Page 76

FIFTY-FOUR

J onathan and I are seated in a deserted alcove at his hotel’s bar, and I struggle to remain silent while he translates the legible parts of Aimée’s diary.

I’m bursting with questions, dying to discuss the implications, but I’m afraid to break his concentration—even though he reads as if the words were in English, his speech unhesitating.

Yet when he closes the gilt-edged cover, I find myself speechless.

He smiles at me. “It’s a lot to digest.”

I try to grasp what this might mean.

He opens the diary and gently tries to pry some of the pages apart.

During its years in the barrel, water must have seeped in, and many of the individual sheets are stuck together or they’re too waterlogged to be decipherable.

Most of the earliest entries are completely soaked, only the later ones spared.

My mind buzzes as I watch his efforts. Is this what I think it is?

What Berthe sent me to find? Proof she’s the true creator of Party on the Seine ?

Proof she’s not dead in the way I always understood “dead” to be?

That my certainty, my science, my numbers can’t explain everything?

What would Dad think? “So Berthe did paint it…”

“Seems likely.”

More comfortable with the pragmatic, I ask, “Will the judge consider this enough to rule Party is mine?”

He thinks about this. “From what you’ve told me about the other evidence you have, it will definitely be a positive addition.”

I don’t like the sound of his nuanced reply. “Only ‘a positive addition’?”

“Given its contents and where it was found,” he says, carefully choosing his words, “it would appear to be Aimée Manet’s diary, written in the early twentieth century.

And I suppose we can assume Aimée believed what she wrote was true, but unfortunately, that’s about as far as it goes.

There’s no definitive proof of either of those things, so there’s no evidence to legally support them. ”

I don’t like this unnuanced reply any more than his nuanced one. “There may be more of her Party sketches down there. They could easily have been in another barrel we didn’t see in the dark. Would that help?”

He shrugs. “Marginally, but either way, Oliver was annoyed with our manhandling the contents of the barrel, and it’s unlikely he’s going to let me in there again this visit.” Jonathan doesn’t voice it, but his meaning is clear: The trial will be long over by the time he returns to Paris.

“But she says right there that she found the sketches,” I persist. “That Léon destroyed them. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Think about it from a judge’s point of view.

Here’s a diary the defendant claims she found in an ancestral home that has been bought, sold, and renovated many times since a family member lived there.

The diary’s age and authorship haven’t been verified, and although the entries indicate that Morisot painted it, this is only one person’s contention—one who might have been biased, and who can’t testify or be questioned. ”

“If only we could get Party authenticated before the trial.” I sigh. “I looked into it once, and apparently no expert would even consider starting the process without all the provenance paperwork up front—all of which confirms édouard painted it.”

“It’s too bad it wasn’t done years before, but that’s not all that surprising, given that it hasn’t been shown for almost a century—and it was never sold. Did you check AI authenticators?”

“Really? I had no idea. Do you think they might not need paperwork?”

“Based on the little I know about their analytical techniques, I’d guess their focus would be on the painting itself instead of its history. There’s some kind of large machine involved. Maybe like an MRI they put the painting inside of?”

I’m elated by this possibility. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home. We still have ten days before the trial, and if all they have to do is run Party through a machine, maybe that would do it.”

“Again, I’ve got no idea how it actually works, but go for it,” he says, yet I can see he’s skeptical. “You should also call Wyatt. This is his area, not mine. He may have a completely different interpretation, know a way to make the diary a more powerful piece of evidence.”

I finish my glass of wine and wave down the server for another. “Aimée kept referring to édouard as ‘Papa.’ Do you think that means she could be Berthe and édouard’s illegitimate child?”

“That’s what’s implied, although Aimée doesn’t say how she knows this. But if it’s true, it would make you a straight-line descendant of both édouard and Berthe.” He grins. “Pretty impressive bloodline.”

I dreamily contemplate this new and intoxicating family connection.

Directly descended from both édouard Manet and Berthe Morisot?

How could this have been lost through the generations?

My grandmother’s estrangement from her own mother is one answer.

But maybe Aimée, as part of a family dedicated to upholding the Manet name, never told anyone, including Colette, about who her father really was or who really painted Party , believing she was saving both artists’ reputations.

“Then édouard would be my grandfather times four, not my uncle,” I say, stating the obvious, but liking the sound of the words. “How cool is that?”

“Very cool for you,” he says, then sobers. “But in terms of the trial, édouard left everything to Léon, and that will supersede your relationship to édouard, no matter how direct.”

I swirl the wine in my glass, precariously riding the emotional waves that keep coming at me. And then another one hits, and I burst out laughing.

Jonathan’s expression shifts to puzzlement. “What?”

“I, I,” I stammer between giggles. “I can’t believe you stole the diary. Right out from under Oliver’s nose. A blatantly illegal act, counselor—and gutsy as hell.”

“Seemed like the thing to do at the moment.” He gives me a long look. “And then there’s the elephant in the room. Or maybe I should say the ghost in the room.”

I run my finger along the gilt on the cover. “She did lead us to this.”

“And if this whole adventure is about Berthe wanting you to prove she painted Party , the diary supports that. A diary you found in a house—and in a barrel—you saw in a dream, before you knew they existed.”

A ripple of panic rises up my back, and I take his hand in both of mine. “It was one thing to speculate about it, but now, now with this evidence—if it is evidence—well, it’s scaring the shit out of me.” Even though it might mean I can stop worrying about my mental health.

He gently rubs the forefinger of his other hand between two of my knuckles. “It’s okay to be scared by something this inexplicable. Something that goes against everything you thought you believed in.”

“I don’t know what I believe in anymore.”

“My take is that the only people who are sure about the nature of being are the ones who don’t ask enough questions.”

“You really think Berthe’s spirit could be inside Party ?”

“I consider myself a person who likes to ask questions, so I’ll ask you this: Why not?”

“Because it’s impossible.”

His eyes fasten on to mine. “Is it?”

I drop my head into my hands.

Jonathan gets up, slips onto my side of the booth, and gathers me up in his arms. “It’s also okay to be confused.”

I wrap my arms around him, bury my face in his chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He hugs me tighter. “So how serious is this thing with Wyatt?”

I CALL WYATT when I get back to my hotel, tell him about the diary, about Jonathan reading it to me in English.

“Stein’s with you in Paris?”

“Yeah,” I say casually. “He got in yesterday, I think. The Conference is working on my claim for 40 Villejust, and he’s helping.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

His voice is hard. “I think it is.”

“Wyatt, are you listening to what I’m saying? Aimée Manet’s diary says she found evidence Berthe painted Party —this could be a real boost for us.”

“It’s in French?”

“Yes, but the relevant parts aren’t that long. It shouldn’t be hard to find someone to translate it before the trial.”

“If we’re going to use it as evidence, I need to get it to Delphine. Discovery. There isn’t as much time as you think.”

“Isn’t she French?” I counter, pleased with my quick retort. “I’ve got the diary with me now, so I’ll text you photos of the important pages, and you can send them on to Delphine. When I get home, we’ll find someone to translate them before the trial for the English speakers.”

A long pause. “Tell me exactly what Aimée wrote.”

After I do, he says, “Legally, the sides are well-balanced, and it’s going to be a tough call on the judge’s part, but every little bit helps.”

“Aren’t you impressed I actually found something?

” I demand. “That the trip turned out to be worthwhile after all?” Before I left, he’d said going to Paris wasn’t necessary because he was pretty sure we’d win without any additional evidence, and now that I found some he’s changing his tune?

Is this because he’s pissed I proved him wrong?

“I guess,” he says grudgingly. “But you’ve got to admit it was a long shot.”

Annoyed, I tell him I’ll call when I get back, probably the day after. He offers to pick me up at the airport, but I decline, using the excuse that international flights with a connection are notoriously unreliable.

I’m a little surprised when he doesn’t argue. The man has a serious jealous streak, although in this case it’s not unfounded.

I told Jonathan that Wyatt and I had been dating casually for about six months but it looked like the relationship had run its course.

He was pleased with this answer and was gentleman enough not to suggest we go up to his room.

Which was probably a good thing. Given the way I was feeling, the longing he was sparking in me, I might have agreed.

But I need to break up with Wyatt first.

JONATHAN CALLS BEFORE I leave in the morning. I tell him what Wyatt said, his concern about the diary being in French.

“I’ll write a translation for you,” he offers. “No problem. The pertinent part is, what, six, seven pages?”

“That would be great, thanks.” Although I wonder how great Wyatt will think this is.

“I’m meeting with Oliver this afternoon,” Jonathan says. “And I’ve got a bunch of paperwork to do here on your claim—and on another client’s—so I’m thinking I’ll be heading to Boston in a couple of days. Is it okay if I transcribe it then?”

“Should be fine. He’ll just need it a day or two before the trial. I already told him what it says.”

“The first of May, right?”

“Right.”

There’s a strained silence, and then we both start to talk at the same time. We laugh, and I say, “Got to get packing. Let me know when you’re back in town.”

Although I have more than enough to mull over, I spend most of the flight thinking about Jonathan, his growing pull on me, the electricity between us.

And although it’s definitely about sex, it’s more than that.

I’ve never experienced a friendship that turned into a love affair, but I can already recognize the power—and the depth—of such a thing.

It’s not just his body I want. It’s him.

IT’S EARLY EVENING when I get home, and I go directly to the living room. “I found Aimée’s diary,” I say.

Berthe stares out over the river.

“It’s going to help at the trial, but it remains to be seen how much. Even though there’s a time crunch, I’m going to try to get Party authenticated before we go to court. If I can’t, I’ll do it after—and I won’t stop until we prove to the world it’s your work.”

Again, no response.

“And it looks like 40 Villejust could be mine too. You, Aimée, Colette, and now me, owning the very same house. Four generations of Morisot women.”

And then, just as when we’d only recently met, she winks at me.