Page 25

SIXTEEN

W yatt owns a town house I walk by every day on my way to and from work. It’s a handsome brick building facing the Southwest Corridor Park that I’ve already described, the one with all the flora and fauna at the corner of West Canton Street. About half a mile from my apartment. Who knew?

In the three weeks since our dinner at Metropolis, he stayed with me that once, and I’ve slept at his place four times.

Wyatt claims it’s more convenient and comfortable at his house.

It’s definitely roomier and far more charming than my box of square white rooms, what with its carved woodwork and the skylight-topped staircase running four floors through the center of the house, if a bit too professionally decorated for my taste.

And then there’s his bedroom suite, which takes up the entire top floor, along with a bathroom the size of my living room.

It’s difficult for me to argue with him, as his claims are true.

Along with the fact that it’s a much shorter walk to Calliope.

Chill out, Tamara. Fun and excellent sex are worth a few accommodations. I don’t even drink that much milk.

I’ve been thinking I might be ready to bring Party home—I confess it’s partly to spite Damien, but mostly because I miss her.

And when she’s back, I’ll want to spend more time with her, which will give me an excuse to stay at my own place.

Wyatt is all for reclaiming her, as he believes having the painting in my possession will strengthen our case.

But I don’t contact the Columbia. Even though I believe that what I thought I saw didn’t happen, a piece of me still wonders if I could be wrong.

What if Berthe does something worse than wink or point a finger?

Something dangerous? Admittedly, I’m really going off the rails here.

Because what would the danger be? Is she going to jump out of the frame and strangle me?

Burn the house down? Yeah, right, that’s exactly what a woman painted on a piece of canvas almost 150 years ago is about to do.

Or maybe I’m just worried that if I see something again, it won’t be Berthe’s doing; it’s my mind coming unhinged.

WYATT PHONES ME at the office, which we’ve agreed not to do, as we’re both far too busy to chitchat during work hours. So this must be about Party .

“I should be home around seven tonight,” he says instead. “Want to meet me there? We could get takeout.”

Slightly annoyed, I say, “Would love to, but I’ll pass.

” I wouldn’t mind making love to that amazing specimen of a man—but I was planning on an early night.

Which it won’t be if I go. I need some alone time, some quiet, and I want to send a message that this is a casual thing.

“Completely exhausted. How about you come to me on Friday?”

“You’re way too hot to wait three days for—especially when I know you’re only a few blocks away.”

“It’ll build up your anticipation—make it all that much better.” Then I add, to forestall any more debate, “Anything new from my infamous cousin?”

“Delphine called with an offer to buy the painting from you—and settle the suit.”

“If they believe I don’t own it, how can they buy it? And why would I want to sell it?”

“Ten million dollars.”

Although this is a fraction of what the painting has to be worth, I hesitate.

Ten million dollars. I could finally pay off my business school loans, my credit card balances, and crank my retirement account back up after all the money I had to withdraw when the divorce forced the sale of our house for less than we owed on the mortgage.

I’d be set for life. “Not gonna happen.”

“I figured that’s what you’d say. But Delphine claims if you turn them down, they’re not going to stop until they get Party on the Seine to its ‘rightful owner.’ Said ‘rightful owner’ whom, I’m guessing, has agreed to leave it to the foundation—maybe even bequeath it now.

According to her, no matter what it takes.

No matter how much time or how much money. ”

“Did she say anything about the show at the Louvre?”

“Interestingly, she didn’t mention it.”

“Do you think she’s bluffing about the legal stuff?”

“Could be. But I checked into the foundation’s finances, and they do have almost unlimited funds.”

“Has Nova come up with anything?”

“She’s still waiting on Delphine to send her an English version of édouard Manet’s will, which hopefully isn’t as airtight as Damien claims. But she did discover that it was common in the day for those artists to give each other paintings.

Particularly early on, when no one was interested in buying their work. ”

“So what I was saying about édouard giving Party to his brother or to Berthe might be true?”

“Let me pull up Nova’s text.” The clicking of keys. “Yeah, or she speculated édouard could have given it to their daughter, Aimée Manet, his niece. Aimée was Colette Bernheim’s mother. Seems like there are a number of plausible through lines here.”

Just hearing these names fills me with a heady burst of optimism. “There’s a connection. There’s got to be.”

“Unfortunately, there’s no official paper trail on those kinds of gifts—or on the many swaps between painters—as they mostly went unrecorded. But people wrote lots of letters then, kept diaries, so Nova is going to search some of the archives. See what she can find.”

“And because those belonged to famous people, there should be lots of information, right?”

“Presumably.”

“This is fantastic. Thanks. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

“It’s still a haystack. Going through volumes of information, searching for a tiny reference that might not even be there.”

“Now it’s you who’s being pessimistic,” I say, stung by his lack of enthusiasm.

“I’m your lawyer—along with whatever else we are—and it’s my job to make sure your expectations are realistic. That your decisions are based on facts, not false hopes.”

“Are you saying I should take the ten million dollars?”

“No, not at all. We can get them to go higher. Much higher after we get a formal appraisal of the painting’s value. I can set that up if you’d like.”

“Why should I pay for an appraisal when I’m not going to sell it to them?”

“Just informing you of possible alternatives.”

“For me, there aren’t any alternatives,” I say, even as I’d just been considering what I might do with the money from a sale.

“One is that you could lose. The foundation is a formidable adversary. Extremely formidable. What if Nova can’t find the proof you need?

What if there’s not enough evidence to impeach the will?

They win, and then you end up with nothing.

It’s not all that far-fetched. Being right is no guarantee of success. ”

IT’S JONATHAN STEIN who calls my office the next day. Alexander tells him I’ll get back to him later, but he insists on talking to me now. My first reaction is annoyance—and my second is fear.

“Is this about Party ?” I bark into the phone.

“And hello to you too.”

“Sorry. Hello. Is everything all right? Is there a glitch about my ownership?”

“No glitch with anything like that.”

“Well, that’s good.” I relax in my chair. “So what’s up?”

“I think we need to talk about this in person.”

Exactly what he said when he wanted to tell me I’d inherited Party . “It’s that serious? Did anything happen to her?”

“Your painting is fine. There have just been some, well, some odd incidents.”

“But you’re sure Party is fine?”

“Yes, I’m completely sure.”

I don’t like the sound of this. “Should I come to you? Or do you want to come here?”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Odd incidents. I pace around the office while I wait, circle after circle, stare out at my little bit of river as I pass by the window, seeing nothing.

Despite Jonathan’s claims to the contrary, something is wrong with Party .

Very wrong. Or he wouldn’t be on his way over here to talk about what he couldn’t discuss over the phone.

A paperwork issue? A legal one? Something about the Bernheims?

Manet? Party ’s provenance? Something that might help Damien’s claim?

Or maybe, just maybe, something that will help mine against him.

When Jonathan arrives, I close the door behind him and scour his face, then wave him into one of the chairs facing my desk, take the one next to his. “What? Tell me.”

“It’s going to be all right, Tamara.”

“Why do I get the feeling it’s not going to be?”

“There was a fire at the Columbia Museum, and although—”

I press my hand over my heart, like some nineteenth-century belle on the verge of fainting. “She got burned up?” I squeeze my eyes shut against the vision of my beloved painting completely charred, lifeless. “Is she, is she gone?”

“No,” he reassures me. “I know you’re freaked-out, but I promise you that your painting is fine. Completely unharmed.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Pretty much every other piece of art in the Holocaust wing was destroyed.”

I blink. “Was it white supremacists?”

“They don’t know yet, but obviously that’s one of the main leads they’re following.”

“What the hell is wrong with people these days?”

“It’s not just these days.”

“So, so wait,” I say, my brain trying to catch up with all that he’s telling me. “ Party was the only thing that didn’t get burned? Was it in a different place?”

“Apparently, the Manet was in the gallery along with all the other artworks the Nazis stole. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about this in person.”

“How many other pieces were damaged?”

“Close to a hundred.”

“Can they be restored?”

“A few.” His eyes are bright with unshed tears.

“Oh.” How sad for the museum, for the art lovers, for the artists who struggled to create them. “Are you sure this is right? I don’t understand how it’s even possible she’s still intact.”

“No one else does either.”

“It’s so strange…”

“They’re sending it back to you.”

My decision made for me.

Jonathan sits up a bit straighter. “There’s something else.”

I’m not sure I can take in much more, especially if it’s as serious as Jonathan’s expression implies.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened,” he says.

“A fire at the Columbia?”

“No, it’s not the first time Party on the Seine has been the sole survivor of a disaster.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I’m sorry to dump this on you all at once.” He leans toward me. “But you own the painting, and now that it’s the same thing again, you deserve to know the history. Two incidents are unusual, could be a coincidence, but three…”

“What were the other two?”

“Remember the salt mine? The one in Austria where Party was hidden? Well, the mine was flooded right before the stash was found, and all the artworks were ruined—except one.”

“ Party ?”

“It was the only painting stored in an airtight container. The thought at the time was that some high-up Nazi wanted it for his own. Maybe even Hitler.”

I, of all people, can surely understand this obsession.

“And the other was that earthquake in Brazil?” I ask, remembering what he told me about how the Claims Conference came to find out about Party .

“And after the earthquake the same thing happened? Party was the only artwork that wasn’t destroyed? ”

“Yes. But it was in storage—had never been shown, no one even knew it was there—so for those two, there are possible explanations. Not so much the Columbia,” he says.

When I just gawk at him, he continues. “I didn’t mention anything to the museum.

Although I will if it becomes relevant to their investigation, which I doubt.

Only a couple of us at the Conference are aware of the painting’s history—if it’s even germane.

It’s always possible that three is a coincidence too. ”

“Do you believe that?”

“What else is there to believe?”

Clearly, neither of us is completely convinced, yet we’re both hard-pressed to come up with another explanation. As ridiculous as it is, the idea that Party might have somehow been able to save herself scares the shit out of me. And she’s on her way back.

WYATT IS WITH me the second time Party is delivered to my apartment.

He’s even more excited than I am, but he doesn’t have foreboding crawling through his veins.

Three miraculous episodes of virtually rising from the dead.

That’s probably the wrong analogy, but I feel like it fits.

Obviously, I haven’t said anything to Wyatt—or to Jonathan—about what I thought I saw in the painting, and Wyatt isn’t privy to Party ’s alleged sole-survivorship episodes.

Why would I mention any of this if an overactive imagination is the explanation for the first and coincidence for the second?

Party arrives in what appears to be the same lime-green giant’s coffin as the first time, although the guys unpacking it are different. I moved the triptych to the guest room a few days ago, thrilled to get it out of my line of sight, although uneasy about its replacement hanging there.

Once Party is returned to her spot between the windows, Wyatt and I sit on the couch gaping at it.

“Fucking A,” he says. “No wonder everyone wants this. Even I want it, and I don’t care that much about art.”

I can barely breathe.

He points to Berthe, who’s leaning against the railing, looking across the river to the unseen bank beyond, looking directly at us.

Just as she was when she first arrived here.

“So that’s your great-great, so many greats, grandmother?

She’s a real beauty.” He puts his hand on my thigh. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

I’m dropping into the painting, like I’ve done so many times before.

I itch for my sketchbook and pencils, to commune with my painting, with my family, but I don’t want to do it while Wyatt is here.

Later. When he’s gone. When Party and I are alone.

A waft of calmness sweeps over me, of wonder. Back together again. As we should be.