“…show it for at least six months,” Franklin was saying.

            “What?  Oh, yes.  That would be spectacular,” Bette responded, wondering just what in hell she had agreed to.  That soft panic rose up into her throat again, but she pushed it down effectively.

            Franklin gave her one more supercilious smile, looked over her shoulder and waved at someone else.  “Well, time to mingle, Bette.  I’m so glad you see it my way.”  He gripped his wife’s arms and moved off toward another knot of guests, entirely missing the look of consternation on Bette’s face.

            She was still mulling it over when Helena appeared at her side, reached out and touched her arm.  “Bette!”  She smiled that infectious smile of hers. 

            As much as she hated it, Bette couldn’t help but be charmed by Peggy’s daughter, though she was still quite curious as to why Peggy never talked about her.

            “I can’t tell you how badly I want to bring the Barnes show here,” Helena said earnestly, “but….”

            But.  There it was.  Some caveat.  Bette’s heart plunged to her stomach.  Was this roller coaster ride of emotions ever going to cease?

            “Come with me,” Helena looped her arm through Bette’s, “it’s easier if I show you.”  Her accent tipping at the words, her lips wrapping them so effectively that no matter what she said, she could throw you off your game or your guard.

            Bette tried not to let her shoulders sag in trepidation, as she let Helena lead her into the West Wing.  “This space….” Helena gestured with her other hand.  She always made it look so elegant when she did that.  “It has the room, the dimensions, it can easily hold all the pieces we want to show.  More even.”

            “I’m glad you like it,” Bette said suspiciously.  She knew there was a dropping shoe in there somewhere.  She waited for the thumping sound, and here it was. 

            “But it…it lacks something, Bette.  It’s barren.”

            Thump, the shoe falling onto the floor, one high-heeled stiletto, but a shoe nonetheless.

            “Well, of course,” Bette answered, biting back on her impatience.  “There’s no art here yet.  It….”