“You are grieving, Emma,” Marcus said gently.

“You lost your husband, your mother, and the life you thought you had, all in the span of a few months.”

“But you saved the one thing that mattered to your mother.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brass key.

“The maintenance workers just finished upstairs,” he said.

“They are waiting for you to hang the portrait.”

***

I took the key and walked back inside, climbing the main staircase.

The hallway was quiet, the air fresh and clean.

Two workers were waiting outside the newly designated archive room.

My mother’s portrait lay on a padded blanket on the floor.

“Where would you like it, Emma?” the taller worker asked.

“Right here, in the center of the main lobby wall,” I said.

I pointed to the prominent space above the oak fireplace.

It was the exact spot where Grant had hung his own portrait three years ago.

The workers lifted the heavy frame, their boots squeaking on the polished hardwood.

They aligned the wire with the heavy brass hooks on the wall.