“If we’re lucky,” April mumbled.
“Madame Vannier was hospitalized last evening,” Luc said, dumping half his champagne into April’s glass. “When she comes home, should she come home—”
“Okay, that sounds a little harsh.”
“It is the truth. Not harsh, not soft, only the truth. Nothing more. Should she come home, Madame Vannier would be pleased to see you. After she regains her strength, of course. But only then.”
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Of course we can wait until she’s better. I’d not dream of anything else. I have zero interest in stepping inside a hospital. Been there, done that, more times than I’d care to count.” April reached for a piece of bread. “In the meantime I’ll finish up my research with the journals. My assistant and I have a plan, actually, and I think it’s quite genius, if I do say so myself. It’s what’s known in the finance biz as running comps—no reason we can’t do that with Marthe’s assets given the journals, our own bit of inside information.”
“The journals.”
Luc shifted in his seat. He grimaced as if in physical pain. It was the first time April had seen him visibly uncomfortable. It was the first time he did not seem in charge of every aspect of a given situation.
“Oh, god,” she said. “What is it…?”
“Ah. Well. The journals. We do need to discuss those. I guess there is a touch of bad news on top of the good. I will try to get you what you want but for the time being I need to…”
“No!” April barked. He could not do this. He could not swap one gift for another. “I know what you’re going to say, and the answer is no.”
The woman wanted her diaries back. April was sure Agnès Vannier was a lovely person and a delightful conversationalist to boot, but this was not a trade she was willing to make.
“Je suis sincèrement désolé, Avril.”
“No,” April said again. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweet Avril, ma chérie. It pains me to ask. As you seemed to have guessed, Madame Vannier would like the journals back. And reclaim them I must. I can only hope one day you’ll forgive me.”
Chapitre XXXV
The information hit April like a slap, though it was a blow she saw coming. Forgive Luc? Not a chance.
“Avril?” he said. “Ça va? You won’t cry again, will you?”
There was a solution to this. There had to be. Small fragments of ideas began to merge in her head.
“Okay.” She cleared her throat. “She can have the journals.”
“Really? That easily?” Luc’s forehead lifted toward the sky. “This is not my Avril.”
“I always planned to give them back, bien sûr. She will have them in a few days. Not to worry, I’m a very fast reader.”
Luc shook his head sadly.
“I’m sure you read like the wind. Alas Madame Vannier is nearing the end of her life. She wants them before she dies.”
“I understand. But, we have some time, yes?”
“We all have time,” Luc said. “But Madame Vannier, you, me—none of us really knows how much.”
“Yes, yes, we could all be hit by a motorbike tomorrow. But, be honest with me, how close to dead is Madame Vannier? She at least has a little visibility into her demise. The doctors must have some kind of estimate.”
“Estimate? How close to dead? Mon dieu, Madame Vogt!”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It is very much what you meant.”
“Come on, Luc, you can allow me a bit more time with the journals. S’il vous plaît?”
“Madame Vannier is my client. This is her request, pretty auctioneers notwithstanding. She pays me to handle her affairs.”
Yet another slap. He was paid to be there, like Marthe with Pierre, though in this instance the person knee-deep in shit was April. Someone was compensating Luc to tolerate April. He did not say this, but April heard it all the same.
“Luc—”
“Avril.”
“Fine. Can’t we at least make copies?! You have to let me do that!”
“Well, I see you’re very concerned for Madame Vannier’s welfare. A dying woman’s wish.” He clucked his tongue. “Goodness!”
“Sorry,” April said, properly scolded but not deterred.
She exhaled and fixed her gaze on the horizon, the purple skyline wrapped around the Eiffel Tower. How to sound like a reasonable person, she wondered? One who valued human life over furniture, over the journals of a ghost?
“I sound grossly insensitive,” she admitted. “My sincerest apologies. I am sad to hear of your client’s ill health.”
“Liar,” Luc said with a grin. “You are not sad at all. At least not because of her health.”
April would copy the journals. That was the solution to dealing with the demands of a near-dead woman. The Paris office had the requisite equipment for scanning old documents. April only had to find a way to justify the exercise.
“Maybe if you could allow me the afternoon—”
“Enough.” Luc sighed deeply. “You are relentless. I cannot take this any longer. You may have the journals for the next three days. There are more still, and I will get them to you by nightfall. Then I will collect all of them seventy-two hours hence.” He checked his watch. “With the understanding that if Madame Vannier takes a turn for the worse, I may demand them sooner.”
April nodded, holding her breath.
“In the meantime, copy them, read them, do what you wish.”
“Thank you,” she said with another nod. “I’m sorry I was acting so crazy.”
“Oh, this is nothing new,” Luc said and squeezed her knee. “I am used to it by now. Though I must say, bereavement counseling was your true calling. I don’t know why you’re mucking around in the furniture business.”
“Very funny,” April said and tried to smile, the word “furniture” stabbing her between the ribs. She pictured the apartment, its bareness, the bones of Marthe’s life mostly gone.
“Ça va?” Luc said, touching her knee a second time.
“Yes, everything’s fine,” April lied. “I was thinking about the apartment. You wouldn’t even recognize the place. It’s nearly empty. They’ve even started stripping the walls. Everything is moving so fast, too fast. Soon I’ll be back in New York, the auctions will be over, and it will be on to the next thing.”
As if the next thing could even begin to compare. Whatever auction awaited her, however grand the estate, it was guaranteed to be a downgrade.
“I’m confused. Isn’t the disappearance of furniture in exchange for money what your job encompasses?” Luc asked. “You perplex me more by the minute.”
“Yes, of course it’s about the money for the seller, for the house, but really it is about the art. Art is the important thing. It predates money, after all. They had it on cave walls. Art stays. But Marthe’s assets … We’re hurrying so quickly through them all, as if her things were cogs or widgets or something.” Her voice caught. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get emotional but these pieces are important.”
Luc nodded. “So it seems. Tell me,” he said as the waiter delivered two more champagnes, this time without being asked. “Why are you so intent on conducting the auction your way? Why do Marthe’s things mean so much to you?”
Before responding April took three big gulps. Already her brain hummed. Forever a lightweight, she was surprised that her already borderline-excessive Parisian wine consumption had done little to bolster her tolerance. What good was drinking heavily now if it did not permit you to drink even more later?
“Well,” April said, working to keep from slurring her words. “We have the opportunity to do quite well here. Usually the paintings and jewelry make the real money. And contemporary art—that dwarfs all of it for reasons I cannot comprehend. Anyway, my department is not, as they say ‘high-grossing.’ The sales commissions and buyers’ premiums on old furniture and random knickknacks barely pay assistants’ salaries. They bare
ly pay for my travel or the fancy catalogs. This could be different, though. These pieces, with Madame de Florian’s background, could set records.”
“Though you are an auctioneer—”
“Continental furniture expert.”
“Though you are an auctioneer, I do not gather the premiums really matter to you.”
“Why? Because of Troy? Let me dispel that notion. I keep my own bank account and our prenup is quite onerous from my standpoint. More onerous than I remembered, actually.…”
It seemed like a good idea at the time, a declaration of April’s commitment. It was a declaration made only to lawyers and various family members she’d not seen since the wedding, but a statement nonetheless. April handed over a balance sheet at the closing dinner, known as the rehearsal dinner to most in the room, and signed a statement saying that upon dissolution of the marriage she’d take only what was on that sheet plus anything she’d managed to accumulate in checking account number 99844201 or brokerage account 5601-4324. A foolhardy endeavor in hindsight, but at least Troy’s future third wife couldn’t rightly bitch about April taking all his money.
“Who mentioned anything about le grand m’sieu?” Luc said with a scoff. “I am certainly not interested in him. And neither am I concerned about your financial status or the premiums on furniture or how much it costs to produce a catalog. Non. I did not ask about any of it. I don’t care why the furniture is meaningful to the auction house or to any one person’s bank account. I asked why the items are meaningful to you.”
He looked at her pointedly, in a manner so intimate it made April squirm in her chair. Some part of her wanted to run away. The other part wished he’d reach out and touch her again.
“To me?” April said, clearing her throat.
“To you.” He hadn’t even blinked.
April thought for a moment. There were a hundred different ways to answer, but the whole mess could be summarized in a few words. How much to reveal, she wondered, without giving herself away?
“I think the real question”—April said, suppressing a burp—“is not why they mean so much to me, but why they didn’t mean much to Lisette Quatremer? Why don’t they matter to Madame Vannier? These are heirlooms, evidence of a life. It’s inconceivable that Lisette locked it all away and that Madame Vannier wants to sell everything, sight unseen. I don’t mean to insult your client. I’m sure she has her reasons. But it is hard for me to think of a valid one.”
“Maybe these people never cared about the past,” Luc said. “Maybe they don’t need evidence of anything. Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘live in the moment’?”
“Bullshit. Everyone cares about the past,” April said. “Everyone. Are you getting another glass? I’m almost done with mine. What time is it? Are they about to close? Should we order more just in case?”
“Perhaps you should hold off. Though you are slight, you are a tall woman, and I’m not certain I could carry you home.”
Luc gave another one of his sly winks. April again felt her face redden.
He was disturbingly attractive, this man, attractive in a skinny European kind of way, but attractive nonetheless. True, he was a bit smarmy and the amount of chest hair visible over the top of his button-down indicated a need for manscaping. He also had a nasty tobacco habit, replete with vaguely nicotine-stained nails and what had to be a pair of black lungs.
I don’t understand the appeal, April told herself. His face—it did belong on a shadowy, black-and-white billboard, perhaps one advertising cologne or condoms or expensive liquor. But Luc was not her type, if she were single enough to have a type. April liked her men one way: big, sandy-haired, and American. Clean nails. Straight teeth, straight hair.
But if semi-dirty Frenchmen weren’t her thing, why, then, did April’s heart rate kick up every time she saw him? Why was she drinking (too much) champagne with a near-stranger, on a rooftop in Paris, dangerously close to saying things she’d only ever admitted to Troy?
“You think I can’t hold my liquor?” April said, attempting to distract herself as another burp sneaked up the back of her throat. “I’d surprise you.”
“You already have.” Luc reached over and splashed a bit of his champagne into her glass. “Well, what do you have of your past, Madame Vogt? Roomfuls of family heirlooms passed down from older generations?”
“Hardly.” She snorted. “After my mom got sick my dad got rid of it all.”
“Sick with what?”
“Nice try. We”—April used air quotes—“don’t talk about that. And it doesn’t matter, really.” God, what a lie! Of course it mattered. It mattered in a million small ways, and at least a few large ones. “It went like this. One day she was there. They took her to the hospital. Then she was gone. There was simply nothing left. If I were younger when it happened I’m sure I would’ve thought a person’s belongings were permanently attached to them, that if someone left, all their stuff would go, too.”
“What happened to her things?”
“My dad sold them. To pay for the medical expenses, or to rid himself of the memories, or both, probably.” April shrugged. “I would’ve liked something. But it was all gone before I could ask.”
“So no heirlooms.”
“No heirlooms, no knickknacks, not even costume jewelry. And for all intents and purposes my dad was gone too. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I pretty much felt like an orphan overnight. Like Marthe de Florian, I was a teenager standing on the sidewalk watching other peoples’ families pass by, left wondering how I could have that, too.”
“I’m sorry, Avril,” Luc said in his honey-thick French accent. He frowned, hard, and did not appear ready with a smirk or vaguely disparaging comment. “That must have been difficult.”
“It’s totally fucked up,” April said and then covered her mouth. “Sorry for the language.”
“Ça fait rien. You’ve already said many expletives tonight.”
“I guess you’re right.” April stabbed her fork into the last remaining pieces of macaroni. They were tepid and gluey, but she needed the food. “It’s just … when he did that, when he shipped it all away, or sold it in a yard sale, or however the hell he disposed of the pieces, afterward there was nothing tangible left. Only the shell of some life that once was. I wish I had something. Something substantial I could put in my home, a piece I could look at and say, yeah, there’s Mom. Furniture is furniture. I get that. But it still has a memory within it. Don’t get me wrong. I have an apartment, a beautiful apartment, filled with expensive pieces. Troy was pretty generous.”
“Was?”
“Is. If something catches my eye in an auction he doesn’t usually say no. But most of our stuff? Gorgeous. Outrageously expensive. But manufactured in the last five years and purchased by my husband. Selected by someone I don’t even know.”
“That’s how you feel about your husband? That you don’t know him?”
“That’s not what I meant!” April snapped, but then wondered. “It was easier for us to hire an interior designer and simply approve of preselected items. My area of expertise isn’t really well-suited for our apartment, or our combined tastes. This was a new marriage for Troy and a new life for me after leaving Paris. We were both starting from scratch.”
“So the things from your childhood home?” Luc said. “The heirlooms from your mother? I have to wonder. Would they ever really be enough? They are not her.”
“Well, of course they’re not her. But it would beat the hell out of what I currently have, which is a big fat zero. So I’d take it. I’d take in a heartbeat.”
April scraped the last bits of congealed cheese slime from the side of the ramekin and set the fork down, still hungry and hollow. It was like this whenever April thought about her mom. Her stomach turned into a ravenous pit that could never be filled.
“Your father?” Luc asked. “Is he still with us?”
“You mean alive? Yes, yes he is. ‘With us,’ on the other hand, is debatable.”
“I don’t know that the tragedy’s behind us,” April said. “But we talk frequently. He’s a champion e-mailer though he keeps me at a distance, has for twenty years. Plus they’re in California and I’m in New York. I try to get out every couple months for a visit but my brother is involved much more than I am. It makes me feel bad on the one hand. On the other, who better? Brian handles this all so much better than I do. I’m glad he’s the one who stayed in California, not me.”
“You have a brother?”
April nodded.
“Brian is great. He’s four years younger. Lives in San Francisco and is married to a nurse.”
“Is Brian into the furniture as well?”
“Ha! No. He’s a programmer with Google.” April feigned typing. “It’s actually pretty cool, for computer stuff. You know when you’re searching something innocuous and an inane suggestion pops up? Say you want to learn more about dinosaurs and you’ve hardly finished the ‘dino’ part when Google suggests, ‘Dinosaurs are Jesus ponies’?”
“‘Dinosaurs are Jesus ponies.’” Luc wrinkled his nose. “I do not understand. Why are they Jesus ponies?”
“They’re not. Okay, maybe this anecdote doesn’t translate well. The point is that’s his job. Well, a small part of it anyway. He is a programmer who creates bizarre phrases to make people laugh when they’re searching the Internet.”
“So he’s funny. A humorist.”
“Yes. Very funny. And a little weird too. But extremely funny.”
“Like you.” Luc grinned.
“I’m not the least bit funny.”
“Perhaps I was speaking of the weird part.”
“That’s such an outlandish statement I can’t even be offended. There are few people less weird than me. I am quite possibly the most average person you’ll ever meet.”
“Ah, so you are funny.” Luc said and tapped the top of her hand. “Just as I suspected all along.”
April smiled and shook her head. The moment had lifted. She’d told him about her mother, more than she should’ve thanks to the champagne, but sustained no internal injuries in the process. Now they were talking about Jesus ponies and how not funny she was. April felt safe again. Luc heard the summary version but never gleaned how deep the crack went.
A Paris Apartment Page 17
