A Paris Apartment (22 page)

“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.”

“So you’re not closer now that the tragedy is behind you?”

“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.

“Well, should we get the bill?” April said, reaching down for her purse.

“Again, I’m sorry about your mother. It must’ve been hard.”

“It still is,” she admitted.

Luc leaned back in his chair, flagged down the waiter, and asked for an espresso and the check. When April glanced around she noticed they were the only two left in the restaurant.

“Thank you for telling me about her,” Luc said. “Your mom. You’re an interesting conversationalist when you stop tap-dancing around all my queries.”

“Tap-dancing? I’m not sure about that, or about the interesting part. I’m okay, I guess, but I’m no Marthe de Florian.”

April had told Luc the bare minimum about her mother, but it was not even close to full disclosure. Marthe probably would’ve revealed every last sordid detail and twist, with interesting sidebars about contortionists or enemas thrown in.

“Few people could be that fearless,” April added.

“One only needs to try.” Luc got his credit card back from the waiter.

“By the way, you said I could get this one.”

“Next one. Shall we? It’s past closing.”

“We shall. Thanks for the meal. And the champagne. Both were delicious.”

April popped off the chair and hooked her purse over one shoulder while fidgeting with her hair, which was somehow lodged beneath the straps. It was getting too long, out of control, now nearly reaching her bra. It always grew faster in France.

“Shall I walk you to your flat?” Luc asked. “This area is safe, but what kind of gentleman would I be if I did not?”

“Actually,” April said quickly. “I’m going to do some browsing in the Galeries. Try to find a few gifts for my stepdaughters.…”

Though Chelsea’s gift request specifically excluded the Galeries, April found herself suddenly anxious to leave Luc’s company, to step out from his prying glare. She’d had a bit to drink and was getting overly forthright, the words (and other things) loosening in her chest. What was the phrase Troy always used when negotiating a deal? Right. She’d opened her robe too wide; given Luc too long a stare.

Plus April could feel her brain and good sense winding away from her. A voice chirped in her head, wondering if Luc’s offer to walk her home had an ulterior motive. Something else—not a voice but something deeper, more instinctual—hoped that the motive was not altogether pure. The degree of this want terrified her.

“I can wait,” Luc said with a shrug. “Until you are done with your shopping.”

“No! No! That’s okay. I might be a while,” April said, then added hastily, “Thanks though. Very sweet.”

“All right then.”

Luc leaned toward her and kissed both cheeks, Parisian-style, needing no gimmick to get there this time.

“Au ’voir, Luc,” April said, biting the inside of her bottom lip so she would not blurt out something she might regret. “Okay. Bye. Bye.”

April floundered off in the opposite direction, her cheeks still burning from the scrape of his stubble. She was gone before he could say good-bye.

Chapitre XXXVI

Paris, 20 July 1892

The heat Paris summer brings! I quite miss the dampness of the convent at times, even if it settled as a low, wet cough at the bottom of my lungs most months of the year. At least in the summertime it was cool.

Though the streets of Paris have emptied out, the privileged absconding to their ancestral homes, the Folies is busy as ever, which for me is a good thing. I need the funds. Pierre remains in South America, sending me ever-decreasing funds and forever threatening to come home for good. And they do feel like threats. He heard from some unnamed source (Hello, Émilie!) that Robert de Montesquiou occupies my stool most nights of the week. Pierre is not pleased. His sources are not incorrect.

Ah,
Le Comte de Montesquiou
, the dandiest of the dandies with his girlish giggles and floral adornments. The pretty little man claims to be a poet, but his real occupation is having been born into wealth. It’s true he spends a lot of time at my station, but
M. Le Comte
does not view me as a romantic interest. I am a sounding board off which he bounces his more outlandish exploits. It’s not that my jaw on the floor means he will hold back. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. The bigger my reaction, the more likely he’ll trot the tale out for public consumption.

Truth be told, every so often I
do
contemplate Montesquiou as a romantic partner. He is silly with cash. Gold coins literally fall out of his pockets as he walks. But while Robert could provide a lady with the best adornments and the finest apartment, there is something so depressingly
unselective
about the man. He will have sex with anything, and have sex with anything he does.

It’s funny that Pierre is so suspicious of Robert de Montesquiou yet never says a word about Boldini, the one person who should concern him. If I had a way to accurately assess Giovanni’s earning potential, it might be out with
M. Merde
altogether! Though, I suppose, it is not that simple. Like his wealth, Boldini’s disposition is utterly unpredictable.