A Paris Apartment (21 page)

“Yes. That would be dreadful. Those fellows are the worst.”

“Angels and cupids and cherubs. Not my taste at all.”

“You are a delightful romantic. In any case, given your astounding endorsement as well as that of Madame de Florian, I’ll have to look this painting up on the Internet to see what the fuss is about.”

“I cannot believe you don’t know her.” April thumped her glass on the table. “How is that even possible?”

“Ah, we cannot all live in paintings and furniture.” Luc finished off his champagne and signaled the waiter for another. “Now. Do you want the news? Or would you prefer to continue waxing poetic about some other lady from some other painting and not our dear Madame de Florian?”

“No! Of course not! We’re here for Marthe. Tell me”—April cringed—“but tell me it’s not bad.”

“Relax, Avril. This news is good. So nervous you are. Squirrelly! No doubt like the young squirrel Giovinetta Errázuriz from Boldini’s painting.”

“I know those two paintings, by the way, the ones Marthe writes about. Boldini sold them directly to Baron de Rothschild, who sold them to a private collector probably about twenty years ago, long before I was in the business. But we studied all the big sales in graduate school. The transaction was conducted by, shall we say, a competing house. Clearly Baron de Rothschild was of questionable taste.”

“Fascinating,” Luc said and rolled his eyes. “One cannot hear enough about the vagaries of auction-house sales. Anyway, she’d like to meet you.”

“Who? Giovinetta de Alvear de Errázuriz? I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”

“No. Not the rodent-child. Agnès Vannier. Madame Quatremer’s heir.”

April paused. The heir. He’d finally named the beneficiary to Lisette Quatremer’s estate.

“Luc,” she said, a little out of breath.

The name Agnès Vannier meant exactly nothing to April, at least not in any way related to provenance. Yet Luc could have gifted her something from the apartment itself for the way April reacted. She gawped at him exactly as one would after receiving an unduly extravagant gift, not unlike the first time Troy placed a delicately wrapped box in her hands.

Jewelry seemed sweet at the time, though unnecessary after just two months of dating, but April figured it was not altogether out of line for someone of Troy’s ilk. Until she opened the box and found a pair of pearl and diamond earclips from Paris, sold at a recent “Property of a Lady” auction. Sotheby’s conducted the sale, so April had seen the catalog. The lady had any number of flashy, diamond-encrusted, rubied-up assets in her property, but Troy selected the exact lot April would’ve picked for herself. The earrings were simple, though not plain, at least compared with the other pieces. Still, they were unquestionably valuable. April intentionally avoided finding out the hammer price but knew they went for more than she made in a year, two years, perhaps even in three.

At the time April felt bumbling, undeserving, and frankly would’ve demanded that he return them had it been an option. Instead she was forced to awkwardly accept the earclips, although April said repeatedly she’d be happy to return them to him at some later date. Perhaps he could save the jewels for his daughters to wear in their weddings one day.

That was ancient history, though, and now April was well versed in the process of receiving gifts. One shouldn’t try to match her value to the item’s price tag, and instead simply say thanks. But while that certainly applied to diamonds and pearls, the gift from Luc meant so much more that April found herself outmatched. It was all she could manage to utter “thank you” and remove the small napkin from beneath her plate of mac and cheese.

“Are you crying?” he asked after her squeak of gratitude.

“Bien sûr que non!” April’s voice was high, scratchy, and thin. “That’d be silly. I’m only a little stunned. I thought Madame Vannier”—the name, April had the name—“I thought Madame Vannier wasn’t interested in any curious auctioneers.”

“A change of heart, I suppose. And you are no ordinary auctioneer. I’ve assured her of this.”

“Who is she?” April asked, blotting the corners of her eyes. “This Agnès Vannier? Is she Lisette’s daughter?”

“No, Madame Quatremer never had any children.”

“So is Agnès her sister?” April asked. Her purse vibrated. She didn’t bother to check the caller. Troy could suck it, she thought. Of course suck it in a figurative and colloquial manner, Willow still fresh in her mind. “A cousin, then? What?”

“It is not for me to explain. She’d like to tell you herself. Isn’t it better to hear the provenance straight from the sow’s mouth?” Luc winked.

“Yes, of course. I can ask all the relevant details when we meet.”

“Let’s be clear. If you meet,” Luc said. “
If
. Nothing is guaranteed.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing is guaranteed’? You said she wanted to!”

“Avril—”

“C’est merdique, Luc.” April polished off the rest of her champagne. “Supershitty, as a matter of fact. I’m not interested in any of your games. Either she wants to see me or she doesn’t. I don’t understand why you’d bring it up only to yank it away again. Yes or no, Thébault. These are your choices. It’s really quite black-and-white.”

“Nothing’s ever black-and-white,” he said. “And she wants to meet, yes, but in the end it might not be her choice. Though I appreciate your ardent descriptions—‘supershitty’ indeed—Madame Vannier is younger than Lisette Quatremer was when she died but remains quite old. Eighty, to be exact. She is not of optimum health, and her constitution is in a most delicate state.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Luc shrugged. “This is how life goes. We’re young, we’re old, we’re weak, we die.”

“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 barely 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.