Precious Gifts (7 page)

“Are you going to check that out, too?” he asked her.

“Maybe. Eventually. I don't know if I'll have time now. There's a monastery in Venice, with incredible archives, that pursues the veracity of paintings, particularly those in dispute as to their authenticity. It would be interesting to visit them anyway. I went there once with my mother, after my grandfather wrote about the monastery in a book. She was always fascinated by forgeries. I caught the bug from her. If I go to Italy, I might visit them again.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don't know. Late August. Maybe September. I'm going to visit the château with the girls.”

“Are they planning to keep it?” he asked with interest.

“I doubt it. They don't want the burden of a château in France. They're much too busy with their lives here.” They both knew that she could take on the responsibility of the château for them, but she didn't want to. She had given it to Paul, and it was a relic of ancient history for her.

“I'll get you the photograph before you leave,” he promised again. “It sounds fascinating. Let me know what you find out. And about Sophie and her mother, too.” Paul had certainly left a trail of mysteries and problems in his wake, which was so like him, an odd mixture of joy and pain, while he thought only of himself.

Véronique was packing and getting organized two days later, when she heard from Arnold again. He had received a letter from an attorney representing Bertie, who was registering strong displeasure over the disposition of his father's estate. He was offering his sisters an opportunity to settle it with him and include him in their share of the château, and a monetary amount “to true things up,” particularly from Timmie, who had gotten the largest share. And if they failed to do so, he was giving them fair warning that he would attack them individually, and the estate, and file a lawsuit to overturn the will.

Véronique sighed as she listened, when Arnold read it to her, but she wasn't surprised.

“I thought he might do something like that. It's his only hope of getting something out of Paul now, and the girls.” She sounded unhappy about it.

“He'd have gone after you if he could, but you neither have ownership in the château, nor got a monetary bequest. And he's obviously not interested in the painting you think is a fraud anyway.”

“It's foolish of him,” she said to Arnold. “If it's real, it's worth a fortune.”

“He wants a safer bet, and faster money. What he really wants is a settlement, not a lawsuit. He's trying to scare the girls.” It was obvious to Arnold, and Véronique had figured that out, too. “Do you think they'll give him something to get rid of him?” Arnold asked her.

“Not a chance,” Véronique said with certainty. They had hated their half-brother for years and knew him for what he was. And they were far less charitable than Véronique. “And they're right. He doesn't deserve a penny now. Paul and I gave him more than enough, and he wasted it all. He'd do it again.” Arnold agreed with her. “What do we do now?”

“Wait to see if he sues, and deal with it then. He won't get far with a suit, given the history, and Paul had the right to do what he wanted with what he had. The most Bertie can do is harass the girls for a settlement. I think a lawsuit would be unsuccessful, but he can try.” Véronique still thought he might.

All three of the girls called her later that day, when Arnold faxed Bertie's letter to them. All of them were outraged but not surprised.

“We'll nail him to the wall if he tries to sue us,” Timmie said succinctly, and Véronique was sure they would. The girls had no sentiment about him, and Timmie least of all, who always said he was a worm and had hated him even as a child and seen right through him, with his lying and wheedling ways. Arnold had said Bertie might even try to go after Sophie's share, since she had never been recognized by their father during his lifetime, but he doubted Bertie would succeed with that tack, unless he terrorized Sophie and she caved. Bertie didn't have a leg to stand on. All he had on his side were jealousy, venom, and greed, which wouldn't get him anything in court.

Juliette was more anxious about it when she called her mother, she didn't want the stress of getting sued. Véronique tried to reassure her and went out to Brooklyn to see her the next day, to give her a hug before she left for France. They had a nice visit in Juliette's tiny apartment, and Véronique promised to let her know what the detective said about Sophie Marnier.

That night Véronique dropped by Timmie's apartment for a few minutes to say goodbye to her as well. She usually said goodbye to them over the phone, but this time, since they had just lost their father, she wanted to see them in person before she left. She was flying to Paris the next day, nine days after she'd arrived from Nice. And she felt as though she'd been back for ten years. It had been a painful visit, full of hard emotions, good and bad surprises, and all the turmoil Paul had left in his wake. She couldn't wait to leave and get back to her peaceful apartment in Paris on the Île St. Louis.

Arnold found a photograph of the Bellini for her. If she went to Italy, she would try to track it down. The photograph was in her hand luggage, with a copy of Bertie's recent letter and another of the will.

Then Véronique called Joy in L.A. to say goodbye to her as well. She was busy and in good spirits. She had quit her waitressing job when she got back, and was thrilled, and she was meeting with drama coaches and agents to select the right ones. Her mother sounded pleased for her. They had turned a corner, and Véronique was trying to be more supportive about Joy's acting, following the example Paul had set. Joy was impressed by how much nicer her mother was being about it.

Véronique had decided to make her peace with it. Joy was twenty-six years old, after all, and had worked hard at acting for five years, which showed dedication. She had genuine talent and was serious about doing everything she could to get ahead. Véronique felt that she no longer had a right to stand in her way. It was Joy's life, and her dream.

When Véronique got on the plane the following afternoon, she left with a heavy heart. So much had happened, the last of her illusions about Paul and their marriage had been shattered. And the only good that had come of it was that she felt closer to her daughters than she had before. But she felt strangely alone as the plane took off. Paul was gone now, there was nothing left of him to hang on to, either as a husband or even a friend. And as much as she loved her daughters, they were grown women with their own lives. And she'd realized that she had relied on them emotionally for too long. She had never really built a life for herself after Paul. The children had been very little, and she had clung to them, and to him in a different way. Now, with his death, the umbilical cord had been severed. And as New York shrank beneath her, she had never felt so lonely in her life.

T
he plane landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at six o'clock the next morning, and Véronique took a cab into the city just as dawn was breaking in the sky over Paris with brilliant pinks and oranges. It looked like one of her Impressionist paintings, and she nearly cried it was so beautiful and she was so happy to be back. There was something about Paris that always soothed her and consoled her. Even though she had lived in other cities, and in New York for many years, Paris always felt like coming home.

She had left her housekeeper a message that she was arriving, and when she got into her apartment with the slightly sloping floors and breathtaking view of the Seine, she found everything in good order, a fresh baguette in the kitchen, a basket of fruit that looked like a still life on the table, and her favorite foods in the fridge. And her bed with the perfectly pressed sheets had been left open in case she wanted to go to sleep. She loved Carmina in New York, but there was nothing in the world like her apartment in Paris and the impeccable way her housekeeper in Paris kept it ready and waiting for her.

She ate an apple, made herself a cup of coffee, and sat looking out the window from the kitchen table with a feeling of peace. She already felt better than she had the night before. After she took a shower, she went to bed for a while. She had a list of things she wanted to do that day, but she wanted to relax first and settle in. And she could tell it was going to be a hot day. She didn't have air conditioning in her apartment, and didn't care. She liked the heat, and the already half-deserted city in July felt peaceful to her, and the pace slower than usual. Half the country took vacation in July now, and the other half in August, when it was even quieter in Paris, and many businesses and restaurants were closed.

She slept for two hours after slipping between the cool Porthault sheets, and it was nearly noon when she woke up, and called a lawyer she knew to recommend a detective. When she called the detective he suggested, she was relieved to find that he wasn't on vacation. She explained the situation to him and gave him the names of the two Marnier women and said that they lived in or around St. Paul de Vence. He promised to get in touch with her by e-mail as soon as he had some information for her, about where they were living, what their jobs were, their marital status, and any other details about their life. He didn't seem to think it would be a difficult task, as long as they were still in the area and hadn't disappeared, which Véronique already knew from Arnold they hadn't.

She felt relieved after that, as though she had completed her mission, and she sent an e-mail to all three girls to tell them that the investigation had been started about Sophie Agnès Marnier and her mother. And then she put it out of her mind and went for a walk.

She wandered past the bookstalls along the Seine, the little displays of art for tourists, and some photographs of Paris, and eventually stopped at a café and had a cup of coffee and something to eat, watching the passersby and the tourists, and then she walked to Notre Dame and back to her apartment on the Quai de Béthune.

Her grandfather's and later her parents' home was nearby, but she didn't go there. She had no reason to, and did only when she had to make a decision about something that needed to be replaced or repaired. She kept it like a shrine to her past, but she much preferred her cheerful apartment overlooking the Seine. And she went back to it trying to decide what to do for the next few weeks. She had nothing but time on her hands. And as she thought about it, she took out the photograph of the supposed Bellini painting and looked at it long and hard. She liked the idea of going to Venice to try to track down its history and veracity at the monastery she knew there. Venice was crowded and hot in the summer, but it would give her a project that appealed to her. And if it was part of her estate now, she wanted to know if it was genuine, so she could tell the girls.

She put the photograph back in the folder she'd brought with her and then, on the spur of the moment, decided to go to Rome. She loved the city and always had fun there, even if she went alone, and from there she could go to Venice, to research the painting. Italy always buoyed her spirits, and she needed some of that now. The weeks since Paul's death had been very hard. Her girls had gone back to their lives, and she knew she had to find her own. Her world felt different now without Paul. In a strange way, his dying and their discovery of his final betrayal had freed her from her ties to him, and she felt liberated in a way that she never had since the divorce. But she missed him, too. There had always remained an unseen bond between them, which had been severed now at last. Suddenly she wanted to do something for herself. And Rome seemed like a good place to start. She only wanted to spend a day there before moving on to Venice.

She made a reservation at the Hotel Cipriani in Venice, and at the Hassler in Rome, and made a plane reservation to Rome for the next day. She felt free traveling alone, not having to adjust to anyone else's plans or worry about what they wanted to do. She packed a small bag, and the next morning she was ready. She had the photograph of the painting with her, and she was excited about going to the monastery. But just being in Italy would be fun. It was going to be an adventure.

The plane landed at Fiumicino Airport in Rome, and she took a cab into the city. The Hassler was in the center of town, near all the best shops, above the Fontana di Trevi, at the top of the Spanish Steps. The rooms were old fashioned and elegant, and she loved the hotel, even though she had always stayed there with Paul. She pushed the thought out of her mind as she checked in and was shown to her room, with a pretty view. Everything in the room was yellow satin, and there was a canopy over the bed.

She didn't linger in the room long, and went out for a walk half an hour after she'd arrived. The streets were crowded, and it was hot. She wore a white cotton dress and sandals. She had stopped wearing black for Paul after the reading of the will. She wanted to close the door on the past now, but she had no idea what lay ahead.

She walked for hours, in and out of small churches, and went to her favorite shops. She bought some pretty shoes and had them sent to the hotel. And everywhere she went, she noticed couples embracing or walking arm in arm, and families with young children, and by the time she got back to the Fontana di Trevi, she felt lonely again. It would have been nice to share the city with someone, but those days were in the past for her. She stood thinking about it as she watched people making wishes in the fountain.

A little beggar boy ran up to her and offered to exchange her euros for coins. She smiled and made the trade for him and gave him a coin for himself, and then she stood for a long moment with the coins in her hand. She had no idea what to wish for, and the little boy told her in Italian that one wish was for luck, another for true love, and the third was to return to Rome. She understood enough Italian to know what he had said.

She stood looking at the fountain for a long time, and then noticed a man in jeans and a blue shirt watching her. He had a serious expression and a heavy camera in his hand, poised to shoot, pointed at her, but he stopped when he saw her watching him. Their eyes met for a moment, and then she looked away. He had a young face and salt-and-pepper hair, and he looked European to her. There was something very distinctive about him. A moment later he disappeared, and she concentrated on her wishes again.

She finally tossed the three coins in, wishing, as the little boy had told her to, for luck, love, and a return to Rome, feeling melancholy for a moment as she did so. Then she walked away. She decided to wander the streets some more before she went back to the hotel. The traffic was heavy and chaotic, pedestrians were everywhere, she could hear half a dozen languages around her, and everything was so lively that she didn't want to go back to her room and be alone. Rome was a city to share, and it saddened her not to be able to, there was so much beauty around her.

She strolled for another hour, found two more exquisite small churches, and was walking back toward the fountain and the Spanish Steps on the way to the hotel, when a snarl of traffic exploded around her. She found herself in the middle of the street with cars rushing past her on either side, and scooters darting between the cars. She felt paralyzed and didn't know which way to turn. She saw a red Ferrari coming toward her, head on, at full speed. She looked at it as if it were a raging bull, and for an instant she was frozen in time, knowing it was going to hit her and she might be killed. The moment was mesmerizing, and she couldn't move, as she saw the driver and the speeding car, and suddenly she no longer cared what happened. Paul had betrayed her, her children no longer needed her, there was nothing she still wanted to do, she could feel her life racing past her, and suddenly it no longer mattered if she lived or died. It seemed totally unimportant. What did it matter if she was killed on the streets of Rome?

She heard someone scream as they watched her, and just at the moment when she decided not to move, for reasons she could no longer fathom later, she felt a force stronger than any she had ever felt push her, and she flew through the air, and landed on her hands and knees on the pavement as the Ferrari whizzed past her and screeched to a stop a few feet away. Horns were blaring, people were shouting in Italian, and suddenly a tall, heavyset man with dark hair was bending over her with a look of terror and trying to help her up.

She was shaky on her legs when he did so, and she had scraped her knees and hands badly and was bleeding all over her white dress. It was a frightening scene, but no more so than the fact that she had almost been killed by the Ferrari and had very nearly let it happen. Something had pushed her out of the way. She had no idea who or what it was, and there was no one standing near her. The driver helped her to her feet, and he looked as shaken as she did, and his face was as ashen as hers. He guided her to the sidewalk, where she sat down on the curb, and he handed her a handkerchief to clean the blood flowing from her hands and knees. She was too stunned by what had happened to even feel any pain, as the man leaned over her and spoke in heavily accented English.

“I almost killed you,” he said, and she saw that his hand was trembling as he held out his handkerchief. He was well dressed in a linen jacket and gray trousers and was wearing a heavy gold watch. She was almost sure his accent was Russian. “I will take you to a hospital,” he offered, as people swirled around them, and cars honked at his stopped car.

“No, no, I'm fine,” Véronique insisted in a barely audible voice as she looked up at him, mortally embarrassed by the condition she was in, but even more so that she had almost let him hit her, and she didn't know why. She had never had an impulse like that before. Paul's death, and everything she had discovered since, had taken a toll. “I'm sorry. I think I got scared and froze on the spot.” She wanted to believe that her momentary paralysis had been that and nothing worse.

“You need a doctor,” he insisted, pointing at the blood-soaked handkerchief she had used to wipe her legs. He had strong features, piercing blue eyes, and a deep voice. He looked like a man who was used to command. He exuded power and was about her age.

“Really, it's just scrapes, it's fine,” she said weakly, shaking from head to foot as she tried to regain her composure.

“I will take you to my hotel, and we'll call a doctor.” He pointed at the Hassler as he said it, and she smiled wanly, as someone handed her the handbag that had flown off her arm. It was a shocking pink canvas bag that she had worn to go shopping, and the woman who handed it to her smiled sympathetically. Véronique's dress was torn and covered with blood, and she knew she must look a mess. She felt pathetic sitting there, but she was sick and slightly dizzy and was beginning to think a doctor wasn't such a bad idea.

“I'm staying there, too,” she said, as he helped her up off the curb, and led her to the Ferrari, as she dabbed at her knees again with his handkerchief. She didn't want to bleed all over his car, but he didn't seem concerned. He was just grateful she wasn't dead.

“Rome is a very dangerous place,” he said as he started the car, and drove up the hill to the hotel. “Too much traffic, too much cars and motorcycles. Crazy drivers.” They were at the hotel a moment later, and he took her arm as they walked into the lobby and he propelled her toward the desk, where he requested a doctor for her. She was still feeling weak and slightly faint as the assistant manager looked at him with respect and addressed him as Mr. Petrovich. The manager could see that her hands were bleeding and looked concerned. “We had an accident in the street,” Petrovich explained, as Véronique gave the man at the desk her room number and asked for her key. They promised to send a doctor immediately.

The Russian escorted her to her room, apologized profusely again, and asked if she felt well enough to be alone. She assured him she did, as he looked at her with relief. “I really thought I killed you,” he said miserably. “I've never had an accident before.”

“It was my fault,” she said again, as much to reassure him as herself. “I'm fine.” She felt considerably less than fine, and was still trembling, but she had caused him enough trouble for one afternoon.

“I will have the doctor come to my room,” he told her. “I will call you when he comes.” She didn't like the idea but didn't have the strength to argue with him as she unlocked her door. All she wanted now was to get out of her blood-soaked dress, put some cold water on her face, and lie down. And she would have much preferred to see the doctor in her own room. But a moment later he was gone. There was something familiar about his face, but she couldn't place it, and she was too distracted to think straight after what had happened.

She was horrified when she saw herself in the mirror in her bathroom. She looked a mess. She took off the dress, and tossed it onto the floor. She wanted to take a shower but was still too dizzy and afraid she might faint, so she washed her legs and hands with water from the sink, and went to lie down on the bed. She had a pounding headache, and five minutes later the phone rang. It was Mr. Petrovich to tell her the doctor was waiting for her in his suite. He must have flown. But it had been easy to see that the hotel management was vastly impressed by whoever the Russian was.