I'll See You in Paris (18 page)

“Touch
é
, young criminal. Touch
é
.”

“That's not what I meant, though,” she said. “The home was mostly empty. The furniture was gone. The dishes, removed. Artwork was pulled right off the walls.”

“I told you they auctioned off the home's contents upon the woman's death. Anything with value would've been sold decades ago.”

Annie thought of the papers in her backpack. Were those valueless? She assumed the market for first drafts of minimally read books wasn't exactly the stuff of bidding wars, but the pages meant something to her. For Gus to call them worthless felt like an insult.

“I'd like to see those transcripts,” Gus said, reading her mind, or more likely her face, which was never a decent fortress against her innermost thoughts.

“Sure,” she said with a nod. “I'll, uh, gather them up.”

Suddenly the front door of the inn flung open. It cracked against the far wall. A squall of lavender and curls spiraled in their direction.

“Annie!”

Nicola came tearing down the walkway, her coat flying out behind her.

“Annie! Miss Annie! Your mother's been looking for you! She only just left.”

“Mother?” Gus said archly. “I thought you were traveling alone?”

“Mostly!” Annie said. “Mostly alone!”

“Your mum left a message,” Nicola said, and jammed a peach-colored slip into Annie's hand. She shot Gus a scrutinizing look.

Annie smiled weakly at both of them as her eyes scanned the page.

A—

Why do I feel like I'm being punished? An early run? A suspicious tale if ever there was one. I'll be tied up in meetings all day, but please be ready by six o'clock for dinner.

Love you greatly. —Mom

Annie crumpled up the note and shoved it into her backpack.

“Thanks, Nicola,” she said.

“Also, a message has come in, from your intended. I didn't mean to pry but you left your e-mail open. Anyhoo, the computer is available if you'd like to use it.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know. By the way, do you know my friend…”

“Yes, we're acquainted,” she said. “How's your brother?”

“'Bout the same,” Gus said. He turned to Annie. “The older brother might have the responsibilities but everyone loves the kid brother more.”

“Give him my warmest regards!” Nicola said.

“It would be my pleasure.” Gus extended a hand toward Nicola, and then to Annie. “Well, I best be off. Cheers, ladies. And, Annie, please. As appealing a proposition as it might seem, try to keep yourself out of trouble. That smile helps but it's not going to cover up every crime.”

 

Twenty-nine

 

This old man is a good old charmer … too charming if you ask me. The research must be fun and the duchess … she's wild. But Annie, don't get yourself into any messes you can't get out of. Of course you can't undo the transcript stealing. So yes, absolutely, read them. I guess “fake researcher” is turning into the real deal. Seems like you're good at it.

So. The war. It's going well so far. We're almost done. Just kidding. We're still on the MEU, making our way toward AFG. I wish we'd get there already. There's a lot of nervous energy on the float, all that damn anticipation.

It must sound strange, that we want to fight. Well, that's not exactly right. It's like this. We've been tasked with something huge, and we're nervous because we want to do our jobs and do them right. It feels important. Monumental. A large load we have to carry alone. The few, the proud, and all that. On the one hand is glory, on the other … I can't even think about it.

Plus there's a little something called revenge. Revenge for all of the destruction. No one will say it, but … well … there it is. Man, we all desperately hope to do some good out there. We want to do right by our nation, and our parents, and all our wonderful Annies back home.

Not that there's anyone like you—sweet, pretty, brilliant. I swear, Annie, sometimes it's like you popped right out of a novel and into my life. It's the famous “too good to be true” except that you're real. And believe me, I've tried to find the chink. So far, no dice. I know you'd point to your living and employment situation, but all that's temporary. A person's job is not who they are.

Well, I'd better go. As anxious as I am to get to the gettin' on, I'll have a lot fewer opportunities to write once we're there. Our distance will be compounded the second I step off this boat. I can't imagine missing you more than I do now.

Stay happy. Stay safe.

All my love,
Eric

 

Thirty

 

WS: Tell me about Bernard Berenson.

GD: What does one say about the greatest art historian who ever lived?

WS: The “greatest”? Come now.

GD: Bernard was solely responsible for creating a market for Renaissance paintings. If not for him, there'd be no quote-unquote Old Masters.

WS: There is also the converse. Some say he manipulated the market and drove prices to unreasonable levels.

GD: A person has to earn a living.

WS: Customarily, yes. From what I've read, you and Berenson traveled together extensively.

GD: We did. I often joined him on trips to secure various pieces of art. He trusted my keen insight and objectivity. Assessing art may sound like a quite fanciful occupation but B.B. was under a lot of pressure. His clients were top-of-the-line.

WS: Such as?

GD: Henry Clay Frick. William Randolph Hearst. J. P. Morgan. Andrew Mellon. John D. Rockefeller. To name a few.

WS: That's quite a pedigree.

GD: Well, he was quite a man. B.B. taught me a tremendous amount. About art, of course, but also dedication. He'd travel to monasteries in the farthest outreaches of civilization to examine a single brushstroke.

WS: Astounding.

GD: Not big enough a word.

WS: But the two of you were rather disparate in age.

GD: One year or a hundred between us, does it matter?

WS: And what about Berenson's wife?

GD: Ah, old Mary. A serious woman, and a respected art critic in her own right. She liked to pretend I was a silly, simple girl. Couldn't tolerate the intellectual competition because she couldn't compete on looks. With me, there was nothing she could feel superior about.

WS: I thought you and Mary were friends. You once asked B.B. to pass along the following message to her. [Sound of papers rustling] “My love in honeyed streams to that sweetest of white mice cooked in gooseberry jam.”

GD: We were friends, for a time. But that's what friendships do. They end.

WS: Ah, so cooked in gooseberry jam by and by. Note to manuscript. Mrs. Spencer appears wistful.

GD: Mr. Seton, I have no place in my life for wistful.

WS: But you cared about Berenson deeply, didn't you?

GD: I loved him in ways you could never understand.

WS: Tell me, Mrs. Spencer, if you were so close, how come you stopped speaking in 1920?

GD: I believe he passed. That's the problem I often faced, seeing as how I was so much younger than everyone I consorted with.

WS: That's not true. I meant the first part! Please! Calm down! No need to throw things, Mrs. Spencer. I was referring to the bit about his passing. Berenson died in 1959. Not so long ago but long after you lost touch. Forty years almost.

GD: You sure know how to make a gal feel like roses.

WS: I'm sorry, Mrs. Spencer, I'm only trying to get a story, flesh out your varied cast of characters. So what happened?

GD: What happened? [Deep sigh, then three long beats] Same as always. A series of misunderstandings. My engagement to Lord Brooke, for one, he did not relish. Many rows followed and then a final, damaging crack. We never exchanged another word.

WS: How bleak.

GD: It's the manner of human nature, though, isn't it? Our bonds can't last. Despite our best efforts, the rest of the world always gets in our way.

 

Thirty-one

 

WS: But you've told us yourself—your father shot your mother's lover. Another thread linking you and the duchess.

GD: Crimes of passion happen often enough. The French wanted to pass a damned law about it! This story [Sound of newspaper thrashing] is not about them.

WS: Reading from the New York Times article. “Deacon's Line of Defense. The Killing of Monsieur Abeille” by Alexandre Dumas.

GD:…

WS: Quoting from this same article. “At midnight Deacon goes to the door of his wife's rooms and hears a noise which convinces him that she is not alone. He returns to his own room to get a revolver. At the same time he warns the secretary of the hotel, who goes with him. At Madame's door they wait three minutes. Madame opens the door in her night toilet, holding a candle in her hand. Thinking it is his duty, he enters, despite the resistance of his wife. He discovers a man whom he recognizes as Abeille and fires at him thrice.” Thrice. You have mentioned this to me prior. Three times through the couch and whatnot.

GD: A coincidence. Everyone knows there are only three plots in this world.

WS: A rather specific plot, this.

GD: I'm not sure why you want to spend so much time and attention on an assassin.

WS: Are you referring to your father? Or the man from the article?

GD: My father. [Audible sighing] Both. I'm not sure what you want me to say.

WS: It must've been an onerous situation for your family.

GD: I was … away at school. Anyhow, in the end, my father only served a year's sentence. And got himself a nice cell besides. All's well.

WS: “Well” is probably not the most accurate word, I'd reckon.

GD: True, he was a tragic figure but even now it comforts me to remember his last words before being carted off. “Take care of the children.” Said to his brother.

WS: So his last thoughts were of you.

GD: Yes. My father, for all his problems, did love us. He loved Mum, too.

WS: But he cut her out of his will?

GD. He did. It rankled her something fierce, of course, but at least he left the four of us girls with trusts and income for life.

WS: Even Dorothy? The bastard child?

GD: Please don't speak of my sister that way. She cannot help where she came from. But, yes. Illegitimate. Out of wedlock. Love child. And so on. Dorothy was allotted the same as the rest of us.

WS: How did your mother react to the change in beneficiaries?

GD: The lack of income hurt, certainly. Mum was somehow the richest woman I've ever known whilst also never having a cent to her name. On top of that, as soon as Father was released and the divorce finalized, he earned custody of us.

WS: Many would find it unconscionable that the court released children into the home of a convicted murderer.

GD: Convicted unlawful injurer. Murders aside, as a man, Father was deemed a much better guardian than some wanton sex-obsessed slag, as Mum was no doubt considered.

WS: Your mother must've been gutted.

GD: Thoroughly, yes. But Mummy always found a way around her troubles. And a way to maintain her gilded lifestyle.

WS: When I used the word “gutted,” I was referring to the loss of her children.

GD: Oh, that. Well, the custody situation didn't last. She kidnapped us from his home before too long. So everything turned out fine.

WS: Other than for your father, who died in a sanitarium. Note to manuscript. Mrs. Spencer is shrugging, but also tearing up.

GD: My eyes are watering on account of your gamey scent. When exactly was the last time you showered?

WS: You're not the first to ask. Mrs. Spencer, I can understand why it's hard for you to talk about this.

GD: Hard? Not necessarily. While the situation presented a unique set of challenges, one must contemplate whether it was for the best.

WS: If what was for the best? The shooting? Or the kidnapping?

GD: All of it. Every last miserable detail. It resulted in my parents' divorce, for one, which was beneficial to everyone involved.

WS: Including you, who received all that money.

GD: I won't apologize for my father's generosity.

WS: I'm not asking you to.

GD: On top of that, the scandal forced Mother into a different sense of purpose.

WS: How so?

GD: In a blink, her options were limited. She could no longer portray herself as the toast of Paris. Or of Rome. Her time in the limelight ended swiftly and so she focused on finding partners for her daughters instead.

WS: A sacrifice in a way.

GD: Not that she became asexual, mind you. Mother had to pay the bills somehow. But before the “event” she tried to sop up all of the attention, like a spotlight-seeking sponge. After the shooting and the divorce and the kidnapping, she decided to let us shine instead.

WS: Perhaps I wouldn't be sitting here, then, if your father hadn't shot someone.

GD: Hmm. Yes. Perhaps if not for that, you'd be pestering some other woman, mistaking HER for the duchess.

WS: Do you ever miss him, your father? I know you've mourned your mother since the day you learned she'd passed. But what about your dad?

GD: My father left me his name. He left me his money. But mostly he remains a shadowy figure. I know he was a cavalry officer in the Civil War. He was dark and fiercely intelligent. He made quick friends with those he met. But mostly I remember he was a very good shot.