Page 74

FIFTY-TWO

O liver unlocks the rear gate, and we enter the garden. Even though it’s been abandoned for years—perhaps decades—sprouts of green poke between the bricks, and random flowers push their way through the leaf-strewn dirt in the beds. The tenacity of life. Hope. My heart pounds. Foolish girl.

There are two doors on the back of the house.

One is stately, with wide moldings and large windows above and around it.

The other is narrow and barely taller than I am.

It’s obvious which one leads to the basement.

It takes Oliver a number of tries to find the correct key.

As Oliver struggles to get the door open, I clutch Jonathan’s arm, and this time he lets me hold on to him.

With an avalanche of dirt and the scream of splintering wood, it finally releases, swinging outward. A fetid odor rises from its depths, and all three of us back up. “Are you certain you want to do this?” Oliver asks me.

I begin to shake my head, but then I hear my father’s voice telling me to finish what I start. “Yes,” I say with more enthusiasm than I have, then I hesitate. “But I’d really like one of you to come with me.”

The two exchange a glance, and it’s clear that they’re both eager to see what’s down there. Jonathan clicks on his phone’s flashlight. He draws closer and shines it on the stairs sinking into the shadows.

Oliver stands next to him and peers in. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to stand up down there.” He suddenly appears less eager than he was before.

“A dirt floor?” I ask.

Jonathan looks at me strangely, and then nods in recognition. I told him the details of my dream. The rickety stairs. The low ceiling. The packed earthen floor. He waves his hand inside the threshold. “Cobwebs,” he tells me.

“I’m ready,” I say.

Oliver is clearly confused, but neither of us is about to explain.

The cobwebs aren’t as bad as in the dream, but I’m the third one down and still have to push them from my face and mouth, so maybe they are.

The smell is horrendous, and I press my sleeve to my nose in a futile attempt to stanch it.

I can stand upright, although barely, but Jonathan and Oliver are forced to hunch over.

“It looks—and smells—like no one’s been down here in years,” Oliver says.

Jonathan hands me his phone. I move it around the murky space.

It’s the way it was in my dream, but now the barrels have been replaced by a tangled mess of baffling objects covered with sheets, serpentine corridors slithering between them.

Still, the same shadows, the same maze, the same claustrophobia, the same desperation gathering in my chest. Where are you?

If I can’t find you, we’ll lose everything.

Berthe sent me here. No other explanation, terrifying as it is.

There’s something in this place. Something she and I both need.

My hand is unsteady. I wave the phone, slicing the darkness with shards of light that jump from the corners to the lumpy silhouettes.

And then I see it. A single barrel. Whatever I need to find is inside.

I quickly walk toward it, stumble, straighten, Jonathan and Oliver right behind me. Jonathan knows what I’m thinking, but Oliver, once again, is baffled. The barrel has a cover nailed to its top. It’s warped and breaking away along the edges. “We need to open it,” I say.

Oliver shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but we can’t do that. I’m only authorized to let you look, not to move or touch anything.”

I turn to him. “I’ve traveled over three thousand miles and spent money I don’t have to see what’s inside this barrel. Please. I can’t leave until I do.”

“It’s not my—”

“Can we just humor her?” Jonathan interrupts. “We won’t take anything, and we’ll put it back exactly as it was. You yourself said no one’s been down here in years.”

Oliver looks from Jonathan to me. I was right about his age. He’s got to be new to this job, unsure whether to follow Beaumont’s instructions or a request from a much more experienced colleague.

“I promise you won’t get into any trouble—this will stay between us.” Jonathan takes the phone from me. “There’s got to be a crowbar down here, or something else I can use as a wedge,” he mutters as he swings the light around the room. It lands on a large flathead screwdriver, and he grabs it.

It takes only a few nudges to loosen the cover.

It pops open with only two more, and I jump at the sharp crack.

When the scent of violets floods the air, I seize Jonathan’s sleeve, stifle a cry.

It smells like my living room right before I hear Berthe’s voice in my head.

But there’s no voice. All I hear is the sound of my ragged breathing.

Jonathan tips the barrel on its side, and a few items spill to the floor. Clothing—old-fashioned women’s clothing. A necklace.

“Don’t,” Oliver says.

I drop to my knees. Jonathan empties the rest of the barrel, holds the flashlight over the contents.

I scramble through them. More clothes, shoes, jewelry.

Sketch pads. Berthe’s? I grab one. Empty.

The next too. Then I see a thick leather-bound volume embossed in gold.

I open it carefully. Jonathan crouches and looks over my shoulder.

It’s in French, meaningless to me. But Jonathan is fluent—his mother’s first language—and his eyes widen.

“That’s enough,” Oliver barks before I can ask Jonathan what he sees.

“You need to put everything back now. Including the cover.” He checks his phone.

“I let you look, which I shouldn’t have, and I’ve got to return the keys to Beaumont’s office in fifteen minutes.

When the house is officially yours, you’ll be able to do what you like with the contents, but for now we have to go. ”

“All I need is a few more minutes,” I mumble as I continue my search. We can’t go. I haven’t found it yet. Ten days. I throw a glance at Jonathan, imploring his support.

He ignores me and begins to return the items to the barrel. “Fair enough,” he says. “Thanks, Oliver. Much appreciated. I owe you one.”

“These belong to my family.” I clutch a dress to my chest. “Maybe even to Berthe Morisot herself, or my great-great-grandmother. Or her daughter. That means none of it is Beaumont’s.

It all belongs to me—no matter what the Nazis stole or what Beaumont believes he bought.

” I’m not leaving. Not without what I came for. Not when it’s only inches away.

“Legally, that’s not exactly true,” Oliver begins, but Jonathan cuts him off.

“It’s cool, Tamara,” he says as he rights the barrel and gently tries to pry the dress from my grip. “We’re leaving.”

I struggle against him for a moment, then notice from his stiff stance that he’s slipped something into the back of his pants.

I stop resisting and stand, almost hitting my head.

Jonathan repositions the cover, smashes it into place with the butt of the screwdriver, returns the barrel to its original position.

We climb out of the basement, and Oliver locks both the door and the gate behind us. Then he and Jonathan make plans to meet tomorrow to start processing my claim, and everyone says goodbye.

We watch Oliver stride through the alley toward the street, and I can barely contain myself until he’s turned the corner. “What?” I demand. “What did you take?”

Jonathan grins and touches his back. “It’s Aimée Manet’s diary. But I’m going to leave it where it is until we’re somewhere more private. There’s a quiet bar in my hotel. Let’s go there and see what she has to say.”