Page 31 of One of Them

Anne didn’t answer. All she could focus on was the extraordinary coincidence of running into Delia here, and asking herself if this piece of sculpture had something to do with it. Delia had talked about the pieces that had been left behind and gone missing. Was this one of them?

“Anne, I still don’t—”

Drew didn’t finish because the woman in black had joined them and began talking right over him.

“I overheard your conversation, and I can assure you that Sophie Rossner is not dead, mademoiselle. She’s alive and well and, the last I heard, living in Palestine.

She moved there after the war—to one of those collective farms, whatever they call them.

Somewhere in the south,” she said. “In the desert.”

“I see,” said Anne. “Thank you for letting me know.” She took Drew’s arm and led him out of the gallery, remaining quiet as they walked toward the café where they were to meet Nancy.

“Do you want to tell me about what just happened?” Drew asked.

“It’s not important,” Anne lied. Upset as she felt about Delia, she was elated by the fact that Drew had taken her hand and given it a gentle squeeze. They remained hand in hand for the rest of the walk, a glowing, vital connection that made her momentarily forget Delia, forget everything but this.

Nancy was waiting for them at Deux Magots.

Drew dropped Anne’s hand as he sat down.

Had Nancy noticed? If so, she said nothing, and the conversation moved in other directions.

But later, when Anne was alone, she allowed herself to think about the encounter at the gallery.

To her surprise, she found herself wanting not to flee from Delia but to seek her out.

To apologize. Something had changed. Was it being here in Paris—the city where Delia had been born and raised, the city that was just beginning to open itself up and let her in—that made her want to assume responsibility for what she’d done?

And as she thought about what form that apology would take, something like a plan began coalescing in her mind.

The more she considered it, the more viable it seemed.

It just might work, she thought. It might be a way to begin repairing her friendship with Delia.

The next day Anne returned alone to the gallery. In her navy leather handbag was a note in a sealed envelope. She had a strong feeling that Delia would come back here too. The sculpture—that was what would draw her; she wouldn’t be able to stay away.

Today the gallery’s owner wore a bloodred dress with white polka dots, a white collar, and big white buttons down the back. “Ah, mademoiselle, I’m so glad you came back, and that the unpleasantness yesterday didn’t deter you.”

Anne assured her it hadn’t, and she let the woman show her around, complimenting the various works of art.

And then she did something very bold, something she had told no one she was going to do: she bought the piece of sculpture made by Sophie Rossner.

It was expensive, which meant that she’d have to scrimp a bit, at least for the next couple of months.

The woman in the red dress clucked and purred as she packed the sculpture securely; clearly she was very pleased by the sale.

“You must take a taxi going home,” she said, and Anne agreed, a taxi would be just the thing.

And after the francs had changed hands and the tissue-swathed sculpture had been slipped into a burlap bag and was ready for transport, Anne pulled the envelope from her handbag and gave it to the woman.

“I have a favor to ask,” she said. “Two favors, actually. That girl? The one who made all the fuss? I have a strong feeling she’ll be back, and if she is, would you be kind enough to give her this? ”

“Mais oui,” said the woman. But of course . Smiling, she pressed the envelope to her dress, where it stood out starkly, even brighter than the white collar.

“I’d also like an address for Sophie Rossner. You said she was living in Palestine.”

The smile faded, just a bit. “Well, yes, but that’s not the sort of information we usually share with the public. If you wanted to be in touch with her through me, I might be able to arrange that—”

“Oh, but I would never try to buy work from her without going through you,” Anne said quickly, “if that’s what you’re worried about.

I respect your eye too much for that. It’s just that I’d love to ask her questions about her background, her work.

Now that I’ve bought this piece, I’m interested in buying others.

You do handle her work, don’t you? You might be getting new pieces, and you could let me know when you do. ”

“In that case...” The woman apparently deemed this reason enough to grant Anne’s request, and she went into a back room and returned a few minutes later with a slip of paper that she handed to Anne.

After taking a taxi back to the dorm, Anne unwrapped the sculpture and studied it closely.

The piece was about fifteen inches high, and its reddish-brown stone had a glossy sheen, as if it had been shellacked.

Now she could see that it was a pregnant woman, lush and bursting with life.

The woman’s face was devoid of features, so Anne couldn’t read her expression, but her carved arms cradled her belly in what seemed like a protective and loving way.

She wrapped it back up and returned it to its bag. All she had to do was wait.