When the early morning sun broke over the mansions lining the Museumplein, Rita Brouwer was already sipping tea in her hotel’s breakfast room. A pile of empty cupcake wrappings filled her plate. Rita hadn’t slept a wink. Instead, she’d spent her first night in Amsterdam tossing and turning as she tried to figure out how she could convince Bernice Dijkstra and Huub Konijn to give her Irises before she flew back to the States. If the opening was as big a deal as they claimed it would be, there should be plenty of reporters present, she reckoned. She’d have to have a condensed version of her family’s history and sister’s illness ready, just in case. Maybe if she got the media on her side from the get-go, those museum folks would be more inclined to return the painting to her sooner rather than later.
Why weren’t the photographs proof enough? Why did she have to go through this bureaucratic nightmare simply to get back what was rightfully hers? If only mama had fought harder, she could have provided us with a better life. Instead, all of us girls had to work our fingers to the bone to survive, as she’d had to, Rita thought, bitter tears streaming down her cheeks. “No, don’t you dare think like that,” she reprimanded herself, using a cloth napkin to dab her face dry. It wasn’t her fault she had to raise us alone. If only daddy had come to the farm, like he promised.
Well, now it was her chance to change their family’s fortune and recoup at least one of their paintings, if not all of them. Today she would pump Zelda for information; as an intern she was privy to Huub and Bernice’s expectations as to proof of ownership. Rita knew the curator was the one she needed to convince. He’d made it plain as day he didn’t believe a word she’d said. If more proof was what he wanted, that’s precisely what he’d get, she thought, a devilish grin spreading across her face.
If sappy news articles about Iris’s poor health or their daddy’s mysterious disappearance didn’t pressure the museum into giving her Irises right away, her daddy’s letter might. With a little practice she’d be able to write like him, at least enough to fool the museum’s researchers. If Huub wanted a name, by golly he’d get one. There was no way she’d let a little thing like the truth get in her way, not when she was so close to getting Irises back.