A Sudden Change of Heart a Sudden Change of Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “She’d be weird too if she’d had Rosa Lavillard’s life, her childhood. Poor woman. Most people would have been in a mental home if they’d gone through what she did. Rosa’s a very brave woman. Courageous.”

  Laura stared at her grandmother and asked, “How do you know about Rosa Lavillard’s childhood?”

  “She told me.”

  “When?”

  “Before Claire and Philippe were married. Don’t you remember, I gave a small dinner party for them here. It was after dinner. She and I sat in this very room, talking for a long time. The rest of you were in the drawing room having coffee and liqueurs.”

  “Yes, of course I remember the dinner. What did she tell you, Grandma?”

  “About the war years in France, what it was like growing up during the Nazi occupation. I was able to sympathize with her, and I also understood because I’d been over there to entertain the troops. That was in 1944 and 1945. Your grandfather hadn’t wanted me to go, but I really felt I had to do something, anything, that might help. Those poor boys were over there fighting and risking their lives for us, fighting for the cause of freedom. And so I went. Your grandfather came too in the end. He wouldn’t let me go alone because he was afraid something might happen to me.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me stories about when you went to entertain the troops in the Second World War. It must’ve been exciting, Gran.”

  “In some ways. But also heartbreaking … it was so dreadful to see the dead and the dying. But I know we helped those who were wounded. We entertainers did manage to cheer them up, show them that we cared, give them a feeling of home. But they were just boys. Soldiers are always so young, it’s heartrending.”

  “I know. At least, I can imagine. How old were you, Grandma?”

  “Thirty-eight, thirty-nine. Still in my prime, still good-looking, still able to kick up my legs and sing my heart out.”

  “You haven’t changed much,” Laura said, leaning over, squeezing her grandmother’s hand. “And you’ve always been the best.”

  “That’s nice, darling, thank you. But getting back to Rosa, she suffered greatly when she was a child. She saw too much brutality and evil. In France in those days it was terrible—no food, constant bombings, the Gestapo around every corner. France was under siege then, and it was especially hard for Rosa.”

  “She told you all this that night?”

  “Some of it she told me, when it applied to her life. But I know what France was like in those days, darling.”

  “Why do you say it was especially hard for Rosa?”

  “Because she had lost her parents. She was on her own.”

  “How old was she?”

  “I’m not exactly sure now. Young, Laura, perhaps nine, but no more than ten or eleven. There was no self-pity in her. She told me in a very matter-of-fact way, and then only because I had asked her about her life. I knew she was French by birth and that she and her husband had emigrated here after the war.”

  “I see. How sad.”

  Megan gave her granddaughter a hard stare. “You say that in a strange voice. Almost as if you don’t believe Rosa’s story. I can assure you, it’s quite true.”

  “I do believe you, Gran. I was just thinking it’s a pity Claire doesn’t understand about Rosa’s childhood. Perhaps if she knew more about it, she would be more … sympathetic.”

  “Surely Philippe must have told Claire about his mother and all that she went through?”

  “He did tell her certain things, I know that, because Claire once told me. But somehow I don’t think she has the full picture.”

  “Perhaps not.” Megan was on the verge of telling Laura the whole story about Rosa Lavillard, and then she changed her mind. It was such a harrowing tale, and she suddenly felt that she didn’t have the strength this evening. Instead, she said, “If you see Rosa again, give her my very best wishes. I liked her.”

  “Yes, I will. Claire never got along with Rosa. Do you think that’s strange in view of your opinion of Rosa?”

  “Show me a woman who genuinely gets along with her mother-in-law, and I’ll eat my hat.”

  Laura had to laugh at this expression, which sounded so odd coming from her grandmother, and then she remarked, “My mother gets along with you.”

  “I’m the exception to the rule, didn’t you know that, darling girl?”

  “I suppose I did.”

  Megan chuckled. “I’m teasing you, Laura. It was like this … your mother and father were so completely besotted with each other, they never noticed anyone else. Not her mother, or me or your grandfather, not even you and Dylan. Not really. And when you don’t know someone exists, that person can’t very well be an irritant to you, can she? And I knew that if I ever voiced one word of criticism or disapproval of your mother, your father would not have spoken to me ever again. Richard meant the world to me, and I couldn’t have borne that. All I wanted was his happiness. And your mother made him happy.”

  “I understand.” Laura leaned back against the chair and stared out the window, seeing very little except the dark night sky, the dark waters of the East River. She was thinking of Rosa Lavillard and Philippe, wondering about them. Suddenly surprising herself, she confided, “Claire harbors a dreadful hatred for Philippe these days, it’s quite upsetting to witness. He stopped by unannounced when I was there for dinner and there was a terrible scene.”

  “That’s such a pity, and particularly distressing for Natasha. But children always suffer in divorce, and of course Claire has always been so extreme as well as independent of nature.”

  “Extreme. What do you mean?”

  “Claire is right or left, never in the middle. With her, things are black or white, never gray. She was like that when she was growing up, and I don’t suppose she’s changed much.” Megan let out a sigh. “Claire lacks the ability to compromise. Surely you of all people know that, Laura.”

  “I do, but I sort of ignore it. Nobody’s perfect, least of all me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Megan replied in a teasing voice.

  Laura smiled at her grandmother and sipped her sherry.

  A silence fell between them for a short while. But it was a companionable silence. Laura and her grandmother had been on the same wavelength since Laura had been a child, and they understood each other very well. Grandfather Owen often said that Laura was more like her grandmother than Megan’s own daughters, and this was the truth. The two of them were very similar and in so many ways.

  Megan suddenly said, “Is everything all right between you and Doug?”

  Taken by surprise, Laura gaped at her grandmother.

  “Is your marriage all right? Or is it in trouble?” Megan asked.

  Finding her voice, Laura said, “I don’t know, Gran.” Laura had always told her the truth, and she was being scrupulously honest now. “I think there’s something wrong, but I’m not sure what it is. Anyway, it’s not right. Not anymore.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “You did?” Laura gave her grandmother a puzzled look. “Did you notice something over Christmas?”

  “Doug was preoccupied, abstracted, and to me he seemed far away a great deal of the time, not with us.”

  “And yet he was very sweet to me, to you, to my mother.”

  “That is absolutely true. But there were moments when he thought he was unobserved that he let his guard down, and he looked quite miserable to me. As if he didn’t want to be there at all.”

  “Oh, Gran …”

  “You must talk to him, Laura. That’s the problem with most people, they never communicate their feelings. And they make silent demands.”

  “I’ll have to pick the right moment.”

  “Certainly you will. But don’t leave it too long. Don’t let whatever it is that’s troubling him fester inside.”

  “I won’t, Gran, I promise.”

  13

  Laura said, “So I didn’t misunderstand you.”

  Turning to look at Ali
son, she continued. “When you said a bronze of a ballet dancer, I immediately thought of The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer by Degas, and I was right. This is from the unnumbered edition of at least twenty-five examples cast in the 1920s. The Shelburne Museum owned one, and if I remember correctly, it was auctioned for just over eleven million by Sotheby’s last year.”

  “Correct. And who owns it now still remains largely a mystery,” Alison remarked, adding, “And any serious collector would grab this one, don’t you think?” She continued to study the Degas bronze she’d had shipped in from California; it stood on a plinth in the center of Hélène Ravenel’s Madison Avenue art gallery, highlighted by a ceiling spotlight.

  “A posthumous, second-generation cast of the original wax sculpture by Degas, done at the Hébrard foundry by the great caster Albino Palazzolo, supervised by Degas’s friend, the sculptor Albert Bartholomé,” Laura said, speaking from memory.

  “That’s absolutely right. The provenance arrived in this morning’s mail and I put it on your desk. You can look at it later. So, what do you think?”

  “It’s an incredible piece, Alison, perfectly beautiful. God, look how dirty and tattered the net tutu is. Mark will want it, I’m sure of that. And even though we have no real reason to distract him now, I think we must show it to him.”

  Alison laughed, her light gray eyes filling with merriment. “Aren’t we a couple of idiots, thinking that he would go after a Gauguin against our wishes, and one that was shrouded in problems. He’s much too smart a man for that.”

  Laura said, “It was my fault. I was the one who made the judgment about Mark. Flawed, as it turned out.”

  “We know he didn’t make an offer for the painting, but do you think he told Norman Grant about Maximilian West?”

  “It’s more than likely. Yes, I’m sure he did. But it’s of no consequence, since Sir Maximilian put Norman Grant on notice the day after my meeting with Mark. In other words, it wasn’t a secret.”

  “What do you think will happen about the Gauguin?”

  Laura lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I don’t know. It’s probably going to be a Mexican standoff, an impasse. Both men claim they own Tahitian Dreams.”

  “It’s a terrible situation, it could drag on for years,” Alison murmured, and then focused her attention on the Degas again. “What about John Wells? Do you think he would like this if Mark doesn’t want it?”

  “Yes, I do. John would jump at it, and don’t forget our new client, Olivia Gardener, in Palm Beach. This piece would be perfect for the entrance foyer of her new house on South Ocean Boulevard. I can just see it on a beautiful antique circular table in the middle of the foyer. In any case, Hélène told me she would be interested in buying this herself if we don’t place it with one of our clients.”

  “I am certainly interested,” Hélène Ravenel exclaimed, coming to join them. “Very much so.”

  The three women stood talking about the sculpture for a few moments, and then Laura looked at her watch and said, “I’m late for my lunch with Hercule. It’s a good thing I’m meeting him at the Carlyle.”

  “Give him my best,” Alison said as Laura hurried through the gallery, heading for the front door.

  “I will. See you back at the office, Alison, and thanks, Hélène, thanks for everything.”

  The Ravenel Gallery was only a couple of blocks away from the Carlyle hotel and Laura set out at a brisk pace; she was soon turning onto East Seventy-sixth Street, where the front entrance to the famous hotel was located.

  After checking her coat, she went into the restaurant, where Didier, the maître d’, greeted her pleasantly and led her over to Hercule Junot’s table.

  Hercule was on his feet in an instant, kissing her on both cheeks, beaming at her, pressing her down onto the banquette next to him.

  “I am very happy to see you, Laura,” he said, still smiling, “and delighted that you were able to have lunch with me today, and on such short notice.”

  Laura returned his smile. “So am I. It was a lovely surprise to hear from you yesterday. How long are you staying?”

  “For about a week. I came to see one of my clients. She has asked me to redecorate her house in Southampton, and so I am going to drive out there on Saturday. To spend the day reviewing the house. Now, Laura, what would you like? A glass of champagne?”

  “No, thanks, Hercule. Normally I’d say yes, but I have a mountain of paperwork on my desk and I have to get through it today. I’ll have a grapefruit juice, please.”

  After ordering their drinks, he continued. “My client mentioned that she wishes to buy some new paintings, and that she is looking to hire an art adviser. I immediately thought of you, Laura.”

  “That’s nice of you, Hercule. Thank you very much.”

  “Whilst I was sitting here waiting for you, I had this idea … that you would drive out to Long Island with me on Saturday morning. We could leave the city early, around eight o’clock, meet Mrs. Newsam, my client, and speak with her about her art preferences, and you could do a tour of the house with me as well.”

  Laura hesitated.

  Hercule immediately noticed this and said quickly, “Is it a problem for you on Saturday, my dear?”

  “Not really. It’s just that Doug and I get to see each other only on weekends, we’re so busy during the week, and—”

  “But that is not a problem,” Hercule cut in. “He could come along with us. My client’s house is situated on the dunes, and Doug could take a walk on the beach if the weather is good, whilst we look over the house and chat with Mrs. Newsam. And there is no question about it, I know she would love us all to join her for lunch. No problem, my dear, none at all.”

  Laura still hesitated and then finally she nodded, gave Hercule a bright smile. “I’m sure he’ll want to come, and thanks for thinking of me. As you know, I’m always interested in meeting prospective clients.”

  “Would Alison like to drive out there with us?”

  “No, she wouldn’t. I’m positive of that. She always spends the weekends with the twins, her two little girls, and she never lets anything interfere with her time with them and her husband, Tony.”

  “I do understand. Ah, here are the drinks,” he said as the waiter placed the glasses in front of them. Lifting his flute of champagne, he toasted, “Your health, Laura.”

  “And yours, Hercule.”

  They talked for a few moments about the Southampton house of the client he had flown to New York to see, and then Hercule suggested they order lunch. “Since it’s a working day for you, Laura, I’m sure you don’t wish to linger too long over lunch.”

  Laura smiled at him, picked up the menu, and glanced at it. “I’d like to have the cold asparagus vinaigrette and then afterward the grilled sole.”

  “I will join you in the fish, but I will start with des huîtres. To me there are no better oysters than the ones I have in New York, not even in la belle France.”

  Much later, when lunch was more or less over, Hercule suddenly said in a low, confiding tone, “I would like to propose a project that would be very profitable for you if you were to take it on.”

  “You know I’m always interested in doing business, Hercule. What’s the project?”

  “Sir Maxim West.” Hercule smiled, and lifted his hands in his typical Gallic way. “What I mean is, I want you to meet him. He will be in New York on Monday, and I wish to take you to see him at his office. He would like to totally revamp his art collection; revamp is the word he uses, Laura, and I think you are the perfect person to help him. I have known him a long time, many years, he is a client of mine, and I understand him. He is very low key these days and doesn’t like fuss. I believe the two of you will be … compatible. Very compatible.”

  Although somewhat taken by surprise at Hercule’s suggestion, Laura was excited, and she exclaimed, “Hercule, I would love to meet him! How wonderful of you to do this. Alison will be thrilled when I tell her that we might be acquiring two new cl
ients.”

  “I am delighted to be of help to you, my dear, and your expertise can only reflect well on me,” he answered, his eyes twinkling. “Now that we have settled this, tell me your news, Laura.” He gave her the benefit of a warm, avuncular smile and sat back.

  “There’s not much to tell,” she replied, taking a last bite of fish, then placing her fork on the plate, also leaning back against the banquette. “Business is quite good, as I told you last night on the phone, and I’ve no other news.”

  “As I told you, Sir Maxim has informed Mr. Grant about the long history of Tahitian Dreams, or, rather, I should say his lawyers have done so. And now we can only wait and see what is going to happen. However, in my opinion, such as it is, I do believe this is not going to be easy. I doubt very much that Mr. Grant will relinquish the painting, hand it over to Sir Maximilian without a protest. Why should he?”

  Laura nodded. “Morally he should, of course, but I tend to agree with you, it’s not going to be quite so simple. I’m totally on the side of the original owner, because the work of art was stolen from him. No matter what anyone says to me, the arguments they make, I believe it’s wrong to shield the provenance of stolen goods from proper scrutiny. And by rights Tahitian Dreams should go back to the owner, or if he’s dead, the heirs.” Laura paused, then finished. “But it’s going to be a battle. Still, there’s a solution to everything, Hercule, although I can’t quite envision a solution to this dilemma. At least not at the moment.”

  He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “If you come up with a solution, please let me know immediately, I am certain Sir Maxim would want to hear it.”

  “Doug’s been calling you,” Alison said, walking out of her office into the reception area of Art Acquisitions as Laura came in. “He tried reaching you at the Carlyle but just missed you. He called back here to tell me he’s now on his way to Teterboro Airport. He’ll phone again from the car.”

  “Why is he going out there?” Laura stared at her partner, puzzlement flashing across her face.