I soften my tone then because I can see I have hurt him, and because I need him to listen to what I have to say. “I think you work hard to provide for her, Henry, but that’s not the same thing as looking after her. She looked like some sort of orphan today. I’d swear on my life she hasn’t had a bath in a week, or had anyone brush her hair. And she was running barefoot, for pity’s sake—in October!”
“She’s never been a prissy girl, Adele.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I don’t care if the girl ever takes another bath as long as she lives, but she cannot be allowed to hang around with those awful boys.”
Henry gulps a mouthful of bourbon, then scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’ll tell Lyla to keep an eye on them.”
I can only glare at him, incredulous that he believes a milk-faced girl would be any match for that pack of ruffians. “Not Lyla, Henry—you. You have to make them go away and stay away. You didn’t see them. They mocked me, right in front of Maggie!”
“Is that what this is about? Adele, they’re just boys.”
“Who were teaching your little girl to smoke! God only knows what they’ll be teaching her next. Do you not see what could happen?” I pause, making sure I have his attention, then say the thing I know I must say. “Or is it just easier not to see it, Henry?”
In the eight years I have known Henry Gavin, I have never roused his anger. Now I see a shadow steal across his face as he digests my words. Finally, he brings his glass down on the counter with a sharp crack.
“Jemmy is your concern, Adele. And Maggie is Susanne’s. I know that isn’t pleasant to hear, but it’s not your place to worry about this, or to blame me for it either.”
Henry’s words leave me speechless, more stinging than if he’d struck me across the face. That he should fling such a thing at me, purposely wound me in order to distract from his refusal to deal with the situation and with his wife, is unthinkable. I find I have nothing to say as he stalks past me and out of the kitchen. Minutes later, as I hear the cottage door bang shut behind him, I cannot help but recall a line from Mama’s letter.
I only hope he will stand by you, whatever trouble comes…
Chapter 33
Leslie
Leslie lifted her face to the breeze as the Mustang crested the Cooper River Bridge. Jay had dropped the top shortly after crossing over into South Carolina, and as they headed toward the coast, the spires and steeples of Charleston’s historic downtown stood in sharp relief against a blue-white sky.
Jay played tour guide as they headed into downtown proper, slowing now and then to point out bits of history or architecture: the Custom House and the Old Slave Mart; the Circular Church, which boasted the town’s oldest cemetery; or the columned facade of City Market. She had always heard Charleston described as charming. Now she understood why. Everything about the town seethed with a sense of antiquity and old southern charm.
“If the winery goes belly-up you can always get a job as a tour guide,” she teased, as he pointed out the Dock Street Theatre. “You could do one of those ghost-walk tours.”
Jay opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it as he pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. “We’re here.”
Leslie surveyed the tree-lined promenade across the street with a bit of confusion. “We’re supposed to be at Emilie Fornier’s house. This is a park.”
Jay stepped out onto the sidewalk and fed a handful of quarters into the meter. “It’s not a park—it’s Battery Park. If you look out into the harbor, you can see Fort Sumter from here. And our meeting is just one street over. We can walk it from here. But first I want to talk to you.”
Leslie pointed to his shirt pocket. “I think you’re phone’s going off.”
Jay made no attempt to hide his annoyance as he fished the thing out and glanced at the display. His expression changed immediately.
“I’m sorry, Leslie. I have to take this.” He turned his back to her as he answered, his tone all business. “Jay Davenport. Yes. Yes. Actually, I was hoping to speak with him personally, but if he’s tied up I can give you the details until he can get back to me.”
He switched ears then and stepped away, leaving Leslie to ponder a Civil War cannon with its dubious pyramid of shiny black cannonballs. She had to admit he’d chosen a breathtaking spot to park. She eyed the palm-lined row of grand southern mansions across the street, still as proud and white as the southern belles who had once lived in them, then the broad green expanse of the battery itself, with its ancient, draping oaks, and thought of the belles who had almost certainly strolled there, prettily perched on the arms of beaus in Confederate gray.
From the corner of her eye she could see that Jay had ended his call, but instead of walking back to join her, he hiked a foot up on a nearby bench and placed another call, glancing back over his shoulder now and then, as if he feared she might wander off or slip up behind him.
It was a strange observation, yet it felt accurate somehow. He’d been tense since they left Peak this morning, barely speaking a word along the way, and then only in halting monosyllables. And there was the brooding frown that never seemed to leave his brow, as though he were a thousand miles away, or wished he were.
She was still searching her memory for anything she might have said or done to set him off, when she saw that he was finally heading in her direction.
“Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said, dropping his phone back into his shirt pocket. “Just an old friend of my father’s. We’ve been playing phone tag for a couple days.”
“Oh, good. You looked so serious. Now, you were about to say something.”
The tension had returned to his face. He hiked up his cuff and checked the time. “It’ll have to wait. We drove six hours to meet this woman. Let’s go get it over with. Before we head home we’ll get some dinner. There’ll be time to talk then.”
Leslie squinted up at him. “Should I be worried?”
He seemed not to hear as he made his way back to the car and fetched the Rebecca from the trunk. Tucking it awkwardly beneath one arm, he steered her down the sidewalk toward the imposing iron gate that separated 26 Murray Boulevard from the riffraff. It was a massive house, two stories of pink brick with shiny shutters, half a dozen chimneys, and a soaring, half-round portico. The gate latch gave easily.
Leslie kept her eyes moving, half expecting a Rottweiler to dart from the manicured hedges as they moved up the walk. Jay gave the polished knocker two quick raps. After a few moments the door opened to reveal a sixtysomething beigy blonde in perfectly tailored St. John’s knit. Her voice was slow and southern, finishing-school perfect.
“Ms. Nichols?”
“Yes, and this is Mr. Davenport. Thank you again for seeing me.”
Emilie Fornier nodded crisply, stepping aside to let them enter. She said nothing as she led them through the foyer and into a room more reminiscent of a museum than a parlor. Leslie’s mouth hung open as she gazed at the eclectic montage of jade carvings and paper-thin porcelains, religious artifacts and pre-Columbian pottery.
They were waved toward a long brocade sofa. As Leslie settled gingerly on the pristine cushions, she couldn’t help feeling their hostess’s silence was intended to give them time to be properly awed. There was something distinctly condescending in the cool blue gaze, a subtle reminder that while they had technically been invited, they should not confuse that invitation with being welcome.
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Fornier,” Jay said graciously.
“It’s Ms. Fornier,” she corrected. “I never married. And thank you. The house belonged to my grandfather, as I’m sure you already know.” Her gaze shifted to Leslie, pointed and all business. “You said you had a piece you’d like me to authenticate. I suppose that would be what your friend is holding on his knees, wrapped in…a bedsheet…is it?”
A slow heat crept into Leslie’s cheeks. “I’m afraid it is. As I said on the phone—”
<
br /> Fornier spoke to Jay now, as if Leslie were no longer in the room. “Unwrap it, please.”
Leslie bit her tongue. She was in no position to indulge her pride. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, watching Emilie Fornier’s expression as the Rebecca emerged; recognition, followed by a more critical assessment and a distaste that gave itself away in the slight flaring of her nostrils.
“Yes,” the woman said finally, though what question she might be answering, Leslie had no idea. At the opposite end of the couch, Jay seemed equally baffled.
“Yes?” Leslie prodded, hoping for a more detailed response.
Ms. Fornier composed her face into something that might pass for a smile. “May I get you both some tea?”
Leslie opened her mouth to decline, but Jay cut her off, accepting the offer with a smile that was right off the cover of one of his novels. And just like that, a dozen years fell away from Emilie Fornier’s well-powdered face. Her forced smile was visibly softer as she turned and left the room.
“She hates it,” Leslie hissed when the slap of Emilie’s soft leather mules faded from earshot.
Jay’s brow furrowed. “Hates what?”
“The Rebecca—she hates it.”
“All she said was yes. How do you know she hates it?”
Leslie rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you see her face when you took the sheet off? You might as well have unwrapped a dead skunk.”
Jay looked over his shoulder, then leaned in with a grin. “For a minute there I thought you were going to take a poke at her. She’s certainly—”
Before he could finish the sentence Emilie appeared in the doorway. “We’ll take the tea in my office. Bring the painting. I want to see it under proper light.”
She hadn’t framed it as a request, nor did she wait for a response, disappearing with her tray down a well-lit hallway and leaving them to follow. Leslie’s eyes widened as they stepped inside Emilie Fornier’s study. After the parlor’s hectic opulence, the starkness of the room was jarring. This was no showplace, just a room filled with clean, naked surfaces, hues of beige and palest blue, like a beach in winter, swept of all traces of warmth and frivolity.
At Emilie’s instruction, Jay set the painting on a wooden easel in the corner and took the chair beside Leslie. There were only two glasses of iced tea on Emilie’s black lacquer tray. She handed them out, then moved to her desk, where she withdrew a pair of eyeglasses and a black velvet pouch containing a set of magnifying lenses.
Leslie sipped her tea, feigning patience while Emilie Fornier snapped on the light above the easel and turned her lens on the signature in the lower right corner of the canvas. After a few moments, she pushed her glasses to the end of her nose.
“I’ll need to step out for a moment,” she told them, heading for the door with her lenses. “Please wait here.” She was gone less than ten minutes. When she returned she laid down her tools and fixed her gaze on Leslie. “The painting is what you think it is.”
Leslie scooted to the edge of her chair. “So it is by this man, Tanner?”
“Yes.”
“And did your grandfather ever own it?”
“At one time he owned them all. Or at least the ones anyone knows about.”
Leslie opened her mouth but found no words. The questions that had formed over the last several days all tried to come out at once. “Do you know if this particular painting was sold before or after he came to the U.S.? And who he might have sold it to?”
Ms. Fornier pulled off her glasses and folded them carefully. “Might I ask, Ms. Nichols, why you’re interested in the business dealings of a man dead almost thirty years?”
Jay spoke up. “Leslie’s grandmother passed away recently, and she’s handling the estate. She was curious how this painting might have come into her family’s possession.”
Emilie shifted her gaze to Leslie. “I’m not interested in buying it.”
“Good,” Leslie answered, bristling. “Because it’s not for sale.”
Jay seemed to sense that things were about to get out of hand. “Ms. Fornier, our intent isn’t to sell the painting. We were only hoping you could provide a little history, since it passed through your grandfather’s personal collection.”
“Your last name is Davenport,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Your face is familiar. What is your first name?”
“It’s Jay—short for James. But you may know me as J. D. Hartwell.”
“The writer, I thought so. Your last book—the one about the World War II pilot—was set here in Charleston. It was very popular with the locals. Even I read it. A little mushy for my taste, but you did the town justice. Every writer wants to set a story in Charleston these days but can’t be bothered doing their homework. You and Conroy are the only ones who got it right.”
Jay beamed at her. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have the endorsement of a Charleston native, Ms. Fornier.”
“Please, call me Emilie. Will you have more tea, or something stronger?” Then, as an afterthought, “Ms. Nichols?”
When they declined, Emilie settled back against the edge of her desk, slender legs crossed at the ankles. “Fine, then, North Carolina’s a long way to come. What is it you want to know?”
Jay was the first to speak. “It would be helpful if you could tell us when your grandfather sold his collection, and if at all possible, who the buyers were. We know it’s a long shot, but we were hoping maybe there were some old records.”
“As a matter of fact, my grandfather was rather particular when it came to his records. Every piece he ever bought or sold was catalogued in a series of ledgers.”
Leslie set her tea aside and scooted to the edge of her chair. “And you have these books?”
“I do.”
“I don’t suppose you’d let us see them?”
“No. But I may be able to tell you what you want to know. After you called, I did a little digging.” Opening the desk drawer, she took out a sheet of paper and held it at arm’s length as she read aloud. “Five oils by Jeremiah Tanner, sold in March of 1941 to Henry Gavin of Peak Plantation, North Carolina. It seems at one time your great-grandfather owned more than just the Rebecca, Ms. Nichols.”
“And did the ledger say how much he might have paid?”
Emilie nodded coolly.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Suffice it to say that for the time, it was a considerable amount of money.”
Leslie counted to ten. She was quickly losing patience. “Was there any information about how your grandfather happened to connect with the buyer? I ask because my great-grandfather was a tobacco famer who didn’t know the first thing about art.”
Emilie’s lips pursed. “That would explain his taste.”
Jay threw Leslie a sharp look of warning. “You’re not a fan of Tanner’s work, Emilie?”
“Let’s just say he’s not my cup of tea.”
Leslie’s eyes shifted briefly to the painting on the easel. “I don’t understand. The way he captured her expression…it’s so alive, so…sensual. That takes talent.”
Emilie Fornier gave a delicate sniff. “Hardly fitting praise for what was supposed to be a religious study. But then, that was always Tanner’s fatal flaw. He never approached his work with anything like reverence, choosing to exploit the corporeal instead.”
Leslie spied the glint of metal at Emilie’s throat and realized she was toying with a small crucifix. She blinked at it. Was it really as simple as that? Could this credentialed woman with her tidy hair and no-nonsense manner be so offended by the sensuality of Tanner’s work that she refused to see his talent?
Suddenly, she couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. “Your grandfather must have appreciated Tanner’s work to go to the trouble of collecting every piece.”
Emilie smiled, a mix of irritation and indulgence. “My grandfather may have been a connoisseur of fine art, Ms. Nichols, but he was also a man.”
“You’re saying his interest had more to do with the appreciation of women than with the merits of the artist?”
“Not women, Ms. Nichols—woman. The same woman. The same face over and over again, in every one of Tanner’s paintings. I’m afraid she was something of an obsession for my grandfather.”
Leslie found the idea vaguely unsettling. “That’s odd, isn’t it? To be obsessed with an image Tanner might have conjured out of thin air.”
“Ah, but he didn’t. She’s real—or was. She was Tanner’s common-law wife. They met in the U.S. and she followed him to Paris. She returned alone several years later. He died in Montmartre, like so many French artists, an opium addict, I believe, heavily in debt, and rumored to have contracted syphilis.”
Leslie said nothing, recalling similar words in the magazine articles.
Jay’s eyes were still on the Rebecca. “How is that even possible when a man has this kind of talent?”
“You assume success in the art world is always about talent, Mr. Davenport. It’s isn’t. Tanner had two strikes against him. He was black, for one, which made finding a wealthy patron all but impossible. More damning, though, was his subject matter. A country famed for the cathedral at Notre Dame wasn’t quite comfortable seeing history’s most sacred women portrayed as sex objects. It’s a conflict for a lot of people, myself included. It can be difficult to remain objective about art that offends your personal beliefs. My family never understood.” Her eyes were bent on the carpet now, fingers working the crucifix. She glanced up with a wavering smile. “I don’t know why I told you that. Forgive me.”
“Ms. Fornier,” Leslie said with newfound patience. “Emilie—I didn’t come to dredge up old wounds. I just want to know more about my family. I’ve got all these questions, but there’s no one left to ask. There are gaps, things I may never know, about my mother, and…other people. That’s why I hoped you could help. But if this is uncomfortable we’ll leave right now.”
Emilie’s expression softened. “That isn’t necessary. I’ll help however I can, though I can’t imagine why anything I could tell you would be of any use. I believe you asked if I knew how the sale came about.”
The Secrets She Carried Page 24
