by Selena Kitt
Annalesa zipped to her room and pulled her materials case out from beneath her bed. She grabbed a spare Tyvex archival envelope, a pair of latex gloves and her iMac, which she booted up at the far side of the kitchen table. At the other end, she laid out a half-meter square of paper towel to protect the envelope contents from surface oils.
Then, finally, she unwound the ribbons.
Two heavy, folded letters slid out on the paper towel. Annalesa lifted the first, which was bound to something beneath by a long strip of white paper, folded over and taped. It was loose enough not to pinch the sides of the delicate, yellowed paper.
The letter was addressed to ‘Camille’ and the top right corner simply read, Zaandam 1908.
Annalesa’s heart skipped a few extra beats. Claude Monet had lived there in his later life, long after his first wife, Camille, had died. Her hands suddenly felt cold. She breathed out to get a grip and read the first couple of sentences.
Ce sont les missives que j’aurais dû vous envoyer quand je vous ai quitté à Paris. Ce sont les choses que je n’ai pas dites lorsque nous gardions le secret à propos de notre fils à naitre.
“Oh my God.”
She got up, paced, sat again. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Claude’s letters were only rumored to exist. She’d want to get the letters officially translated, but could make out the gist in those first lines:
‘These are the letters I should have sent you when I left you in Paris. These are things I did not say while we kept our unborn son a secret.’
Annalesa eased the paper strip away from the letter and the heavy paper held beneath it. Like the letter, it was folded. She eased it open and the breath whooshed from her lungs as she saw the tiny oil painting reproduced on the thick sketch paper.
It was a reversal of ‘The Woman in the Green Dress.’ Camille was posed, not away from the artist, as in the original, but pictured from the front, her expression serene. The background, instead of being a brown-black, was a pale blue. There was a tone of hope. It made her breath catch.
Hands shaking, Annalesa picked up the second letter and gently separated its attached painting. This one was a reproduction of ‘The Woman with the Parasol’—Camille—in a red-flowered field with their son, but in this one, she held Jean on her shoulders and carried the folded parasol in her hand.
The artistry and the stroke style... there was no question that this was Monet, later in his career—at precisely the time date-stamped on the letter. She had living history on her table. The untold love story of Claude and Camille Monet, speculated upon time and time again by art historians, authors... even psychologists.
Annalesa felt faint—she’d lived and breathed Camille Monet’s personal story for the four years of her degree, loving every moment of constructing her history. Camille had been a woman made to wait years before she could marry the man she loved. Something Annalesa had been able to relate to, even if she couldn’t admit it then.
It wasn’t even ten a.m., but Annalesa strode through to the tiny living room in her apartment and grabbed the bottle of Amaretto, taking a long, steadying swig. To bloody hell with a glass. Only when she felt softly foggy-headed did she put the bottle back in the cabinet and head back to the kitchen.
The last significant finding about Monet’s work had been in 1947, when a box belonging to Frédéric Bazille—Monet’s long-term friend—had been found in the home of his nephew by a maid. The box contained some of Monet’s early sketches at the time he’d met his future wife. And now she had handwritten letters from him, showing his grief at having to hide their relationship from his family.
Annalesa was both dizzy with gratitude to Ric for the unique gift, and giddy with terror at the responsibility of caring for them properly. Hardly daring to touch the letters again until her shaking had stopped, she snapped a photo of the icon on the archival envelope and airdropped it to her iMac. A reverse image search brought up the website for a Norwegian document-protection service with a completely unpronounceable name. She checked out the manufacturer’s specification for the envelope, beyond relieved to find that it met all requirements for the photo-activity test, maximum levels of reducible sulfur, and limited metallic impurities in the pulp.
She laughed at herself. Yeah, Ric might be insane enough to send a priceless chunk of history through the post, but never in some crappy envelope. She had no idea what she was meant to do with them, other than re-read them a thousand, careful times and soak in their history, but the magnitude of the gift melted away all the anxieties she’d suffered on that trip back from London.
Only someone who really knew her, who truly loved her, could give her something so close to her heart as a birthday gift.
Not expecting him to answer while he was out on ops, she texted him to let him know his gift had arrived. That was the least she could do.
You’re as amazing as you are crazy. You know what I’m talking about!
As expected, Ric didn’t respond.
She kept in touch in an innocuous way by email, saying nothing about the gift, but copying him into the link she sent to Brad and Elsa to show that her project providing student apartments was taking off.
Over the next month, the letters and miniature canvases kept coming. She divided her time between hours spent re-reading the amazingly passionate letters and delighting in each new version of the classic paintings, and panicking about their safe storage. A friendly curator at the Louvre sold her a secure artifact box, and she even had extra dead-bolts fixed to her apartment door to improve her security.
Just as she was getting almost too nervous to see Marcel in the street for fear that another six million euros’ worth of art would be turned over to her, the postman simply handed her a pale blue envelope and two white ones from Credit Agricole and Buoygues Telecom. She’d never been so relieved to see a phone or credit card bill in her life.
Dumping the bills to one side, she took the blue envelope over to the couch and ripped it open. A thick, embossed cream card tipped out of it.
An invitation to the opening of ‘The Lost Love Letters of Claude Monet to Camille’, curated by Annalesa Genevieve LaFevre.
The date was for September 2017, and the address...
Her eyes bugged.
Rue Pigalle was where Claude had painted Camille wearing the dress borrowed from Frédéric Bazille.
There was no way Ric would send her the card if he hadn’t already bought the property. A little post-it note fell off the back of the card and landed on her knee.
The Paris art scene is yours. Enjoy! R xx
She snatched up her phone and knowing he couldn’t yet answer—not even caring whether he answered or not—barely waited for the ‘talk’ beep before railing at him.
“Ric, are you insane? I love you so much. There are just no words for... for what you’ve sent me. But are there more? Please let me know if more are coming because I’ve got to keep these safe now. For a year. It changes the storage process.” She laughed a little hysterically. “Not sure how I’m going to keep them safe for a year without telling anyone about them. Am I allowed to tell anyone? Hey... don’t worry! I’ll get help—discreetly. I’ll keep you posted. Love you.”
The moment she hung up, she felt like she’d put too much emphasis on her worries in storing the beautiful gifts and left another message babbling that she had no complaints at all—she was just blown away by the scale of his gift. Then she left another message to apologize for all the babbling.
A few days later, she got a letter.
Hey Leesa
Thanks for the many, many messages. I think I’ve lost a little hearing in my right ear. I’m really glad you liked your birthday present. Like I said, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there on the day, but the letters and paintings weren’t the easiest to procure. Want to see the new gallery site? I’d like to come to Paris and check it out with you. Let me know.
R xx
Annalesa laughed and got her stationery block out of a drawer in her living
room. If he’d taken to pigeon-post to communicate, so would she. She wrote back, saying she’d love to see the gallery and even the grubbiest parts of Paris with him—so long as she got to see him.
Soon.
Chapter 10
“So, this is your ‘garret’ apartment.” Ric put his bag down, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Makes me think of La Bohème.”
“Does it?” She blinked.
“Yeah. Bunch of artists in an attic. Your ‘garret’ is nicer than theirs.”
“Well they were starving artists—burning their plays to keep the fire going and all that. I didn’t know you knew your opera?”
“I don’t. Just that one. This lady client had the hots for Dad and suggested opera for a night out. Dad took me with them as lurve-repellant. All I remember of the show is this ill girl who kept falling over, and about fifteen minutes of this guy singing to his damn coat.”
Annalesa giggled as he slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. His brows waggled. She loved it when he was in a playful mood.
“How thick are the walls?” he murmured into her ear.
“Never thick enough. But no thinner than any of the hotels nearby. Do you have a night-time plan?”
“I’ll come up with one. I wanted to check your place out first before finding some hotel to check ourselves into. Kinda like it here. Let’s stay here tonight and see if we get any complaints from your neighbors in the morning.”
“Don’t make me any enemies...”
He lowered his lips to hers, brushing then parting them with his tongue, gently catching up. She slipped her hands up beneath his long-sleeved tee, her palms revisiting the hard muscles of his back and shoulders as his own scent and the soft background citrus of Armani Code filled her head.
Ric finally straightened up, tucking her head under his chin and holding her hard. “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too. So much.” She kissed the tattoo on his neck. “And I’m very impressed by your ‘mission’. How the hell did you find those artifacts?”
“Can’t say yet.” He winked. “Don’t worry, you’ll have enough information to account for their provenance by the time you’re assembling the props for the gallery. Shall we go see the place?”
“Provenance?” She grinned as he took her hand and headed for the door. She wanted to stay home—preferably in bed, although the sofa or kitchen table weren’t out of the question—now that she had him here. But she followed him anyway. “I think you’ve been learning a fair bit yourself while acquiring those letters.”
“If you want to be a serious buyer, you have to sound like one.”
It was only a few minutes’ walk to Rue Pigalle, which was now largely cluttered by shops, and just about every form of business named ‘Pigalle’. A few doors down from a music store was an ancient, grubby, narrow building with iron bars over every window.
She winced. “How can a listed building be treated like that?”
“It’s not the actual studio,” Ric confessed. “But it was the only property close enough and big enough for conversion. C’mon, I’ve got the keys.”
He let her walk around in a daze for a good hour, pulling cobwebs down from corners and building a whole different picture of the inside in her head. She could imagine high ceilings and hanging space in off-white, with duck egg and pistachio accent walls. The deathtrap staircase with its sinister Hornbeam railings could be replaced with a glossy pine spiral of steps with no risers. Ric came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist as she used the corner of her zip-up hoodie to clean a circle on one of the windows facing the road. Light burst through to the floor like a great, fat javelin, warming her skin.
She turned and beamed up at Ric, who chuckled and tucked her hair behind her ears. He kissed her forehead. “I love seeing you so excited.”
“I love being this excited!”
There was room enough to display paintings from new, local artists on the top two floors. She couldn’t wait to start working on the place.
Apart from the odd morning or hour in the afternoon spent on the phone, Ric spent time with her the whole week. They had sex everywhere in her apartment. The bed, the shower, the sofa, the kitchen counter. Even against the door to her apartment. They barely made it inside and got it closed before Ric was pressing her against it.
They also did other things.
They visited the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame. She made him drive the Arc de Triomphe roundabout to keep him from continuing to mock her nerves behind the wheel. He kept his cool as an ancient green 2CV cut in front of him with inches to spare, and didn’t say another word about her driving the rest of the time they spent together.
On his last morning before returning to Trondheim, she introduced Ric to David, who lost all capacity for intelligent, reasonable speech within moments of shaking hands with him.
While Ric made coffee, she had to tell herself to not keep sneaking glances at Ric’s tight, high rear-end in his black jeans—like David kept doing.
“You’re her agent, right?” Ric brought coffees over and settled on the sofa beside her, putting an arm over her shoulder in a casual sign of ownership. Not that Ric seemed concerned about it much around David now—you didn’t need good gaydar to figure out David’s sexual orientation. It was pretty obvious when you met him. “I’ve got a guy who wants to see the top apartment in your building. Keep an eye out for an email from a guy named Ryan Kemp.”
“Sure.” David smiled, sipping his coffee and admiring Ric from afar. “Glad to help.”
Annalesa cringed at the name ‘Ryan’, but was relieved to see Ric and David getting along so well. As handsome as David was, most of Ric’s possessive body language had disappeared the moment he’d discovered that David was batting for the other team.
“I can’t promise anything to Mr. Kemp, though.” David cleared his throat. “We’re mostly pitching these flats to students, not people looking for cheap rent.”
“It’s all right.” Ric sipped his coffee. “He’s been prepared for possible disappointment.”
David chatted with them for a little while, then he said he had to go—he had an appointment to look at an option for a second building. They’d filled three apartments within a few days of advertising them.
After he’d gone, Ric put their cups on the coffee table and scooped Annalesa into his lap, pulling her against him.
“When do I get to see you again?” She rested her cheek against his shoulder, trying to enjoy the moment and not think about him having to leave in an hour.
“Potentially, really soon. Depends on what you say.”
“What I say to what?” She peered at him, puzzled. He had to know that she’d re-arrange her schedule from now until the end of time for the opportunity to spend time with him.
“I have to tell you something.” His arms tightened around her, as if he suspected her of wanting to get away. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She stroked his cheek, stubbled with bronze scruff. “The guy I mentioned to David—Ryan Kemp. His former name was Mercer. Ryan Mercer.”
“What the bloody hell?” She would’ve jolted out of his arms if he hadn’t gripped her back in place. “What? Why? What are you up to now, Ryker?”
“Listen,” he said, holding her as she squirmed, trying to get out of his Kung-Fu grip. “Hear me out at least.”
“Why?” she cried, trying to pry his big hands off her. “Why should I? What possible explanation could you have for being in touch with that bastard?”
She couldn’t break free, and gave up, something suddenly occurring to her that made her blood run cold.
She turned her face up to him and asked coolly, “Who are you pretending to be this time?”
“It’s not like that,” Ric insisted. “Please—just listen. I’ll give you veto power. I promise.”
She nodded, restraining her fury. But the moment he relaxed his hold, she got up, pacing the room.
“I cannot believe you,” she
muttered. “Being with you is like some nightmare version of ‘This is Your Life.’ Who are you going to make me face next?”
She held up her hand, shaking her head. “Don’t tell me.”
“Ryan knows it’s me.” Ric picked up his coffee, looking so calm she wanted to strangle him. Annalesa continued to pace. “We sort of reconnected on a chat site for uh... I guess you could say for... rich kids trying to survive in the family business?”
“How charming.” She scowled. “He knows it’s you? You promise?”
“My screen name is R_Ryker. Hardly anonymous.” Ric patted the sofa beside him, but she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. She kept her distance, crossing her arms.
“A couple weeks ago, Ryan sent me a message saying he’d checked me out and wanted to know how I was dealing—he knew I’d come home to take over the business. And I was the boss’ son.”
“Ryan asked you for advice?” She was incredulous.
“He’s having a rough time, I guess. He even took his mom’s former name because he didn’t want everyone to think he’d gotten his job because of his father.”
Annalesa laughed with disbelief. “He tried to befriend you? Did your punch in the face give him amnesia?”
“I asked him that.” Ric shrugged. “He did the whole ‘water under the bridge’ thing, which I believe... up to a point.”
“How?” She couldn’t keep the sharpness out of her voice, given how angry Ric had been about the same guy just weeks ago.
“I think he wants a job in our legal office in L.A. He’s based in Poitiers now, here in France. He’s a junior lawyer stuck at the bottom of his father’s firm, dealing with property law.” Ric chuckled. “When he told his father he didn’t want to be treated differently from anyone else, I don’t think he expected to be taken so literally. Anyway, he’s having a little problem gaining respect, which I think is probably more because he’s a schmuck than because he’s the boss’ kid.”
