by Harper Lin
She told herself not to be silly. It had been her idea to come to his place to look at the handprint to begin with.
“It’s upstairs,” he said. He led her up the grand staircase.
The walls on the second floor were just as bare, except for a funny sketch of a moose and one painting of a boat and a sunset. It wasn’t an original subject, but the painting’s style seemed familiar.
“I know this artist,” she said.
“You do?”
“Didn’t we learn about him in school? He was the French painter from Normandy, right? Was a sailor and painted a lot of boats and the sea?”
“Good job,” he praised. “You know your stuff.”
“But not his name.” Clémence scowled, berating herself for not remembering. “It starts with an M…”
“Mercier,” he said. “Felix Mercier.”
“Right, of course. Is this an original?”
“Yes,” he said, flushed with pride, but he quickly added. “Not mine, of course. I wouldn’t be able to afford one. It’s Gilles’s.”
“Who is Gilles exactly?”
“He’s a financial trader. Part of the reason he wants to room with me is that he wants to learn how to paint. But frankly, he’s not very good! He’s big on art though. He’ll be away in London for another week on a business trip so he’s not around.”
“What company does he work for? My boyfriend’s in the finance world. Maybe they’ve crossed paths.”
“Oh, I forget.” Mathieu made a face. “All those companies sound the same. It’s so boring to me.”
Clémence agreed, but she did not say so. As much as she loved Arthur, whenever he talked about finance or economics, it went over her head.
Mathieu opened the door to his bedroom. To her surprise, it was neat and sleek, with cream walls. It only contained a desk, a bed and a book shelf. When they were living together, one of the things that drove her crazy was that he had been messy—and a hoarder.
“What happened to all your stuff?” Clémence asked.
He chuckled. “As you can tell, my roommate loves minimalist living, so I’ve been influenced. I mean, why let material possessions drag you down?”
“A financial trader who is not a materialist?” Clémence mused. “I’m learning a lot today.”
Mathieu pushed the bed a few inches back. “Check this out. I get chills when I see this.”
Clémence crouched down to take a better look. She could see it: a small handprint with a visible palm line.
“Whoever it is must be very, very young,” she remarked. “Have you seen this ghost?”
“No. Sometimes I hear a child crying in the middle of the night. At first I thought it was a neighbor, but it’s not possible. The family next door does not have a child, and there’s nobody living in the other house right now since they’ve gone away for the summer. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just having nightmares.”
“Definitely creepy. So are you scared to sleep alone?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say scared. More like disturbed.”
“Let’s use the sage. It could help.” She was holding a plastic bag, and she reached in to take out one stick to show him. She’d bought another to take home so she could do the same for her apartment, just in case.
“What will it do exactly?”
“We just have to burn it,” Clémence said. “The smoke will clear the energy and hopefully get rid of the spirit. You might as well burn the whole thing, to be safe. When I was in Singapore, I met a woman who told me to do this.”
“So you’ve really been traveling a lot, huh?” Mathieu said. “You left right after we broke up. Was our breakup the reason why you went away?”
Clémence felt heat rise to her cheeks. She opened her mouth and was about to deny it, but then thought, what was the point? She took out her smartphone and bent down again to take a photo of the handprint.
“Sure. It was hard on me. We were together for so long, and when I found out, I just had to leave.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry I ever hurt you that way.”
“Yes, well, it’s okay. I had a great time during those two years. Got to do a lot of new things, meet people, experience different cultures. I’m over it now, and I’ve moved on.”
“So… with your boyfriend now, are you in love with him?”
“Arthur? Yes. He’s great…”
But the way he was staring at her made her feel as if he didn’t quite believe it. “Are you sure, Clémence? Take it from me. It’s hard to be with someone who’s not creative, isn’t it? You’re an artist. You need someone who understands you.”
He was standing looking down at her, as she was still crouched by the mysterious handprint. She looked up at him. Sunlight washed him from behind, making him appear to be a mirage. A small smile was on his shadowed face, a knowing one, as if he still believed that he had her wrapped around his finger.
But she wasn’t, was she? She had been over Mathieu for a long time. She didn’t feel anything for him now. Sure, he was still as charming as ever, with the complex personality: wounded boy one minute, confident and sensual the next.
“He is creative,” she replied. “Arthur plays piano.”
She stood up slowly. He didn’t say anything. She couldn’t maintain eye contact from the intense way he was staring at her. His pale blue eyes were like magnets trying to pull her back in again.
“Let’s light this sage,” she tried to say in a breezy voice. “Do you have a lighter? The ashes will fall, so we need a plate too.”
She blushed as she talked, feeling stupid for some reason.
“I think there’s a lighter in the kitchen,” he replied softly.
“Great. Let’s start go downstairs and start from the bottom up.”
When they reached the top of the stairs, they heard the loud slamming of the front door.
A young woman appeared. She had long brown hair and glinting green eyes. Her face reminded Clémence of a cat. She wore a black designer dress suit, an untucked white blouse, and gold heels, looking stunning. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Clémence, then at Mathieu. If her eyes were daggers, Clémence would be dead by now.
Chapter 5
“Charlotte.” Mathieu clapped his hands together and went down the stairs first. “Don’t you have work this afternoon?”
“Nice to see you too,” she sniffed. “My boss gave me the afternoon off because the security system had to be changed and the gallery’s closed for the rest of the day.”
Mathieu approached to give her bisous, kisses, on the cheeks, but she went in for a kiss on the mouth.
“This is Clémence,” Mathieu introduced her, as Clémence tentatively came down to receive Charlotte.
Clémence wasn’t sure whether to go in for a bisou greeting. Charlotte didn’t look like she was too happy to see her. Even though there was a smile stretched on her face, her piercing green eyes still contained a hint of anger.
“I’m Charlotte, la copaine of Mathieu.”
Mathieu’s girlfriend. Clémence got it. Charlotte looked inquisitively from Clémence to Mathieu as though demanding an explanation.
“Clémence is a friend,” Mathieu said.
“I know who she is,” Charlotte spat, while maintaining that neutral smile on her face. “Clémence Damour, the heiress of the patisserie chains. You’ve been in the papers all week.”
“Oui, c’est moi,” Clémence admitted.
“Horrific thing that happened to you and Sophie.” She softened just a little. “I’ve met the Seydoux sisters a couple of times.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, at gallery openings and things like that. I’m part of that scene too, you know.”
“Oh. I didn’t. I’m not part of that scene.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte gave a little laugh. “You’re the face of the Parisian elite these days.”
Mathieu looked from Charlotte to Clémence and quickly jumped in.
“
Charlotte works at the Madison Gallery in the sixth arrondissement.”
“That’s amazing,” Clémence exclaimed. “I know that gallery. It’s right by our old art school. Are you a curator?”
“Learning to,” she said. “I’m an assistant for now, but I’m being primed to take over my boss’s position when he retires.”
“That’s amazing. Mathieu was telling me how important it was to have a creative significant other who shares the same interests. And you must be proud of him too.”
“Oh yes.” Charlotte turned her strange smile on Mathieu, who looked uneasy. “He’s a star, isn’t he? Or he’s going to be very soon.”
“I thought he was already doing really well,” Clémence said.
“Not for the past year and a half,” Charlotte said bluntly. “His last couple of shows tanked.”
“They just don’t get my new work.” A harder edge was in Mathieu’s voice.
“His last two shows received bad reviews across the board,” Charlotte explained.
“Oh, no.” Clémence looked at Mathieu. He hadn’t told her. He must’ve been embarrassed. “I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I think your new pieces are fantastic. They’re ahead of your time. Many artists aren’t celebrated in their time. Don’t let the bad press get you down.”
“Thanks, Clémence.”
“So, what brings you to Mathieu’s place, Clémence?”
“She’s just—”
“I’m here to cleanse the house,” she said.
“Cleanse?” she raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, the house seems to be haunted by a small child, so I’m helping him clean the bad energy away with white sage.”
She realized how ridiculous that sounded to a logical person, and Charlotte was definitely the logical type.
Charlotte crossed her arms and chuckled. “Haunted, huh? Why didn’t you just call the ghostbusters, Mathieu?”
He gave Clémence an apologetic look. “Charlotte doesn’t believe in that stuff.”
“Don’t tell her what you think I believe or not,” Charlotte said sharply. “If there’s a ghost, you should’ve told me, especially since I spend nearly every night here.”
Clémence was getting more and more uncomfortable. There was so much tension in the air. She’d thought her visit was harmless, but obviously Charlotte didn’t seem to think so. She hadn’t even known that Mathieu was seeing someone. Why didn’t he tell her?
“Hey, you know what, guys?” Clémence looked at her watch. “I better be going back to work.”
“Oh.” Mathieu turned to her. “All right. I’ll call you some time.”
Charlotte glared at him.
“Nice meeting you, Charlotte,” Clémence said awkwardly. “Au revoir.”
She couldn’t leave fast enough.
Chapter 6
“How was your meeting with your ex?” Berenice asked as soon as Clémence entered the Damour kitchen.
“A disaster.” Clémence dropped her purse on the corner table and slumped in the seat at their worktable.
Sebastien was working on their seasonal strawberry and cream macarons, piping the one-inch shells on a lined tray. Berenice was making their last batch of baguettes for the day.
“I thought things went well earlier in the salon,” Berenice said. “We saw you two talking and laughing.”
“Yes, but I went over to his house later, and his new girlfriend dropped in. It did not go over well. She was pretty pissed off to find me there.” She told them all about their run-in with Charlotte.
“Sounds like she’s the jealous type,” Sebastien said.
“She practically ripped my head off. But I suppose I understand. It doesn’t look too good to catch your boyfriend and his ex walking down the stairs from his bedroom. And Mathieu was acting nervous too, so maybe she was even more convinced that something was going on.”
“So did anything go on?” Berenice raised an eyebrow.
“No. Of course not. I’m with Arthur. You know that.”
“Yeah, but you were pretty crazy about Mathieu for the longest time. You were like a puppy when it came to him.”
Clémence sighed. “Yeah, I was pretty pathetic, wasn’t I?”
“You don’t have to say that twice,” Sebastien said curtly.
“Oh, hush,” Clémence said.
“Wait, what were you doing at his house, anyway?” Sebastien asked.
Clémence didn’t know whether to shudder or laugh as she recalled the reason. “It’s the craziest thing.” She told them about the ghost child’s handprint.
The Soulier siblings looked up at her in disbelief.
“That cannot be true,” Sebastien said. “It’s absolutely ridiculous.”
“I beg to differ,” Berenice said. “It could totally be true. Real-life ghost stories happen all the time. What do you think all those horror movies are based on? And Mathieu lives in a house. The chance of it being haunted is pretty high. I mean, France is an old country. I’m pretty sure there are more than a few past residents who’ve lingered.”
“Please,” Sebastien said. “Surely you don’t believe that.”
“Oh, if you were left alone in a creepy old house, you wouldn’t be scared?”
“I’d be scared of ax murderers and killers, not ghosts. Even if they were real, they’re not tangible. It’s not like they can hurt me physically.”
Clémence took an almond croissant from one of the cooling trays. She was in a snacking mood. She’d gained five pounds since she’d returned to Paris, but she couldn’t help herself when she was in a kitchen surrounded by freshly baked goods—who could? Nobody asked her to stop, since she was the boss. Besides, she deserved to indulge, especially after surviving the wrath of her ex’s new girlfriend.
“This is really amazing,” she said between bites. “Why don’t I have almond croissants more often? Seriously, has the recipe improved?”
“Not really,” Sebastien said. “It’s still your parents’ original recipe.”
“No wonder both the Inspector and Mathieu are obsessed with our croissants. I’ve been pigging out on macarons and eclairs, but I’ve neglected the croissants for too long.”
“I’m glad you still have a passion for sweets,” Sebastien said. “For me, it’s gotten a bit more mechanical. I eat for work, to perfect and to find fault—not so much for pleasure anymore.”
“That’s actually kind of sad,” Clémence said. “You have to reignite the passion.”
Berenice looked at her watch. “Oh, I have to go. I’m starting an outside bootcamp class. It’s in the Tuileries. You should come sometime.” She put the baguettes in the industrial oven. “Keep an eye on these, will you?”
“Sure,” Sebastien said.
“Maybe I should go,” Clémence said. She hadn’t been exercising for a while, and with all the sugar from the desserts in her system, she wasn’t the picture of good health. “I’m wiped today, but next time. When is it?”