The Paris Time Capsule (25 page)

Cat moved slowly around the
new apartment’s pristine kitchen, fixed herself a coffee and slumped down on one of the sleek white sofas. She reached for Christian’s iPad.

She trailed her fingers up and down the glass screen, scanned the articles relating to Billy Walker’s achievements that she had already read this afternoon. It took several minutes to find the one she had missed.

A suspicion had formed in her mind this afternoon, but she had blocked it out. Denial, perhaps, mixed with the inevitability of shock and, perhaps, not wanting to know. All she had to do was find the one leaky article. It was there. Had she not wanted to look?

Cat put the iP
ad down. Christian had arranged the foreclosure of enough of Billy Walker’s property loans to make the man go under.

Thoughts of Zach Marek and his medicine and his determination to help when the threat of war loomed, even when the war started, fighting on for what was right and risking everything shot into Cat’s mind. If only she could be with someone like that.

But then, what was wrong with her? Had she been kidding herself that she didn’t understand what Christian’s job involved? Was she overreacting now because it had become personal, or not?

Cat rested her head in her hands.

When Christian let himself in two hours later, Cat still sat in the same spot. He moved towards the kitchen, poured out three large glasses of water. He always did that after a night out and after several glasses of wine. Seemed to want to purge it all out of his system.

Cat watched him.
“Hey,” she said.

“
You can’t lose your temper like that, honey.”

Cat stayed perfectly still.

“I’m off to bed. Goodnight.”

Cat watched while he tipped his head back, more water visibly sliding down his throat.

“Christian.”

He had already started moving towards the bedroom. He turned, framed in the wide white entrance to their suite.

“Everyone knows you’re stressed out with the wedding. They’re your friends, they understand.”

“
Why did you do it?”

“
What?”

“
Christian, I … can’t go through with it … not like this.”

Christian ran a hand through his hair.
“From what you’ve told me, your father was self-righteous indeed. Bigoted, you said. You don’t want to end up like that, now do you?”

“
I’m not judging you, Christian.”

“
But you are.” He came towards her, sat down on the opposite sofa. “Non-judicial foreclosures are perfectly legal. We’ll sell it on and that will be the end of it, Cat.”

Cat snorted.
“So you’ll sell his company to someone who will just want to make money instead of doing something worthwhile with his life?”

“
I did it for you, Cat.”

Cat stood up. She picked up her jacket.

“Billy Walker will be fine,” he said. “I have no doubt we’ll be able to help the guy get back into shape. We’re doing everything we can. I’ve got people working around the clock to assist him.”

“
So that’s what you were doing this afternoon then, helping Billy Walker so that he can save dying children’s lives? Is that what you’re saying?”

Christian rubbed his hands together fast.
“I am doing everything I can to get things ready so that we can have a wonderful wedding and a perfect honeymoon. I have no doubt that we can get … the client … some compensation of some sort or help him out in the future.”

“
What have you done so far?”

His voice was tight.
“I have no doubt that we will come to some sort of…”

“
I can’t use that money for my wedding.”

Christian stood up. He picked up his jacket.
“You had no intention of discussing this at all, did you? You want to bring me down. You were looking for an excuse and you found one.”

He moved across the white marble floors, and disappeared into the lift.

Cat slumped back onto the sofa.

Cat gave up trying to sleep at four o’clock in the morning and she dialed the only person she knew who could help.

“
You are sure?” Monsieur Pascale Colbert asked.

“
Yes. Sell the Boldini. I need to sell it urgently. I can’t wait six weeks for an auction house to get back to me.”

“
You will leave it with me. I will have somebody call you today.”

Cat paced around the slick apartment, her old vintage dressing gown trailing after her. There wasn’t a thing in the entire apartment that didn’t serve a function. There was nothing beautiful or old. Why had she let herself be talked into it? Had she been mad?

The phone rang later in the morning after she had texted Elise to cancel the family brunch.

“
Madame Jordan? Olivier Gireau, Sotheby’s Paris. I have just conducted a full appraisal of your painting.”

Cat closed her eyes.
“Yes.”

“
We always compare items with comparative sales, Madame. Based on this … it is hard to say. But a reasonable pre-sale estimate of this particular Boldini would be between 200, 000 and 300, 000 euros.”

“
The other thing is …”

“
I understand that you wish to sell quickly.”

“
Yes.”

Olivier Gireau cleared his throat.
“We have an auction of nineteenth century paintings in two weeks. That is the soonest I can offer, Madame.”

“
Could you generate some buzz?”

“
We put the work in our online catalogue, our print catalogue and with your permission, we shall inform the media, Madame. The story behind the painting is what will interest buyers, I am sure of that.”

Cat nodded, ignoring the tightening in her chest.
“It’s important that we get as much as possible for it,” she said.

“
Once we have informed the media, and sent a photograph, with your permission, of course, bloggers will pick up on it. And, er … twitter.”

Cat almost chuckled at the way he barely could ut
ter the word.

“
I shall send you a Condition Report based on how I have found the painting today, and our Conditions of Business. You are willing to proceed, Madame?”

“
I am.” Cat hung up the phone, and pushed it right to the other end of her table.

It was a strange thing, being present in your own life, and yet, not really being there at all. Christian returned home after work that evening and acted as if nothing had happened at all.

“
I’m going to go back to Brooklyn,” Cat said. She had packed her things in a suitcase.

“
How seriously you are taking this silly little thing, Cat,” Christian said. “I don’t want you to move out.” It was as if he thought she would return in the morning. “I’ve already told you we’re doing all that we can.”

“
Are you?”

“
Of course!” Christian walked over to the kitchen, poured himself a Pimms and lemonade. It was hot in the city. Small beads of sweat filled the recesses in his forehead.

“
What are you doing, then?”

Christian took a long
sip of his drink. “I told you, Cat.”

“
So you’re going to fix it.”

“
I believe, that he will have every chance of … a … solution.” He loosened his tie. “This isn’t your problem.”

Cat waited, but he didn’t say anything more.

She took in a breath. “I think I should go now. I don’t want to argue.”

“
Elise has been calling you. She wants to organize the date for the wedding rehearsal. She says everything else is done. She’ll respect the fact that you need some calm before the big day.”

Cat picked up her bags and moved towards the lift.

By the time the day of the auction arrived, she was settled back in Brooklyn.

“We have several interested buyers.” The now familiar sound of Monsieur Olivier Gireau’s voice came down the phone line.

Cat stepped out of the office. She walked down a side street, away from the crowds, stopped outside a small shop, its windows housing a delectable display of pale vintage buttons. Cat perused these, but her phone was tight against her ear and her heart was in Paris.

“Bidding is starting at 200,000 euros.” Olivier’s voice was low.

The buttons were covered in silk. They would have adorned lady’s day coats. Had any of them come from Paris? They were probably the sorts of things that Isabelle might have worn in the 1950s … had she lived.

“We are up to 300,000 euros.”

That was it, then, the painting was sold. She had done it.
That amount might not be able to save the little boy whom Billy Walker was helping, but it was better than nothing.

“
There are ten interested bidders, Madame. They are taking it up in ten thousand euro lots. Madame! One of them just jumped it by 50,000 euros. We are now up to 400,000.”

“
500,000 euros. One has dropped out. Another is consulting on the phone. He has waved to continue, so 550,000. Still going, and to 600,000. We have three aggressive buyers. Two look nervous. One more has dropped out at 700,000. He is leaving the room. Unbelievable. Two of the bidders are dealers. They both look nervous. 900,000! Two more have dropped away. The two dealers are both on the phone. Neither of them has bid for a while. Yes! One of them is back in. 1,000,000 euros. He looks confident. But, no! We have one of the more aggressive buyers back in. Thought so. 1,200,000! And continuing, 1.3! The dealers are out. There are three left. This is passion, Madame. The painting sits there. One is consulting with an advisor. I know him. The advisor shrugs. The buyer is back in! 1,500,000 …1,600,000 … 1,7 … Oh! Oui. One of the three is out. We are down to two. I think money is not the problem here. It is labor of love.”

Cat leaned against the shop wall. Someone came out. A bell on the door tinkled in an old fashioned, charming sort of way. Cat closed her eyes.

“Madame. It is at two million euros. Okay. We are taking bids of ten thousand euros. It is on at two million, ten thousand.”

“
And, two million fifty thousand. One man is wiping his brow. And the other bidder has come back in! At 2.1 million! The first man sits down. He is out! You have a buyer! You have sold! 2.1 million Euros! The owner is jumping and hugging his wife! This is fantastic for a Boldini! Madame? Are you there?”

Cat slid down the wall, her back rubbing against the brick.
“Sure,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

Later,
Cat wrote two checks out. The first was to the Tax Department of France. It was only the first installment, but it was a start. Monsieur Lapointe had arranged decent terms for her, and she would do her best not to sell the apartment in Rue Blanche, not to mention all Marthe and Isabelle’s personal things. She would look after them as long as she lived. Cat hoped, however, that as many people as possible could enjoy the Boldini and that its sale might give a child who was dying a chance.

She put the second
check in an envelope, hand wrote the address and sealed it tight.

The photograph of the dressing table
needed a slight adjustment in the way that it hung, but everything else was ready. The dressing table was still one of Cat’s favorite shots, if she had to choose. Everything still looked as if Isabelle had slipped out for a walk along the Seine. The perfume bottles, their bases lined with faint traces of old scent, were askew. Everything seemed to be waiting for Isabelle to come home.

Cat had wandered around her Paris Time Capsule exhibition several times
now. As much of the proceeds as she could manage would go towards the little boy who now, thanks to the donations of several other people including Cat, had started having the treatment that he needed to live. Then there was the next tax installment to pay to the French government.

Cat surveyed the
several shots she had taken outside the apartment, of the Left Bank, the early photos she had taken on her long lunch break the first time she met Monsieur Lapointe. These were arranged around the exhibition to break things up a bit and to provide some context for the interiors of the apartment. The entire exhibition had a faded air, as if it too was tinted by the past. The photographs with their pale gold’s, faded greens, and subtle shades of brown seemed to blend with each other into a harmonious whole.

Several of the many bloggers who had spread the word about the de Florian apartment were
coming to Cat’s opening tonight.

It was strange having so many people wanting to talk to Cat at her own opening, and yet it was wonderful to know that they wanted to talk to her because of a shared love for Paris, for old treasures, for the past, for the lives of Marthe and Isabelle de Florian, for children
’s lives, and for the future.

By the time the opening was done, t
here were a pleasing number of red dots on the photographs. The gallery owner had several interested buyers who were keen to visit over the next few days. The exhibition was likely to be a sell out.

And, in her hand, Cat held a publisher’s card. He was interested in taking
the photographs of the Paris apartment and turning it into what sounded like a gorgeous coffee table book.

Cat drew on her coat. Snow fell on the pavement outside the gallery.
It was hard to believe that it had almost been a year since she first received that parcel from Paris. The manager of the gallery held the glass door open for her.

“
He didn’t come, then?” The woman asked.

Cat shook her head.
Loic? No.

What had she expected?

She had written to
him, telling him about her idea, had included him in her plans, offered to give either he or Sylvie any of the photographs that they wanted, including the ones she had taken in Saint Revel, in Albi, in Sarlat, and those of Camille’s convent.

Cat had not expected any reply, but it was including of him that seemed important. Although, Cat knew now it was far more than that. She knew she had taken a risk writing to him. She knew, now that it was too late. It was time to stop.

An honest letter and an invitation to an exhibition were fine. But now? Enough was enough.

Cat walked out into the freezing street, making her way through Brooklyn to her own apartment, which was now her home again, perhaps, forever.

She had thought about going to Paris for a few months after she had ended things with Christian,
but knew that it was too soon. Anouk was taking care of things. She had organized for the apartment to be cleaned and aired regularly, until Cat decided what she wanted to do with all the furniture, the antiques. She turned into her Brooklyn street. Her scooter sat out in the cold, thick with powdery snow.

Ubiquitous decorated trees, their tiny yellow lights iridescent, shone through people’s w
indows onto the silent street. Cat put her cold hands in her pockets and walked towards her own front steps.

She stopped, hard, a few feet from her building. Should she go any further? S
omeone was standing on the step. She was too far away to tell if it was one of her neighbors. But still, the thought of hot chocolate and the German Christmas stollen cake that she had bought this morning was more than inviting. She needed some sort of comfort. Perhaps she should take a walk around the block, wait until whoever it was had gone. Cat was not in the mood for a confrontation.

She stood where she was. She could ring one of her
neighbors, ask them to come down and meet her at the entrance, just to be safe. Cat pulled her phone out of her bag.

The person moved down the short flight of steps onto the street.

She could see him clearly now.

Cat put her phone back in her bag.

“Catherine Jordan?” He was next to her and her heart started to dance. He rubbed his bare hands together, and his brown eyes caught hers.

“
Game’s up, I’m afraid.”

Cat took a st
ep closer.

“
My letters?”

“
After I received Louise Delfont’s letter, I had to think. I had to … adjust. Help Maman and Josephine. Maman has been in Paris for a while. Later, much later, I went away. My staff don’t open my personal mail, you know. But I arrived home yesterday. I came straight here.”

“
Opera in Milan?”

“
Czech Republic. Honfleur.”

Cat reached out, instinctively, took his freezing hand.

“None of Zach’s …. my … family survived. I found my grandfather’s old home. And as for Camille, well. She was an only child, but it was good to walk where she must have walked. Thank you. For what you did for my family. You never gave up.”

Cat looked out across the street. A man with a small dog on a lead turned the corner and approached them. As he passed, he smiled at them both.

“But the future’s safe for you all. There’s you, Sylvie and Josephine,” she whispered.

Loic
reached forward, tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I heard the painting sold for a fortune. And I heard what you did with the money. Camille would have been proud of you, Cat.”

“
And Sylvie?” She didn’t want him to take her hand away for one moment.

“
Oh, Maman. Well. You could do anything and she’d still adore you. You see, she fell for you the moment you walked into her life.”

“
Would you like to come in?”

His
hand trailed down to her shoulder. Cat took out her key. She moved up the steps, one hand still in his as he followed her inside.

She stopped at the door, just before turning the key.
“I still have an apartment in Paris, you know.  I’m trying so hard to keep it. So many … beautiful things.”

“
I know,” Loic said.

“
And a tax bill that I’ll never pay before I’m dead,” Cat laughed. She opened the door into the living room.

Loic
stepped inside. “Why do you want to keep the apartment in Paris?”

Cat was quiet as she moved through the room. She turned back to face him.

“This is nice. Very you,” his voice was soft.

“
I do want to keep the apartment, if I can, very much.”

“
Would you consider an investor? Someone who’d meet you halfway? With all of it, the tax, Rue Blanche … everything?”

“
Only if that person were you.”

He was closer now. She reached out, put
her arms around his waist.

Loic
seemed to be looking over her shoulder. Cat turned, and she laughed.

“
I see that Mickey Mouse found his way home. You didn’t send for the ostrich?”

“
You know, Mickey was the smart one. He realized that you have to hold, wait for the good things and … let go of the rest.”

Loic
still held her hand. Slowly he raised her fingertips up to his lips. They were warm now, her fingers. There was no reason anymore for them to be cold.