Chapter 4 The Director's Domain

The morning began like Jonah liked it: quiet, ordered, the way a page is crisp before ink spills across it. He moved through his routine with the same careful hands he used on fragile objects—there was a rhythm to it that steadied him. Coffee measured, not poured; mug warmed in his palms, the rim nicked on the left where he'd banged it once carrying boxes up from a delivery and hadn't bothered to mend. He checked the lock on the museum's front door twice, glanced at the foyer clock, and walked the hallways with the soft-soled steps of someone who tried to make as little noise as possible in a place built to preserve stillness.

"Morning, Jonah," Dr. Marcus Webb called before Jonah reached the director's office. The curator was in tweed as usual, elbows patched and a bow tie askew from sleep. The bow tie always slid a little to one side these days, lending him an absent-minded charm that softened his gravitas.

"Morning, Marcus," Jonah replied, lifting his coffee in a small salute. Dr. Webb's office door was cracked open; the faintest note of classical music threaded the air—some piece Marcus hummed when his hands needed direction. Marcus looked up from a stack of accession forms, his face a steady island in the tide of work. He moved through problems slowly, like someone turning a big stone in a river to see what life was hiding underneath.

Sage Ortiz was already in the education room by the time Jonah passed—scarf looped, expressive hand making an arc in the air as she described a tour script to an intern. She had a way of speaking that filled a room: clear, bright, direct. "Jonah!" she called, and her voice snapped like a flag in good wind. "You won't believe the turnout for the kids' program next week. We need two extra volunteers."

"Two extra volunteers," Jonah echoed, because his habit was to repeat instructions out loud, which made them more real. He moved through the staff with quick nods; he knew every hand that worked here, every small tic. The museum was a team, and he was its slow center.

"Are you up for the board meeting at nine?" Marcus asked, lowering his voice. "They want to talk gala details. The donor list is getting… opinionated."

Jonah's shoulders tightened in a way that didn't reach his face. "I'm up," he said. "I'll be there."

Sage slid a clipboard toward him, eyebrows raised. "We need your call on whether to open the restoration lab for the gala preview," she said, practical and sharp. "Members want to see the Blackwood collection, but that's controlled access. Marcus is leaning one way—public interest—but we know the risks."

Jonah picked up the clipboard as if it were a specimen that required gentle handling. He read briefly, eyes narrowing in that way that made people trust he had seen the real shape of things. "We'll restrict viewing to scheduled groups," he decided, voice even. "Controlled lighting, low humidity pockets, and two staff members present. We can do a behind-the-scenes with a small, vetted group. It's education, not spectacle."

Sage's face lit with approval. "Practical. I like practical."

Marcus nodded. "I'll draft a proposal for the board," he said.

They moved like a well-oiled machine across the morning. Jonah's competence wasn't showy; it was the quiet kind that let others breathe. He signed permits, read grant letters, and answered vendors. He walked the galleries, checking cases, the seals on glass lids, the humidity readouts. His steps were methodical, his voice calm when he redirected a tour guide or settled a volunteer's concern. People came to him with problems because they trusted he would render them into plans.

"Jonah," Sage said later, catching him by the curator's desk with a grin that brightened the air, "you're doing that thing where you look handsome even when you're stressed. It's unfair."

He managed a small, private smile. "That's purely accidental."

"Isn't everything?" she replied, playful and sideways. Sage had been his friend longer than most; she had the kind of loyalty that could be blunt and forgiving in the same sentence. She was quick to notice cracks; she also shoves bandages on them. "Listen—board's worried about fundraising numbers. They think the gala will pull it together, but they're hawkish about donors. We need a narrative for the Blackwood collection that doesn't read like a scandal."

Jonah's throat tightened despite his practiced calm. "We will tell the science of it," he said. "We'll explain provenance, conservation work, and the historical context. We'll be transparent but careful."

"You always do this thing," Sage said, softer, "where the careful bit protects you as much as it protects the museum."

Jonah looked at her. The observation landed like a cool breeze. "I keep the museum safe," he offered. "It's what I can control."

Sage reached out and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. "And when will you let Marcus or me keep you company in that?"

He didn't answer because there was no clean way to explain the hollow he felt—a loneliness not eased by accolades or by a room full of donations. His leadership was a refuge and a prison. He put his hand to his mouth for an instant, considering. The interior silence was something he kept like a second pair of clothes.

"Do you want coffee?" Marcus offered, reading the little shift on Jonah's face like a page he had seen before. Marcus's eyes held the wear of someone who had loved and lost, a softness that made Jonah trust him.

"No. Thank you." Jonah folded his hands, then loosened them, as if that small physical motion might ease the neck of the day.

The rest of the morning was a parade of small, urgent tasks. A shipment missed its expected arrival, and Jonah spent ten minutes on the phone smoothing things with a supplier. He walked the storage rooms, checking crates while calling out accession numbers like a liturgy. He granted access to a visiting researcher, offering a curt welcome that still managed warmth. He answered questions in a way that made people nod along, confident the museum workings were in capable hands.

At eleven, he closed his office door for a few moments—a habit to collect himself. The room was professional and tidy: books in neat stacks, a small, modern lamp, a leather chair with the color of old evenings. The walls were not crowded with personal items; Jonah kept his life in tidy compartments. A framed photo sat on his desk—he, Dr. Webb, and Sage at last year's fundraiser, standing on a riser with polite smiles. The photo was warm but lacked a romantic partner; an absence that had become a presence in his life. He moved the frame with a thumb and didn't let his eyes linger.

He took a breath and opened a manila folder marked "New Hire Paperwork." He read the resume with the methodical intensity he used on provenance documents. There it was: W. Blackwood—taxidermist, restoration specialist. The paper listed work history, references, a portfolio link he didn't click on in the office, and credentials that read well. Letters of recommendation, careful, professional, and dated, that matched the museum's needs.

He scanned the notes. He felt something small, a private test of composure. W. Blackwood. The initials carried no gender in a file, only experience. He went over the line once more, his eyes lingering on each word. "W. Blackwood—Available to begin Monday." He allowed himself a small slackening of his jaw; the news should be purely logistical information, and yet a thin thread of something else—history, perhaps—tightened in his chest.

He set the file down and told himself what the museum needed him to do: Good credentials. Solid references. The work will be the work. The museum must not be a place where personal histories interfere. He had built the institution on the premise that the past mattered and that it deserved stewardship without theatrics.

He pushed the personnel aside. "Marcus, please schedule orientation for the new taxidermist," he spoke in a tone that conveyed nothing but procedure. "Make sure she has secure access to the restoration lab, and schedule an introductory meeting for staff."

Marcus wrote it down with a nod. "Already emailing," he said. "Are you sure you don't want me to handle the initial meet-and-greet? You looked like you were about to meet a ghost just reading the file."

Jonah let out a small sound that might have been a laugh or a sigh. "I'll meet the staff," he said. "I'll be present."

Sage raised an eyebrow from where she'd been listening, ready with a joke. "You never meet anything halfway, Jonah," she teased. "You stand there like a lighthouse."

He didn't correct her. The simile fit him like an old coat he wasn't sure he wanted to take off.

But even as he arranged logistics, the file on his desk kept tugging at the edge of his mind. W. Blackwood. He tried to catalogue his reaction: practical interest, curiosity about skill sets, concern only for the museum's needs. He was a director who kept emotions in the margins.

He made a list—a small stack of pragmatic things: orientation, security badge, lab key, PPE. He ticked boxes, turned the pages, and then paused when he saw a reference from Dr. Marcus Webb's own notes—annotations indicating some overlap with the Blackwoods historically. Marcus had scribbled something about the Blackwood collection and a donor who wished to remain anonymous. Jonah's pen hovered. He didn't let it touch the paper; the museum's past had a way of complicating the present. He preferred clarity.

At noon, a staff meeting convened. The board and volunteers wanted the director's voice steady. Jonah spoke with crisp clarity about budgets, guest lists, and directions for the exhibit. He listened to opinions, weighed them, and turned them into decisions. He delegated: Sage would handle educational outreach, Marcus would draft the conservation plan, and Jonah himself would manage donor relations and board expectations. He left no anchor points unresolved.

After the meeting, people dispersed into the museum's corridors, their energy and chatter filled the air, and Jonah lingered at the top of the stairwell. He ran a hand over his face and felt a soft grit of fatigue he couldn't shake. The place he had built was bustling and alive, full of voices and small, satisfying progress. Yet inside, there was a quiet room in his chest that didn't fill.

He opened the drawer of his desk and took out a thin spiral-bound notebook—his personal notes, the place he jotted rules and reminders in an attempt to keep his world manageable. He wrote, in precise letters, "Meet W. Blackwood. Assess skills. Maintain professional boundaries." Then, as if the page needed to be held firm against the tide of emotion, he added, "Remember: the museum comes first."

He closed the notebook and slid it back. It was necessary, the lines he drew. He believed in the museum like a religion; it gave him a structure after his heartbreak and of a father who had left. He had turned abandoned spaces into purpose, and in that way, his life had made sense.

Yet as the sun moved west and the museum's windows threw long rectangles of light across the floor, Jonah could not entirely quell the private unease that came with a name on a file. He told himself again, with the kind of small, internal voice he used when making hard decisions, that this was about stewardship, about responsible care of a collection set to become central to the museum's next chapter.

He looked at the file one more time before turning towards the window and watching the museum lawn. The letters on the top of the folder were small and blunt.

W. Blackwood. Good credentials. That's all that matters.