The House of Dreams (21 page)

“All you have, or all you have on you?” He sneered. “Don't try and play games with me. I know how much you took from the château. There was always plenty of cash in the desk. I want another five hundred francs next Friday. I'll meet you outside the Notre-Dame de la Garde.”

“I don't have it.”

“Then find it.” Quimby tucked the money into his breast pocket. “I want you to keep a low profile. Not that you would be hanging out in the kind of hotels my clients are staying in.” He pulled on a pair of black kid leather gloves and turned up his collar. “I wouldn't want them to bump into you, that's all. And in case you get any ideas about not showing up, you should know I've been following you for a couple of days. I know all about the ARC, and that pretty little blonde.” My mouth went dry. “You should also know that I have certain photographs of you in Vita's studio.…”

“Rubbish, you're bluffing.”

Quimby calmly pulled out his wallet and slipped out a black-and-white photograph folded in four. I fought the urge to retch. The night returned to me. The flash of Quimby's camera reflected in the mirror near Vita's easel, the pop and hiss of the bulb.

“Don't you dare threaten me,” I said quietly. The blood rushed and sang in my ears. Could I thump him, steal his wallet? But Quimby had said “photographs”—he had more, somewhere? I racked my brain, trying to remember that night.

“I'll do what I damn well like.” He tucked the photo away. “And don't think about disappearing in this cesspool of a city, or I'll be straight round to nice Mr. Fry with the rest of the charming photos I took at the Château d'Oc.”

“You wouldn't dare. I'll … I'll…” I was right. Panic washed through me, chill and sickening.

“What are you going to do? Bump me off?” He laughed, a quick exhalation through his nose. “Or
did
you do it?” I saw his teeth gleam in the blue streetlight as he turned away, smiling. “Who cares? For what I'll get for the paintings I'll risk dealing with a murderer.”

Quimby was clever, that's for sure. He wormed his way straight to the heart of the thing that kept me awake at night. Did I kill them? Sometimes, in the sleepless hours, I still wonder if I pulled that door to and sealed their fate. I stood in the alleyway for a few minutes after Quimby left, shaking with shock and cold.

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

F
LYING
P
OINT
, L
ONG
I
SLAND

2000

S
OPHIE

The light is dazzling, flaring on the water, on the white sand. Sophie tastes salt on her lips as she bites the bottom one, searching in her bag for her phone. She is some way from the Lamberts' house, alone. She has ignored the insistent ring of the old-phone tone twice already, and she goes to switch it off but then sees it is Jess.

“Where are you?” he says the moment she answers.

“Flying Point.” Sophie sinks down on her haunches and looks out to sea. “I can't talk now.” She rakes her hand through her hair. “It feels like I've walked miles. I'm going round and round in circles.…”

“Listen, be careful, okay?”

“What do you mean, be careful?”

“I've been doing some snooping around for you.” She hears the slight slur to his words, the background noise of a bar somewhere.

“I can look after myself.”

“I know, I know.” The phone muffles as he tucks it beneath his jaw. “But I've something that might make a difference.”

“To the story?”

“To how much you care about the story. To us.”

Sophie exhales and glances over her shoulder. She settles down on the sand. “Go on, then.”

“Tell me what you know about your dad's family.”

“What? Where's this going, Jess?” Sophie frowns with frustration. “My great-grandfather was from London. He married an American girl, Sophie, who I'm named for. They had two children, my great-aunt Vita and my grandfather Sam. There was some kind of argument, and Vita went off to France before World War Two. When my great-grandfather was killed, Sophie moved back to the U.S. with Sam—I think she met a GI, or something, in London?”

“Right so far.” Sophie's eyes narrow at his cocky tone. “Go on.”

“Vita, as we know, died in France.” Sophie squeezes the bridge of her nose. “I'm going to get to the bottom of that.”

“And what about your grandfather Sam?”

“I … I don't know much about his past.” Sophie hears Jess exhale a short, soft laugh.

“Go on,” he says.

“Sam met a girl in New York sometime in the early fifties, and they had a kid—my father, Jack Cass.”

“Nope, not necessarily.”

“What do you mean, ‘nope'?”

“I mean, what if Sam Cass isn't your grandfather?” Jess sounds triumphant. “I can't believe you didn't check this out—”

Sophie leaps up and paces along the shore. “What are you talking about?”

“It's basic Journalism 101. Take everything you believe to be true that you are basing your story on, and make damn sure it is before you start work. I knew you would have taken this for granted. You trust people too much, Soph.” She hears him take a hit of his drink. “Old Sam must have been a stand-up guy, because he married a girl with a small baby.” Sophie hears the rattle of ice cubes. “Who knows, maybe it was a lavender marriage and he had something to hide himself; they didn't have any more kids—”

“You're drunk.” Sophie closes her eyes, and the bright corona of the sun flares red and orange behind her eyelids.

“I may be drunk, but I'm right. There's a blank on your daddy's birth certificate under ‘Father.'”

“Why are you doing this?”

“So that you'll give up on this dumb story, and come to Paris with me. The great Jack Cass was a bastard. There's no family connection now, no magical free-spirited Great-aunt Vita that you clearly wish you were more like—”

“That's low.” Sophie shakes her head. “Dumb story?”

“Hey, don't shoot the messenger,” Jess says. “It's not your story, Cass. Let the past go.”

“Do you really think I care any less about it because of this? You're right about one thing, Sam was a stand-up guy. Whatever the deal was with their relationship, he and my grandmother loved one another, Jess—really loved one another, and they loved Dad.”

“I didn't mean—”

“I grew up listening to Sam's stories about Vita, and if you don't get how inspiring hearing about a woman who was creative, and smart, and not afraid of anything was to a kid, then that's your loss.” It feels like something has broken free inside her. “If you thought shattering my dreams would make me settle for you, then you were wrong.”

“Hey, Cass, hold on—”

“Do you think I care for one moment if Vita's not a blood relation? She's family, Jess. We loved her, and she died. She was younger than me, and I just want to find out the truth, for me and for Dad.”

“Yeah, it's all about Daddy.…”

“What was I, Jess? Your idea of the perfect girlfriend for the great American writer?”

“Soph, you were—you are, perfect for me—”

“Perfect pedigree? You loved the idea of that, at first, didn't you? Jack Cass's daughter. My dad may have been a bastard as you so charmingly put it, but he was still a better writer than you'll ever be.”

“What happened to you?”

“I grew up.” Sophie raises her chin. “I owe it to him to write this story, and then I'm done.”

“Paris?”

“No, Jess. You've always been so hung up on proving that you are better than my dad, and you've just shown me you are nowhere near the man he was. He was human, and fallible, and wonderful, and he loved me and my mom. You've never loved anyone but yourself, Jess. I deserve more than that.”

“You've met someone, haven't you,” he says. Sophie thinks of their conversation in the bar the night before. “Is it serious?”

She glances over her shoulder, feels her stomach tighten at the thought of Harry. She's angry, but there's a fierce inevitability to it. “Nothing's happened.” She realizes it's not true as she says it.
Nothing's happened—yet.
“It's over, Jess. It was over with us when you left me, and now I'm over you.”

“Good luck to him, whoever the hell he is.” Jess's words roll together, angry and hurt. “He's going to have to be one hell of a man to shape up to your daddy. I mean, what was it about him, eh? What did Jack Cass ever do for you that I couldn't? I know you. I know there's something you haven't told me.”

“Thanks, Jess,” she says calmly. “Thank you for making one decision a whole lot easier.” Sophie turns and gazes out at the endless blue sea. “Take care of yourself. Good-bye.”

Sophie cups the phone in both hands, fights the urge to throw it out to sea. She wants Jess, and his jealousy, gone, gone for good.
What did Jack Cass ever do for you?
Her chest rises and falls, her heart a staccato beat.
You'll never know now, Jess.

*   *   *

“How was ballet?”

Sophie can remember her father's voice, still. She remembers the feel of her mittened hand in his, how she leaned in to the warmth of his overcoat, her head resting against his hip, the soft leather of his jacket—the smell of tobacco and motorbike oil. Steam rose from the pavement vent at their side as they waited to cross West Seventy-ninth Street. She remembers it all.

“Ballet was good. I'm ready for the exam next week.”

“Good girl. Always give one hundred and ten percent, remember that.” She feels him tighten his grip on her hand as they walk on up Broadway.

“I'm starving. Can we get a milkshake?”

Jack glances at his watch. “Your mom needs some groceries from Zabar's, and I've got to get back to work, honey. We'll be at the apartment in a few minutes, can't you wait?”

“I'll be quick, I promise.” Sophie points at an old drugstore on the side street, its neon sign and chrome silver front blurred by the first snow falling. “Come on.…” Her hand slips from his, and she backs away, daring him. “We can share a chocolate one.”

“You're on,” Jack says. He scoops her up into his arms and runs toward the drugstore.

Sophie remembers pushing open the door of the drugstore, the old bell ringing high above her, the warm draft of air. They sit at the lunch counter, her feet swinging above the chrome bar of the stool. The windows are steamed up, the streetlights and headlights beyond a pastel blur. It is busy. They have to wait for their order. She remembers the anticipation, swinging impatiently on the stool, round and round as Jack flicks through
The New York Times
. Finally, the waitress hands over the metal mixing cup and two glasses, two red-and-white-striped waxed paper straws.

Sophie has thought of this moment so often, it has a hyperreal quality. The red of the Formica counter is vivid. She sees her small hand on the counter, reaching for her glass, the smooth flow of the milkshake, hears the hiss of the coffee machine. Just as Jack begins to pour, the shop bell rings again.

Sophie's stomach lurches now with fear.

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

V
ILLA
A
IR
-B
EL
, M
ARSEILLE

1940

V
ARIAN

“
Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,”
Varian murmured, gazing up at the murals in the library. “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” From the hall below, voices drifted up and among them the clear sound of a young American woman, saying, “And this is for the children.”

“You shouldn't have,” he heard Danny saying. “Thank you, Miss Guggenheim.”

“Peggy,” Varian said, jogging downstairs. He was struck as usual by her warm and anxious gaze. It always seemed out of place, somehow, in such an angular, confident woman. Her hesitation, her nervousness, made him want to protect her. Even her slightly bulbous nose added to the charm of her face.

“What a darling place you've found!” Peggy Guggenheim stepped across the black-and-white tiles of the hall and turned in a slow circle, taking the house in. “How clever of you, Varian.”

“It was nothing to do with me.” Varian glanced at Mary Jayne. She leaned against the doorway to the living room, smoking a cigarette, one arm crossed over her rib cage. “Miriam and Mary Jayne masterminded the whole thing.” He registered her slow approval. “We're very happy here,” Varian said. “May I take your coat?”

“Oh, no, my dear. It's frightfully cold.” She pulled the collar of her dark sable coat tighter, burying her head farther down. “Aren't you freezing?”

“You get used to it.” Varian ushered her into the living room.

“I'm so pleased to be here, at last. The artists talk of little else except Breton's Sunday salons.” She cupped the curl of her hair in her palm and buoyed it up. “Air-Bel and Countess Lily Pastré's estate at Montredon are like sanctuaries in a dark night, the calm eyes of the storm.…”

Varian raised his eyebrows at Mary Jayne as Peggy walked on.

“Lily's a remarkable woman,” Peggy said. “I believe Masson is in hiding with her, is he not? And Pablo Casals, Josephine Baker. Under any other circumstances it would be a marvelous party, wouldn't it?”

“Come and warm up, Peggy,” Mary Jayne drawled. “Can I get you a drink?”

“A cognac, perhaps? Just to warm up.” Peggy curled up on the rug before the fire, her thin legs tucked beneath her body. “Well, who are you?” she said to Clovis, who rolled over on his back, paws cycling the air. “I've met old Dagobert, but you are a handsome young fellow, aren't you?”

“Thank you,” Varian said.