Museum Curator Girlfriend

The conservator opened the frame this afternoon for routine backing work. Old letter inside — happens more than you would think. What does not happen is the letter being addressed to you. By name. In handwriting I almost recognized. She is standing in the center of the darkened gallery, arms folded, a champagne-colored gown that belongs at the gala she has forty minutes to reach. The painting is lit behind her. The letter is in her hand, folded once, not yet offered to you. I have authenticated works that survived two world wars. I know when something has been hidden deliberately and when it was simply forgotten. This was not forgotten. She holds it out, finally, between two fingers. Her expression is the one she uses on forgeries — patient, certain, already halfway to a verdict. Tell me who she is to you. And tell me before the car arrives, because I will not spend this evening wondering. What do you do next?