She turned it round and showed him the scrawled name and date, 1872.
“Interesting that this painting is about the same size as the one the museum has of Estelle. If Philippe and Degas were friends, they may have shared canvases. The colors are muted too, like some of Degas’s from that period. Perhaps they also borrowed paints, from each other, or painted together.”
“They did paint together, and Philippe’s painting makes Degas’s connection with my family in New Orleans seem more real, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” He kneeled down to examine it again.
“I have an idea.” he said excitedly. “Would you be willing to show the painting to the public? The Philadelphia Museum of Art is planning an exhibit of American Impressionist painters in the next few months, and this one would make a nice addition. It would help me professionally as well if I offered it to them, because I plan to ask the curators there to loan some of their paintings for the Impressionist exhibition we’re planning to have at our museum.”
“Sure. I’d be happy to loan it. You’ll have to appraise it though, and it will need framing and insuring, won’t it?”
“Right. I’ll take care of those details and give you a receipt. This is a great find, a wonderful piece.”
Anne wrapped it up again.
“I guess we can take it along when we go back to New Orleans tomorrow,” she said.
“Let’s do that. Well, this definitely makes the visit worthwhile.”
Taken aback, Anne looked sharply at him.
“Uh, well, of course, the visit was fine in other ways, too,” he said.
Staring past him so he couldn’t read the hurt in her face, she said, “We’ll have our Thanksgiving dinner today. Perhaps you can peel the potatoes.”
She was happy to lend the painting for display, but Sam’s obvious interest in it further diminished her pleasure in his visit.
François had placed the turkey to cook in the oven after breakfast, and the savory aroma of the stuffing filled the house. He and Anne spent the next several hours preparing the meal while Sam watched football on television. They sat down at the table at two o’clock, raised glasses of red wine for toasts, and ate heartily.
“Great dinner. Thanks,” Sam said as they finished the pumpkin pie. He helped with the dishes, and they put the kitchen back in order.
“How about taking a ride around town, Anne,” Sam suggested. “You can tell me about your childhood memories here.”
“Sure,” she said without enthusiasm.
While they drove around the town of Oxford and she pointed out important places in the fading light, she sensed a rumbling deep inside that something wasn’t right. They had a drink at a bar near the campus and returned home. Despite her failing spirits and exhaustion, she spent another restless night on the couch.
Next day Anne and Sam prepared to leave early. François was in the kitchen making coffee when they came downstairs lugging their bags. He pointed to two canvases propped against the wall.
“I wondered if you wanted to take these with you,” he said.
She bent to look at them.
“My cemetery paintings, the ones I did during my senior year. I had almost forgotten them.”
Sam squatted beside her and examined the pictures. “These are superb, Anne,” he said. “Great atmosphere. Spooky, almost.”
“Yeah, that’s how the cemetery appeared. I stumbled on my Fontenot family gravesite—you know, one of those mausoleums they have in the St. Louis cemetery—and I did several paintings. In those days I believed in ghosts. While I was completing the paintings those spectral figures somehow appeared on the canvas next to the gravestones. Family members, I thought. Now I’m not so sure. I’ve seen no evidence of spirits at my house so far.” She stood up. “I’m not sure that I’d be able to paint anything as successful now.”
“Why ever not?”
“No inspiration. I need to find a subject that interests me first. I plan to, though.” She glanced at her father. “No, I don’t want to take them. Please keep them for me.”
Luna came out of her basket in the corner and padded across the floor toward Anne.
“Poor cat. She seems to be doing better,” Anne said, stroking her back.
“She’ll be fine,” François said. “I’ll give her fish for a treat tonight. She doesn’t like the cone and being confined to the house.”
“Will you ever let her outside again?” Anne asked.
“Yes, I think so. She’s learned a hard lesson, and will probably keep well clear of the house next door now.”
“Dad, it’s been a good visit. Perhaps you can come to New Orleans next time.”
“Yes.” He gave her a long hug, then held out his hand.
“Sam, I’m glad we met. Thanks again for saving Luna.”
They shook hands.
“You’re welcome. Thanks for your hospitality, sir.”
Carrying the painting, François accompanied them to the car. They locked their things in the trunk and slid into their seats. Anne wound down the window.
“Bye, Dad, see you soon. Take good care of yourself,” she said, waving.
The drive home was uneventful. Sam dropped Anne off at her place and drove on. They had agreed that he would take the painting of Sophie to his office and keep it there until he could appraise and prepare it for shipment to the museum in Philadelphia.
She inspected herself in the mirror. Two nights of sleeping on the couch had improved neither her appearance nor her state of mind. The visit had made her keenly aware of the contrast between her current accommodations and her father’s comfortable house. But it had been good to be home again, despite the sad memories of her mother. Now back in New Orleans she’d work hard on the Esplanade house and find time to attend to the multitude of tasks that remained. Should she ask Sam for help? Of course not . . . that was the bad news. She wasn’t sure she could trust him anymore.
It was still early, five o’clock, and a soft evening. Thinking she should check on progress at the house, Anne strolled the few blocks to the property. Her neighbor Homer was lounging on his porch.
“Hey there, missy,” he called. “How’s yer Thanksgivin’?”
“Pretty good, thank you. How about you?”
“All right, I guess. Had my sister over. She knew yer grandmother; they were friends, you know, but pr’haps you knew.”
“No, I didn’t know. What does she say about my grandmother?”
“Name was Charlotte. Nice lady. She used to help my sister with her children. She had eight, my sister. Eight! Don’t know how she managed. Anyway, she loved them kids, all kinds, Charlotte did. She weren’t like that husband o’ hers, yer granddad. He could’a taken a walk in the river and drownded, any time. Parrot didn’t like him neither. Always told him, ‘Bad Boy.’ Yes, siree.”
The old man cackled, showing his yellow teeth. Anne recoiled, but remembered her father’s advice that he could probably tell her more about her family history. She swallowed hard and attempted to keep the conversation going.
“Did you meet my grandmother Charlotte, yourself?” she asked.
“Like I said, nice lady. Gave me Hurricane, my parrot. Knew I’d lost my chicken and gave ’er to me in exchange. I got the better deal, I reckon. I’d take a parrot over a chicken any time. Lives longer, anyway.”
“Can you remember the names of my grandmother Charlotte’s parents?” she asked.
“Maurice, I think was his name. Forget the name of the wife.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“Not really. Might’a been a doctor or a vet. Oh . . . forgot to tell you. Saw ghosts at yer place last week. Blue lights. Heard some noises, too.”
“Blue lights, and noises? What kind of noises?”
“Weepin’ and wailin’.”
“Did you go to see if anyone was there? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Didn’t have yer number. Don’t like empty houses. Parrot kept squawkin’. Had to put a to
wel over ’er to get ’er to stop.”
Anne cringed. Her mistake—she hadn’t given Homer her number.
“Here’s my phone number,” she said, scribbling it on a piece of paper she had in her purse. “I’m glad you have your parrot, Mr. Jackson. Must be good company.”
She didn’t take Homer’s sightings seriously, and as she had recently told Sam, she wasn’t superstitious anymore. At least now she’d learned that her grandmother liked children and that her great-grandfather’s name was Maurice. How was he related to Marguerite? She might learn more from his sister, but Homer himself was crazy. Delusional.
She saw that work had progressed and there had been no more attempts at unlawful entry to the house. The remains of the broken bathroom fixtures had been removed. Piles of sawdust covered the floor, and walls had been replaced and re-plastered. All seemed fine, and soon she would order the paint. Checking the house reminded her that Stella hadn’t yet called to arrange a time to get together again. Anne would give her a ring.
But her father’s words came back to haunt her: Homer might know more than she imagined.
Chapter 20
December 1872
The weather had turned cooler at last. Estelle grew stronger each day and watched her new baby with pleasure as she gurgled in her crib. She was glad to have a healthy child. The household, which had lost its rhythm during her confinement, returned to normal. She wondered how Edgar was faring and regretted again that she had spent so little time with him in recent weeks. He would leave after the christening, but there was still time for him to paint more family portraits.
He sat enjoying croissants for breakfast when she entered the dining room one bright winter day.
“Bonjour, mon cher Edgar,” she said, touching him lightly on the shoulder.
“Good morning!” he said, loudly. “Listen, I speak English!”
“If you stay here longer, you’ll soon be talking like a native. But really, it would be better if you spent your time painting. You still haven’t painted Mathilde.”
“You’re right. She’s a good subject, but antsy. Can’t sit still. Perhaps she could sit for me this afternoon while her children are napping.”
“I’ll ask her,” Estelle said, brightening. “I can’t help wondering why you haven’t painted any of the men, your brothers or your uncle. Aren’t they good subjects?”
“Actually, I enjoy painting women. And then there’s the problem of getting the men to take time off so I can sketch them. They work long hours at that office. Anyway, they’re not pretty.”
“But you don’t care about that. You paint people as they are, often with their backs toward you. Even little Carrie had her back turned in the painting you did of her.”
“True. You know, I consider these family portraits exercises, not great works of art. Someday I’d like to paint something of real significance, a work good enough to be worthy of preservation.”
“You mean, preservation for the future, rather than preservation of the past,” Estelle said.
“Exactly. But to do this, I need to find the right subject. I may have to return to France to do that.”
Estelle regarded him sadly. “I’m sorry we’re only family, and so ordinary.”
“I beg your pardon, I spoke thoughtlessly. I didn’t mean to offend you, dear. It’s my shortcoming, not to observe well enough, to fail to see what’s possible here. Other artists, friends of mine, would do much better in this exotic place. You see, only if I face the truth about something important will I be able to create a great painting. But I’m glad I’ve painted some family portraits—you, Carrie, Jo—to remember you by, and I’ll paint Mathilde today, I hope.”
“Thank you, Edgar. Where do you want her to sit?”
“On the balcony, I think.”
“All right. I’ll talk to her right away.”
Later that day Mathilde took her place sitting on a chair on the second-floor balcony. She wore a light purple dress, orange ribbons laced around the bodice, and a black ribbon circling her neck.
“How do you want me to pose?” she asked.
“Just be yourself. I never want my models to assume unnatural expressions or attitudes,” he said, as he adjusted his easel.
“Am I a model, then?”
“No, you are my cousin, and family. I wish to paint you as such. Please look at me as I work, and keep your hands as they are now, holding the fan and resting in your lap.”
Mathilde raised her eyes and sat still as he had asked.
“Charming,” Edgar said.
“If I may ask,” she said a few minutes later, “how am I different from a model? Surely you could describe anyone who poses for you that way.”
He smiled and paused before answering. “Tilda, I’ve no desire to offend your sensibilities, but sometimes my models are dressed less formally,”
She raised her eyebrows and said with a shy smile, “Oh, I see.”
“Keep that expression; it’s most appealing,” he said.
He worked fast, sketching the outline and blocking the background, the balcony and the hint of the building beyond.
“Are you working on the drawing first? Will you start the painting soon?”
“I am outlining the shapes, but I won’t paint. I’ll use pastels, a good medium for a delicate woman like yourself. The pastels will highlight the softness of your beautiful dress.”
He worked for an hour and she sat quietly, enjoying the moments of peace. Her three small children demanded much of her, and she had little time to relax. Suddenly Beulah’s face appeared on the other side of the French doors. Mathilde jerked forwards.
“Beulah, is something the matter? Come in,” she said, beckoning to the maid.
“Mon Dieu, you have moved!” Edgar shouted. “I told you to sit still! How can I finish my drawing when you are flapping around like a chicken?”
“Excusez-moi, mais les enfants . . . perhaps the children need my attention,” Mathilde said, standing up and opening the glass doors.
“Impossible!” Edgar said. He gathered up his materials, took them to his room, and slammed the door.
“How did it go with Mathilde?” Estelle asked him later, over the evening meal.
“She’s a good subject, but as I said, she can’t sit still. However, I have sketches and enough information to make a reasonable picture. All the same, it’s only another family portrait: nice, but hardly a great work of art.”
“Edgar, I hope you find something to inspire you soon. Can’t you find even one subject to paint here that you think might be, as you say, worthy of preservation, something important enough?”
“No . . . but that’s not to say I haven’t met intriguing people.”
Estelle wanted to ask more, to understand more of his thinking, but thought it imprudent. Intriguing people? Perhaps he had found what he was looking for but wouldn’t tell her. He was secretive about his work until he considered it finished. She would wait, and hope.
Chapter 21
December 1970
Anne felt unsettled. She couldn’t get the image of Sam firing the gun out of her head, and her father’s suggestion that he might have a double life disturbed her. She was confused, and more than a little overwhelmed when she thought about the decisions she would need to make soon about Sam, her career, and her sister’s request to move in. Her father’s advice rang in her ears: to make a good decision about anything, she needed to face the truth.
As she left for work on Tuesday, she came across Officer Hammond outside.
“Good morning, Miss Gautier. I wanted to stop by and talk to you for a minute. Got a report last week about that house of yours down the street. Seems there was a racket in there. We went by to check but didn’t hear or see anything. Gave you a call, but you didn’t answer.”
“I was away for Thanksgiving,” she said. “What kind of racket?”
“The person calling said it sounded as though there was a fight. Screaming and hollering. Place looked empty.�
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“There’s a burglar alarm now, so if there were intruders the person would have heard that.”
“That wasn’t in the report.”
“Well, who was the caller?”
“Name of Smith, Darrell. Passerby.”
“Don’t know anyone with that name. Thanks for telling me. I visited the house on Sunday, and everything seemed fine.”
“Okay. You might want to check again. Just wanted to give you the information.”
Is the world going mad? she asked herself. First Sam kills a dog, now it appears the house is haunted, as Homer had warned her. But who were the ghosts? Her mother? Marguerite? The spirit of Homer’s slaughtered chicken?
She ran to the building and disengaged the alarm.
Inspecting every corner, she crept through the house. The light beamed in, casting blue shadows from the trees. Only her footsteps echoed in the open space. She saw nothing amiss, no evidence of visitors of any kind, and no ghosts. Scratching her head, she drove to work. She refused to be frightened, but the recent events still disturbed her and rambled around in her mind.
She and Stella met for dinner later that week. Dressed in a demure brown dress and flat shoes, she entered Brennan’s restaurant on Royal Street. It was one of her favorite places to eat, and she had invited Stella as her guest. Stella arrived before her and sat swilling a drink by a fountain in the courtyard.
“Thanks for coming,” Anne said. “I’ll join you in a cocktail.”
She ordered her usual gin and tonic. Although she needed to ask Stella many questions, she wanted to become fond of her and, above all, to do the right thing and correct any injustice regarding the inheritance. She would ease her way into the more difficult topics of discussion. She smiled across the table at Stella.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” she asked.
“I have a few days off. I’ll celebrate with my adoptive parents here in town.”
“Where do they live?” Anne asked.
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