scrambling up on the base.

“Better let me do it,” he said, pulling the children off as some of the other guides converged to ask if he could handle it.

Simon put one foot on the base and pulled himself up by the tail of the dolphin. Then he grasped the harpoon and climbed higher. More laughter and applause; cameras clicked, camcorders whirred, and the band did a drum roll. Simon smiled to himself, enjoying the escapade and wishing Volanda was here to see him being a hero. When he reached Neptune’s shoulder, he hung one arm around the neck and put his other hand up to grab the bouquet. The darned thing was wedged into the crown and he had to get his hand down under it to pry it loose.

Then his fingers touched a small object that rattled.

He froze, suddenly dizzy. He drew a tremendous, deep breath, pulled out the bouquet, and dropped it into the outstretched arms of the bride. She called “Thanks!” and tossed it over her shoulder. There was a laughing scramble and all heads turned to see who’d caught it. Simon put his hand back in the crown and closed his fingers over the object. He dropped it into his blazer pocket and started to descend. A cheer went up as he jumped to the ground and there were joking words of praise and pats on the back. Through a sort of haze he saw Mrs. Mills beckoning to him from the museum door. He made his way toward her, his hand in his pocket, clasping the gritty little thing he’d not yet looked at.

Mrs. Mills said, “Let me see it.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw your face and saw you put your hand back.”

Simon took his hand from his pocket and opened his fingers. They looked down at a rusty little circle embedded with dirty stones. He said, “Is this it?”

“That’s it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the last room on your tour. As you leave, kindly take the stairs to your right and rejoin the other guests in the garden. Now, please observe the painting directly behind me. It is a portrait in oils of Dorothea Fox-Nugent, founder of this museum. She is wearing...”

Please, please everybody leave and give me a few minutes alone with her.

“...commissioned by her husband for the opening of the museum on her fortieth birthday...”

I want to show it to her and watch that crazy glow around her light up and hear her thank me and tell me where she wants it kept.

“Observe that she is wearing a diamond tiara, necklace, and earrings. This was her favorite jewel and...”

And now she will know that Willie wasn’t a thief, wasn’t a thief, wasn’t a thief...

“Young man,” said a guest, “have I heard correctly that the Copley is on loan from the Museum of Fine Art in Boston?”

Simon answered the question, wild with impatience. He’d been waiting for this moment since Mrs. Mills had told him to put the ring back in his pocket until they could decide what to do with it. “It’s very exciting,” she said, “to have a piece of lost memorabilia show up under such dramatic circumstances. The media will love it. I’ll speak to the board tomorrow.”

And I’ll speak to Dorothea tonight, Simon had thought happily. But would these gabby wedding guests ever leave? Finally, with a pounding heart, he showed the last of them to the door, only to have Mrs. Mills walk though it.

“Simon, I’ve just had the most wonderful idea. Let me tell you about it.”

His heart sank. “Sure, er, why don’t you wait for me downstairs? I should check the rest of the floor before I—”

“Look at her.” Mrs. Mills walked over to Dorothea’s portrait. “She’d be so happy if she knew, wouldn’t she?” Then she took a paper from her handbag and sat down in one of the carved chairs. “I’ve been working on this for an hour and I think it sounds very good. I’ll give it to the newspapers tomorrow.”

Simon stood helpless and silent as she read, “In the year 1925, a few days before Christmas, a cherished keepsake disappeared from the home of Dorothea Fox-Nugent, founder of Sarasota’s famed museum. At the time, Mrs. Fox-Nugent offered a reward of one hundred dollars for its return. The keepsake, a napkin ring, was found yesterday on nearly the anniversary of its loss, on the museum grounds, by Simon Judson, a tour guide there. The circumstances...”

“Simon! You found it!”

Dorothea’s light filled the room dazzlingly. Mrs. Mills, oblivious, of course, went on reading.

“Oh, let me see it!” Dorothea was close at his side, her mist enveloping him. Simon took the little ring from which he’d washed the dirt and held it in his palm. “Yes! That’s it! The dear, dear thing! If only I could touch it! Where did you find it?”

“Simon,” said Mrs. Mills, “you’re not listening to me. Put that away till we can decide where it should be kept.”

“In Neptune’s crown,” said Simon.

“In Neptune’s crown? Of course!” cried Dorothea. “Willie threw it over the gate and it landed in—”

“Neptune’s crown?” said Mrs. Mills. “Don’t be absurd. It can’t be kept there. It should have a very special place. I’d say in this room.”

“She’s right, dear Lettie Mills.” Dorothea floated toward her. “What a good friend she was.”

Mrs. Mills said, “So what do you think of my wonderful idea?”

“Idea?” said Simon and Dorothea together.

“I knew you weren’t listening. Let me read it again.” She looked at her paper. “The museum will be pleased to issue the reward to Mr. Judson, but because at today’s rate, one hundred dollars would be considerably more, the board will take this into consideration.”

“Splendid!” Dorothea’s light glowed.

“I really...” Simon was fighting sadness and happiness both. “...don’t want a reward.”

“Of course you want a reward,” said Dorothea and Mrs. Mills together. Mrs. Mills added, “Now about a place to keep the napkin ring.” She got up and began to walk about the room.

“Simon,” said Dorothea quickly, “that wrought-iron table you used for your paints — go to it.” He did and stood looking at it; never again would he dip his brush there and argue with her and be sassy and get scolded. “Just beside the shepherdess there’s a black lacquer box from China. Lettie gave it to me.”

“This?” He picked it up.

“What?” Mrs. Mills turned, then came toward him, all smiles. “I gave her that. Do you think she’d like to keep the ring in it?”

“I know she would.” Simon dropped it in the box. Dorothea was drifting toward her painting. He said imploringly, “Volanda is coming. I wish you could see her.”

“I did,” said Mrs. Mills. “Remember, this afternoon? Lovely girl.”

“Is this she?” Dorothea was looking at the door. Volanda stood there and Simon knew at once what had happened. She ran to him, crying, and they clung together.

Mrs. Mills said, “Uncle Willie?”

Volanda nodded and Simon lifted her chin so she was looking full over his shoulder at the painting.

Dorothea said, “If she’s this lovely when she’s sad, she must be radiant when she’s happy. Thank you, Simon,” her voice was growing fainter, “thank you... thank you... and Merry Christmas!”

Mrs. Mills said, “You know, it’s funny. A minute ago I had the impression that the painting of Dorothea looked, well, faded. Now it seems to be quite itself again. It must be the light.”