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NINE

I immediately phone Jonathan Stein. “What do you think this guy is up to?” I ask after reading him Damien Manet’s letter.

“Hard to tell,” he says cautiously. “ Party on the Seine was traced back to the Bernheims through Nazi documents—and we all know how good they were at recordkeeping, so we can count on that connection. But like I told you before, our mission has nothing to do with how the Bernheims might have acquired it—or even whether it’s an authentic Manet.

We go from point A to point B: finding who it was stolen from and then returning it to the heirs.

But if you want, I’ll take a look at our archives to see if there’s anything there. Which is probably unlikely.”

“ Party might not be mine?” Tears sting the backs of my eyes. Am I going to cry? I never cry. No crying in biotech.

“Do you always jump to the worst possible conclusion?”

This seems to me to be an overly familiar question to ask a virtual stranger, even if it is spot-on. “No,” I respond. “I consider myself to be a generally optimistic person.”

He laughs. “Okay, if you say so.”

“Please let me know as soon as you find anything.” I’m still riled at his question, although I suppose I don’t have any right to be. He’s offered to do me a favor, which he didn’t have to do, and I’m giving him grief for it. “I appreciate this,” I add. “Thanks.”

HE CALLS BACK a few hours later. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Normally, I’d ask which one a person wants to hear first, but as I’m talking to you, I’ll go straight to the bad.”

“I want the good news first.”

“Of course you do,” he says with a poorly restrained chuckle.

I’m self-aware enough to laugh at my mulishness. “You’ve made your point. Now tell me.”

“Good or bad?”

“Jonathan…”

“All good on our end. The evidence the Conference used to establish the Bernheims owned Party is fully documented.”

“And my connection to the Bernheims?”

“Also well-documented. Let me pull up the paperwork.” A pause. “Colette, Samuel, and Genevieve’s immigration papers. American birth certificates for your grandmother Josephine, your mother, Nicole, not to mention your own.”

“And now I can tell good ol’ long-lost cousin Damien—along with the whole édouard Manet Foundation—to shove it?” So there, Jonathan Stein, see how positive I can be? Although I suppose a true optimist wouldn’t have posed this as a question.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“I’m not going to ask you for the bad news.”

“It’s the other side of the equation. The painting’s provenance between Manet and the Bernheims.”

I take this in. “So while there’s proof the Nazis stole Party from the Bernheims and that I’m their heir, there isn’t anything establishing how it came to belong to them?”

“That about sums it up. But it doesn’t necessarily mean the painting wasn’t theirs. It’s just that you’re going to have to verify that yourself.”

Terrific. I have no time to do any such thing—and even less expertise.

I stare through the window, at the dusky shadows snuffing out the last of the day’s sunlight.

“Would you, or someone at the Conference, be willing to send verification of what you discovered to Damien and the foundation? Maybe that would be enough to get them to back off?” Yet another question mark that points to my cynicism.

Now that I think about it, another thing Jonathan accused me of.

“We can do that. No problem. I’ll make sure it gets written up—full of official-sounding legalese—and send it over to you sometime tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I say, this time with genuine gratitude. “Above and beyond. Really, really good of you to help.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know if it works—or if you need anything else.”

From: Tamara Rubin

To: Damien Manet, Director of the Edouard Manet Foundation

Cc: Jonathan Stein, Counsel to the Conference on Jewish Claims Against Germany

Re: Party on the Seine

Date: 10/29

Please find attached an affidavit provided by the Conference on Jewish Claims Against Germany attesting to my ownership of Edouard Manet’s Party on the Seine .

As you can see, it verifies that the painting was stolen during World War II from my great-great-grandparents, Samuel and Colette Bernheim, and that I am their only heir.

Therefore I’m going to have to turn down your kind offer to pack and transport Party to Paris.

From: Damien Manet, Director of the édouard Manet Foundation

To: Tamara Rubin

Cc: Jonathan Stein, Counsel to the Conference on Jewish Claims Against Germany

Re: Party on the Seine

Date: 30 October

We regret to inform you that although Party on the Seine may have indeed been stolen from the Bernheims, this does not verify that they were the lawful owners of the painting.

As discussed earlier, according to édouard Manet’s will, he left his entire oeuvre to his son, Léon Manet, my great-great-great-grandfather, and there is no codicil indicating an exception to this bequest. Therefore, our transporters will arrive at 245 Tremont Street, #9C, Boston, Massachusetts, on 8 November at 10:00 a.m. to retrieve our property.

If you persist in your claim of ownership, the édouard Manet Foundation will be forced to litigate for its return.

From: Tamara Rubin

To: Damien Manet, Director of the Edouard Manet Foundation

Cc: Jonathan Stein, Counsel to the Conference on Jewish Claims Against Germany

Re: Party on the Seine

Date: 10/30

And I regret to inform you that your transporters will not be allowed access to the building on that day or any other.

From: Damien Manet, Director of the édouard Manet Foundation

To: Tamara Rubin

Cc: Jonathan Stein, Counsel to the Conference on Jewish Claims Against Germany

Re: Party on the Seine

Date: 5 November

The New York office of the édouard Manet Foundation, 37 Gansevoort Street, Suite 708, New York, NY, has filed a plaintiff complaint against Tamara Rubin, 245 Tremont Street, #9C, Boston, MA, in the US District Court for the Southern District of New York, for illegal possession of property owned by the Manet Foundation, Party on the Seine by édouard Manet.

A copy of the complaint will be served within the next forty-eight hours detailing the specifics of the lawsuit.

We request contact information for your attorney.

WRONG, COUSIN DAMIEN. It isn’t your property.

It’s mine. And there’s nothing illegal about it.

I’m not about to give up Party without a battle—a big, bad brawling one if necessary, one I intend to win.

I check my family tree. Great-Great-Grandmother Colette must have inherited the painting from her mother, Great-Great-Great-Grandmother Aimée, Berthe and Gène Manet’s daughter.

And there are lots of ways it could be legally hers.

For example, off the top of my head, édouard might have given Party on the Seine to his brother Gène, as a gift—or even to his sister-in-law Berthe, as she’s the central figure in the composition.

If this was the case, it would have been passed down to Aimée, whose parents both died young, and therefore wouldn’t have belonged to édouard when he died.

Hence, it wasn’t inherited by Léon. Or Damien.

And that’s only one of the many possibilities I haven’t had a chance to think up yet.

True or false, I need an attorney. My friend Holly is a lawyer, and I send her the email thread.

“Interesting,” she says when I talk to her later.

“Too bad they didn’t bring the suit in France.

That would have held it up for years, and you could’ve kept the painting during that time—which I suppose is why they filed from their New York office. ”

“Do you think they have a case?”

“It depends how strong your proof is.”

“What I’ve got only goes halfway back.”

“Halfway back to where?”

I explain the situation in detail, the major holes in the verification of my ownership. Then I offer her my gave-it-to-his-brother theory.

“It sounds like you don’t just need a lawyer. You also need a private investigator.”

“Are there people who do both?”

“No one in my firm does anything like that, but there are some that hire PI agencies—even a few that have someone in-house. The ones that handle mostly defense work.”

“Can you recommend someone who’s local?”

“Let me think…” I hear the sound of a clicking keyboard.

“Yeah, here he is. I met him at a party a couple of months ago, and the host told me he’s one to watch—smart, ambitious, a drive to win.

And I’ve got to tell you, he’s got these Hollywood good looks, but he’s way too young for either of us. Which is unfortunate.”

“Is this going to cost me big bucks?”

“Probably. He’s at Beacon, Exeter.”

“Ouch. What’s his name?”

“Wyatt Butler.”

I hang up with Holly and set up an initial consultation with Wyatt Butler for next week, even though I can’t afford to hire him.

But if he can help me prove Party is mine, then I’ll have more than enough to pay his bill.

Maybe finally buy my own place. I’ve never mentioned that my life has had many ups and downs—and that I’ve managed to surf the crests and dips while remaining vertical, if, every now and then, shakily.

So I’ve got seasoned legs to carry me through this. Sort of.

I won’t bother to go into all the gory details, so this list will have to suffice.

Early death of my father. Multiple colleges.

Multiple gap years. Successful marketing/development career.

Unsuccessful marketing/development career.

Harvard Business School. Happy marriage.

Death of my mother. Unhappy divorce and financial disaster.

Burgeoning biotech career. Downgraded biotech career.

The mind-blowing gift of a Manet masterpiece.

Not smooth riding by any means, but despite a few bruises here and there, I’m still standing. And I’ll remain vertical this time too. Damien Manet clearly underestimates me, and that’s going to be my most powerful weapon.

WHEN I GET home, I’m hit by one of my ocular migraines.

It’s not a typical migraine, because I don’t get a headache, and I’ve been having them since I was a kid.

Apparently, they ran in my father’s family.

I sit on the living room couch and close my eyes as flickering lights and colorful zigzagging lines play against my lids.

When I open them, I can barely see Party , which is obscured by the same lights and lines, along with a wavelike morphing that makes the river appear to be moving.

I’m less concerned than I am annoyed. I stagger into the kitchen and take two Tylenol, which I know will eradicate the aura—but will take at least an hour to do.

As my vision clears, I am, as always, exhausted, and I once again abandon the texts and emails and piles of paperwork calling to me from my study and remain on the couch to hang out with Party .

I put on my glasses, open my sketch pad, and, taking my glasses off again, start with the bunting that edges the roof of the partially enclosed boat.

Blue, white, and red fabric fluttering in the breeze, the colors of the French flag.

Because this is much less complicated than drawing people, I quickly lose interest and turn my attention to Berthe.

That stunning and unfathomable face, her startling white skin in contrast to the burning black eyes staring directly into mine, so expressive, but mysteriously so.

There seems to be sadness hovering, a longing, but also a sense of defiance, maybe even of triumph.

Perhaps coupled with a veneer of fear? She’s thin, almost waiflike, while exuding a strength incongruous with her small frame.

I rough out the strong chin, slightly raised, move on to her high cheekbones, but I struggle with the lustrous milkiness of her face.

The chin isn’t bad, but the skin is all off.

This is clearly far above my pay grade. But then I remember one of my art teachers saying that in order to render white, you need to search for the surprising tints that radiate from it, including the reflections of the neighboring colors falling on it.

There’s pink, a touch of yellow, and maybe even some green from the passing trees hiding within édouard’s brushstrokes. I try to emulate this. No such luck.

Disgusted with my attempts, I glance back up at Berthe, and the pencil falls from my grasp. I look again, put on my glasses, take them off, put them back on, look once more. Berthe’s left arm, instead of resting on the railing where it’s always been, is reaching down toward the water.

Did I take a gummy and forget about it?

No gummy. It must have been a shift in the light. Maybe a flash of headlights or the blue strobe of a police car.

I grab my phone and take a photo, and when I check it, my panic begins to subside.

Berthe is standing as she always was, just as édouard painted her.

I murmur, “Thank you”—to whom I have no idea.

But when I raise my eyes to Party , Berthe’s forefinger is still pointing emphatically to the small waves on the bottom right of the painting.