Chapter 11 - THE FOUNDATION
Spring arrived in Chicago, washing away the bitter winter snow and bringing a sense of renewal I hadn't felt in two decades.
The divorce was finalized in May. I kept the house, full custody of Hannah, and total control of the gallery. Richard was sentenced to eight years in federal prison for wire fraud and interstate trafficking of stolen property.
I didn't attend his sentencing. I was too busy.
The Eleanor Brooks Foundation was officially opening its doors.
We had transformed the old, pretentious Grand Ashford Gallery into something bright and welcoming. We knocked down the restrictive VIP partitions, opened the large front windows to let the natural light flood in, and replaced the sterile white walls with warm, inviting tones.
It was a Saturday morning. The gallery was filled with local high school students setting up their easels for a weekend workshop.
I was at the front desk, sorting through application portfolios for our summer scholarship program, when the little bell above the door chimed.
I looked up.
A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a casual tweed jacket, walked in. He looked around the bustling, vibrant room with a slow, appreciative smile.
It was Marcus Thorne.
“You know, Catherine,” Marcus said, walking up to the desk, “I almost don't recognize the place. It smells like actual paint in here, not just expensive perfume and greed.”
“That’s the goal,” I laughed, stepping around the desk to hug him. “What brings you by? I thought you were in New York this week.”
“I was,” Marcus said, his eyes twinkling. “I was meeting with the board of the National Arts Endowment. They saw the write-up on your foundation. They want to partner with you, Catherine. They want to take this model and fund it nationally.”
I stared at him, stunned. “Nationally? Marcus, we just opened.”
“You have seventy-four original Eleanor Brooks paintings acting as collateral,” Marcus pointed out. “And you have a story that half of America followed on the news. You’re a symbol of integrity in an industry that desperately needs it.”
He handed me a thick, embossed envelope.
“They want you to fly to Washington next month to present your curriculum,” he said.
I held the envelope, feeling the weight of the opportunity. My mother’s legacy wasn't just going to survive in Chicago; it was going to help kids across the country.
“Mom! Look!”
I turned around. Hannah was running over from the workshop area, her hands covered in blue paint, holding up a canvas.
“Mr. Davis showed me how to use the palette knife for the water texture,” she beamed, pointing to the swirling waves on her painting.
“It’s beautiful, honey,” I said, wiping a smudge of blue paint off her nose.
Marcus smiled at her. “You’ve got your grandmother’s eye for color, Hannah.”
“Thank you,” she said proudly. “I’m going to sign it right now.”
She jogged back to her easel. I watched her, feeling an overwhelming surge of love and gratitude.
“She’s happy,” Marcus observed quietly.
“We both are,” I said.
I looked down at the envelope in my hands, then up at the bright, open space I had built.
May you like
For twenty years, I had stood in the shadows, letting a man take credit for my hard work, my mother’s talent, and my family’s money. I had convinced myself it was the price of a stable life.
Never again.
