“What are those?” she asked, recognizing that the panels in the salon and the tree in the negative they’d looked at that morning were of the same type.
“Les Faux de Verzy,” Josh replied. “Part of a forest of dwarf beech trees. Nobody really knows why they’ve grown like that. Some people say it’s witchcraft or magic.” He shrugged as if he didn’t believe it.
D’Arcy found she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the tree. She had that same sense that it was beckoning her closer, as if it had a secret to tell her, should she chance to seek shelter beneath its draped and elegant boughs. What was happening to her? Her imagination was soaring more spectacularly than the hawk above, conjuring spells and fairytales and hexed trees when all there was before her was a chateau with a magical name, a man with a picnic basket, an old woman with photographs and her mother with—what? Lies?
D’Arcy talked on as if her words might break the enchantment she felt encircling her. “It’s my mother’s fault I’m not shy,” she said. “She taught me to question everything, to say what I thought because sometimes, if you didn’t, people died. I know that sounds like a brutal lesson for a child but she’d talk about the way the Germans and even some of the French people had never said anything about what was happening during the war but that if every voice had spoken aloud, perhaps it would have ended sooner, or with a lower body count. She believed holding back was a dangerous thing that could end in sadness. Which obviously doesn’t tally with your personal code of conduct,” she finished lightly.
“Hey, I invited you to a picnic. That was daring.”
“My God, what might you do by the end of the day? Hold my hand?”
She felt the brush of warm skin against her fingers as he threaded his hand into hers.
“I’m living dangerously,” he grinned, no longer inscrutable but exceptionally charming.
D’Arcy’s insides flipped with joy at making him both laugh and smile in the space of two minutes.
When they reached the waterside and he let go of her hand to lay out the food, she found that she missed his touch. She wandered over to the canal, stopping at a cluster of deliciously cool and viridescent ferns beneath the regiment of plane trees lining the banks. It was hot, the sun burning down, but the shade beneath the foliage was lovely. She realized she was standing beside another of those strange dwarf trees but that this time, rather than coaxing her, its graceful arms were merely extending an invitation that she could ignore should she wish.
So she shucked off her shoes, lifted her skirts a little and waded into the water, reveling in the chill against her legs. She stood still for a few minutes, before tossing her hat onto the bank and turning her face up to the sun, her body softening in the warmth, as if she could so easily bleed into this place and never leave.
It shocked her a little, this sense of how simple it would be to allow her feet to sink into the mud like the roots of water lilies and remain there. Never before in her twenty-nine years had she felt any kind of urge for permanency or stability. After university in Paris and her stint at the gallery there, she’d traveled through Europe for two years, living off her wits, travel articles that she sent back to an editor of her mother’s magazines, and occasional poorly paid stints on low budget arthouse films. She’d taken a grunt job over summer to show tourist groups through an art museum in Rome and had an affair with a much older Italian art handler, which had given her the idea that art handling would be the perfect job for somebody like her.
When her money had run out, she’d returned to Australia. She took up a position as an art consultant for a new hotel chain that wanted art to be its point of difference, then hopped to an art auction house, which brought her into contact with galleries, before finally landing an assistant curatorship. After a year, they trusted her enough to start doing the art handling. After another year in a permanent role combining curating and handling, she quit to freelance. Sometimes she had to worry for a day or two about where her next paycheck might come from but she’d always been able to fill any gaps between art handling or curating contracts with freelance writing. It meant she could take off to Europe whenever she wanted and she was beholden to no one. She loved waking up every morning knowing she could do whatever she wanted.
Just as she loved standing in the river right now, and she knew it was only because she’d pursued freedom with such zeal that she was here in France, in bliss. An art handler or curator with a permanent position at a gallery would have to rush back, whereas she could enjoy the sunshine.
Her eyes snapped open with the sudden, curious sensation that someone was watching her and she whirled around. Nobody was there. But the faux—the eccentric trees—around her now appeared to be impenetrable, as if they were cradling something precious beneath their canopies.
A minute later, Josh appeared.
“I bet you’ve never waded in the canal,” she called out.
“You’re right,” he said.
She bent down and scooped up a palmful of water, which she flicked at him. “You said you were being a daredevil…”
He was in the water before she could finish her sentence, scooping up an even larger handful of water and pouring it down her back.
She gasped and let go of her skirt, which tumbled into the water. She looked down at it ruefully. “Luckily it’s a warm day so I won’t have to take it off and drape it over a bush to dry.”
He actually laughed. “That is lucky,” he said dryly. Then he put his hands lightly on her waist and spun her around to face the bank, propelling her forwards. “Besides, wearing a damp dress will cool you down, which it sounds like you need. Let’s eat.”
She followed him over to the picnic blanket, where she found herself speechless.
Champagne bubbled in glasses. Baguettes piled high with brie sat beside fresh tomatoes and greens so crisp they looked as if they had just walked out of the garden. A bowl of imperfectly shaped berries shone red and purple. A plate filled with luscious chocolate tarts, macarons, palmiers and slices of cherry clafoutis sat in the center of it all.
“If this is what you do when you’re not trying to seduce someone, then I don’t think you should ever show me what you do when you are trying to get someone into your bed. I don’t think I’d survive,” she said, sinking onto the rug.
“See, that’s why I said no last night. I didn’t think you’d be up to it.”
The laugh bubbled out of her like the champagne. “I would call that flirting,” she replied. “Which isn’t allowed during business hours.”
“But proposing to remove your dress is perfectly suitable for business hours.” He sat on the blanket and she liked the way the sun fell on his face out here; she could see now that he was teasing, even though his voice was deadpan.
“I was being practical, not flirty,” she said. “Do you think it’s bad if I start with a chocolate tart?” Before he could answer, she picked one up and bit into it. “That is so good,” she said through a mouthful of chocolate. “How can you not want to spend every day here just eating? No wonder you run. If I keep eating like this, I’ll need to run all the way back to Australia.”
He smiled. “Running means I get to spend time in the gardens. I hardly ever go outside when I’m in Paris.” He picked up a chocolate tart too and she smiled back.
Then he said, wonder in his voice, the same wonder she knew was inside her too, buried below all the questions, “So she is Jessica May.”
“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she said. “That I’m not the only one who thinks she was a real artist.”
“I read a lot of stuff about her last night and today, filling in the gaps around what you’d said. I always knew she was a formidable woman but I had no idea just how formidable, and why. Ask anyone if they could name any photographers from the war and they might say Robert Capa. Joe Rosenthal, perhaps, although he’s more known for that one photograph than a body of work. But she should be one of the names people remember.”
“She should.”
D’Arcy felt another moment of affinity settle between them and it made her feel that she could ask: “Before all this, who did she tell you she was?”
“She always told me that anonymity was something she prized more than fame or money. And the way she said it…” He paused. “She sounded almost desperate, as if she would sacrifice anything and everything for the right to remain unidentified. It, I don’t know, touched me, I guess. It was a condition of me becoming her agent that I never try to discover anything about her. And because of the way she’d made me feel when she asked, I never did. To do so would have been akin to killing her. Which sounds overly dramatic but…” He shrugged.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you over the past twenty-four hours, it’s that you’re not prone to dramatics. She chose her agent well. I don’t know too many others who would never even have one sneaky google to see what they could find.” D’Arcy caught his eye and saw the integrity that Jess must also have recognized. It was tempting to end the conversation on that amicable note but there was still the most important question hanging over them as weightily as the draped tree branches around them. “Do you know why she’s chosen to tell you now? And why she’s chosen to tell me? I tried to ask her but I didn’t get very far.”
“All she said was that it’s time. She reminded me how old she is, which I always like to ignore because as well as being my client, she’s someone I respect and look forward to seeing each week. It’s hard to imagine that she might, one day soon, not be here anymore.” He sighed. “Now I’m turning the picnic into something maudlin.”
D’Arcy reached out for his hand. “You know, most agents in your position would be crowing over the fact that their client had such a newsworthy backstory, not worrying about them dying.”
“She’s too precious to throw to the publicity wolves,” he said quietly.
“She is.” D’Arcy paused, then said, “Of all the women who might end up alone and reclusive, it’s hard to imagine Jessica May as one of them. I mean, she was a model; she was stunning. But she was obviously smart too. Her journalism is excellent and her photographs extraordinary. Why would she vanish from the world? Why wouldn’t someone fall in love with her and share this place with her?”
“Did you ask her about the photograph of Victorine and Dan Hallworth? It’s not the Dan Hallworth who owns World Media Group, is it?”
“I’m not sure.” D’Arcy let go of Josh’s hand and chose a baguette. She bit into it, chewed and swallowed before she replied. “He’s the only Dan Hallworth I know of. My mother runs the Asia-Pacific arm of World Media out of Sydney. Everyone always teases her about having the same surname as the man who owns the business and she always laughs in response like it’s a joke. But what if it isn’t? What if she actually is related to him? Why would she never tell me that?”
“Didn’t want to be accused of nepotism?” Josh guessed.
“It’s a fairly dramatic way to avoid accusations of nepotism: not even telling me about my—what, grandfather? I suppose the connection mightn’t be that immediate; perhaps he could be a great-uncle or distant relation but the way they were holding one another in that photograph…” The words tumbled out, unstoppable because it wasn’t just her imagination or the lure of the trees or the captivating smile of Jessica May. It was near fact, written in black ink on a set of old photographs.
“I’ve lived my whole life thinking my only relation is my mother.” D’Arcy studied her baguette as she spoke. “But don’t you think it’s much too coincidental that, when I’m here, I happen to find a box of photographs containing a picture of a woman with the same name as my mother, and a man with the same name as her boss? I keep trying to tell myself that there are probably lots of Dan Hallworths in the world, that the one in the photograph is not the same one my mother works for. But I’m not sure I’ve convinced myself. And the only mystery I’ve managed to solve is one that’s the least important to me personally—although it’s the most significant to you and the rest of the world.”
D’Arcy put the baguette down, lay on her back and closed her eyes before she offered up her next confession, one she was sure, as Jess’s agent, he’d be unhappy about. “Jess wants to photograph me. Does she ordinarily photograph visitors to the chateau?”
“Never,” he said flatly.
“Isn’t that a little strange, then? Compared to everything else she’s photographed, I’m hardly a worthy subject.”
“You’re beautiful, D’Arcy.”
She rolled her head to the side to look at him and, as she did so, he stretched out a finger and traced a line from her forehead down to her cheek and then to her jaw. “So beautiful,” he repeated, bending his head to kiss her, not softly or gently but hungrily and exactly like she’d wanted him to kiss her the night before.
He lay beside her, and she rolled into him, thanking God she’d asked him to wear a T-shirt because she could feel his body all the better beneath the soft fabric. She concentrated on the feel of his mouth on hers, on his hand slowly moving away from her face and lightly caressing the bare skin of her neck, the tops of her shoulders, sliding the strap of her dress down a little, his palm splayed against her collarbones.
She tried her hardest not to do anything that might scare him away, felt her breath coming fast against his hand, tried to tell him with her lips pressing against his that she wanted him to slide his hand down further. The waiting was like torture and restraint almost impossible so, before long, her fingers crept up slowly beneath his T-shirt and she heard herself sigh as her hands met the bare skin of his back. She bent her leg to move into him even more closely and was both surprised and entranced to feel him tighten his hold and shift his weight.
Her breath caught and held and she almost forgot to return his kisses when his hand began at last to move down her side. He reached her hip and she reminded herself to breathe until he whispered against her lips, “You’ve gone awfully still. Are you okay?” to which she replied, “Okay isn’t quite the word I would use.”
She felt him smile against her lips and that, somehow, was the most sensual moment of all. He kissed her jawline and her neck, paying special attention to her pulse point, before he drew back his head to look at her.
“As much as I don’t want to, I’m going to make myself stop,” he said. “I’m hoping one day soon we won’t stop and you’ll maybe see why it was better not to fall straight into bed last night or today.”
D’Arcy reluctantly withdrew her hands from his shirt. Her mind was screaming at her: One day. I don’t have one day. I’m only here for two weeks. But she only said playfully, “It feels as if you have everything in good working order down there so that can’t be why you don’t want to.”
He smiled and rolled off her, onto his back, lying next to her, hand reaching out to take hers.
“Will you tell me?” she pushed, wanting to know why this man was so delightfully old-fashioned when it came to sex.
He sighed. “See, this is where you don’t necessarily need to say everything that’s on your mind.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she lied. Then she came clean. “But I’d really like to know. I have no idea if I terrify you or if I turn you on or if I annoy you or…”
He kissed her knuckles. “Definitely the first two. Occasionally the third.”
D’Arcy felt a pang of something unfamiliar—something like tenderness—at his words, which confirmed her suspicion that he was a little shy. That she was his polar opposite. But that he was still here anyway. So she waited, not wanting to press him again, hoping he would trust her enough with whatever he wanted to say.
“Basically I used to be an asshole,” he said eventually. “It started at college and got worse when I was a lawyer; associates fresh out of university work hard, play hard and drink hard, and I was one of that pack. It was too easy for all of us to get girls; we had money and prestige and so one-night stands became a way of life. I never dated anyone properly and I was an arr
ogant prick. I hated myself for it but it became like this horrific game that I was trapped in. I didn’t know what I’d be if I didn’t keep doing it. Until…”
He stopped and D’Arcy very carefully made herself stare at the sky and not look at him because she sensed it was hard enough for him to say all of this, let alone with her gawping at him while he did. “I’m listening,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand a little tighter.
“Until one of the girls went a little crazy. Which I deserved. I always used to go back to their houses; I never wanted anyone to know where I lived. I never gave out my phone number. But I told them all I was a lawyer because it was impressive and one girl tracked me down to the law firm where I worked and she turned up there. I spoke to her harshly; it was inappropriate of her to come to my workplace but I hadn’t been a saint so I could hardly blame her for behaving likewise. She turned up every day for a fortnight until I got one of the secretaries to catch the elevator down with me to where the girl was waiting and I kissed the secretary right in front of her. The next day the girl slashed her wrists in reception.”
What to say to that? Nothing. She rolled onto her side and laid her head against his chest.
He played absently with her hair. “I was lucky she didn’t cut deep enough to do any serious damage. But I quit law. I realized that I was characterless; all I had to say for myself since leaving college was that I was a lawyer who’d slept around. There was nothing more to me than that. I hadn’t looked at a painting in years and had all but forgotten having studied art. So I came to Europe and traveled and gorged on art like I’d always promised myself I’d do but had never made time for. I went back to New York after a year, once I’d realized that, while I was to blame, it wasn’t totally my fault. I talked my way into a job with the agency. They wanted someone who could do the contracts with galleries and all the legal stuff, not necessarily someone who would find work for their clients. And, ever since, I’ve tried to live a slower life where I appreciate things a little bit more. But I’ve realized this week that I haven’t been especially good at that lately; too busy with the office. Like I said, I haven’t even stopped to look at the art on the walls in there for months.”
The Paris Orphan Page 22
