“Are you familiar with the story of Judith slaying Holofernes?”
“From the Book of Judith, which is part of the Apocrypha, and not the traditional Biblical texts.”
Philip grinned. “I should remember never to be surprised with you. Holofernes was an Assyrian general whose antics threatened Judith, her loved ones, and her city. His desire for her was his weakness, which she exploited by entering his camp and decapitating him. This is too racy and violent for the men of the church, who can neither deny Judith’s texts without denying those that have been deemed canon, nor include them without exposing that women are as formidable as men, if not more.”
Colleen smiled from the corner of her mouth. “Yes, more.”
“Many Renaissance artists took a stab at this scene, from Donatello to Caravaggio. I’d say you’d be hard-pressed to find a serious artist from this period who didn’t tackle this. You can’t enter a museum in Italy without coming across some rendering of Judith slicing the head off her would-be captor. The Uffizi alone has multiple renderings, and while I’m also partial to the especially violent and dark take by Gentileschi, the one I spent hours watching, alone, was the one by Peter Paul Rubens.”
“He was Flemish, right?”
Philip nodded. “Flemish, yes. Very good. But he was heavily inspired by the Venetians, like Titian and Veronese. And he was an especial favorite of two kings, Philip IV of Spain and Charles I of England. You might say his style was both uniquely his, and uniquely belonging to all this major influences. Most of the renderings of Judith and Holofernes have a whimsical, inspirational feel. Good triumphing over evil. Have you seen Rubens’ turn at this?”
Colleen hated to shake her head.
“Judith with the Head of Holofernes, it’s called. I have a replica poster of this framed in my apartment that I’ll show you one day, though I wish you could see it right now. It’s not even considered among Rubens’ most influential or well-known paintings, and when I tried to get my art professor to tell me more about it, he had very little to say, so I drew my own conclusions.”
Colleen tried to stay focused on his words, but she didn’t miss his casual promise to take her to his apartment, said as if there was nothing wrong with such a thing, as if she would agree, as if….
The waitress arrived with their wine, pouring them each a generous glass. Philip toasted Colleen without losing his focus.
“You see, Judith, here, is the dominant figure, which you think would be true in all renderings of her slaying her foe, but this is not true. She often takes a backseat to the crime. Here, she stands over him, all of her in rubenesque glory, a pure and enraged show of strength. Here, her servant is not a woman, but a man. That is what stood out to me when I first saw it, and on all my many subsequent visits, as I sat upon the bench and lost myself in Judith’s victory. She’s both beautiful and powerful, and the man servant is small and subservient. So many takes on Judith paint her as either violent or a seductress, but here she’s just Judith, and she’s incredible.”
How Colleen wished she were standing in his apartment as he described this formative painting with more passion than she’d ever seen him attack science with. Or better yet, hands linked in the Uffizi in Florence, before the real thing. “You said this painting made you realize you were in both the right and wrong place at the same time.”
Philip nodded. “That I did. Art scholars have a way of refusing to accept different interpretations of an artist’s work. I’ve always believed that to be the ultimate beauty of any form of art, that even if you have a glimpse into the mind of the artist, you’re still allowed to experience and interpret it in your own way. You’ll find this mad, I’m sure, but I realized then that when it came to scholars, there was really no such thing as art at all. All scholars sought was a common thread and explanation to hang their hats on. To be right was more important than to be in the moment. You know what’s worse? I have these inclinations, too. I need things to make sense, in a world where so much doesn’t. Does that sound crazy?”
Colleen shook her head. She sipped at her wine, which was the best she’d tasted, and she felt so provincial in the shadow of this worldly man, who knew his wines and his art. “No, I understand what you’re saying exactly, at least I think I do. I can look at the beauty of a flower garden and enjoy it, but sometimes that’s ruined because I know exactly, because of science, why the roses have thorns, and how the colors came to be.”
Philip’s grin lit up his entire face. He slapped his leg. “Yes, yes! Exactly that, Colleen. Exactly that. I decided I was a better casual aficionado of art, because to tear it apart was to destroy the enjoyment. That’s when I knew I had to follow my pragmatic side and return to the sciences.”
“What we’re good at isn’t always the same as what we love.”
“Wise words,” Philip said. “But we can love what we are good at because we are good at it, no?”
Colleen thought about this. “Yes, there’s joy in success. In feeling accomplished, and in knowing what you’re capable of.”
Philip nodded as he refilled both their glasses. “In reaching our potential, yes.” The food arrived in that moment, and Colleen was glad of it, because she had nothing more meaningful to contribute and she worried he’d see that and see her as less than.
Using two spoons, he divided the generous plate of carbonara—he’d been right, this was no meal for one, and possibly not even two—to the two smaller plates provided. The smell was rich and delicious, and her stomach growled. This was not her mother’s comfort cooking.
“Well?” he asked with a delighted look as he watched her tackle her food, using a spoon and fork to swirl the carbonara into a workable bite. She lifted the fork to her lips and sighed as the tastes erupted in her mouth. The oily saltiness of the pancetta was a delight against the softer flavors of the egg and cheese.
Colleen worked the food around in her mouth as quickly as she could without seeming indelicate. No one had ever watched her eat like this before. He’d folded his hands over the table, eyes regarding her with burgeoning interest. “Incredible,” she offered after she swallowed.
“I knew you would love it,” Philip said and began to eat as well. “Tastes just like the carbonara in Rome. I used to take the train there every weekend, because not even Florence does carbonara like the Romans.”
“How did you find this place?”
“Same way I find anything. My evenings are quiet and sometimes lonely, and I drive around until I see something different. I seek out the places that are quieter, less established. Maybe I see these as art as well. Passion projects, opened from the love of cooking but without the desire for all the noise, all the marketing. This is the best Italian restaurant in New Orleans and no one knows about it.”
“Doesn’t that mean they’ll eventually close?”
Philip shrugged. “I do my part by bringing my favorite people here.”
“How many people have you taken here?”
Philip smiled. “Just you so far.”
“I’m one of your favorite people?”
“One of a small few. I can get along with anyone, but it isn’t often I find a kindred spirit.”
“Now I’m a kindred spirit.”
Philip reached across the table and took her hand in his. She’d been holding her fork, but it dropped to the plate with a clank. “When I said you weren’t like the others who come in and out of my life at Tulane, I meant it. I’m a very private man, Colleen. I don’t seek out company if I don’t think the person can bring something new to my life. The day I heard you talk so passionately about the reason you chose to go to medical school… you were talking to your sister, I believe…”
Colleen felt the blood drain away from her face. “Evangeline. You were there?”
“Well, it is my office,” he said. “Don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Afraid of me. Of what I will think of you.”
“I’m not,” she lied. Her hand was damp with sweat
now, but he hadn’t released it.
“Not many scientists are brave enough to admit they believe there’s more to this world. More to our minds, which are incredible and are still not fully understood. It isn’t foolish or misguided to think they might be capable of more. Of forcing energy into heals, or reaching deep into the mind of another to see what’s there.”
Her heart raced so hard her limbs tingled. “Do you believe that?”
“I believe just because we haven’t discovered something doesn’t mean it isn’t possible. I believe in the possibility of the unknown. And as it is, I have something of an interest in the extra senses humans possess, just as you do.”
Not possibly, not remotely for the same reasons. “Have you ever… met someone who pushed this belief along?”
“You.”
Colleen recoiled, and he dropped her hand as she fell back into her seat. What could he mean by this? What did he want?
“Simply, you remind me to never stop learning. To step outside what I know to be true and seek to find bigger truths.” Philip reached his hand across the tiny table and cupped Colleen’s cheek. Her eyes closed at the rush of emotional chills coursing through her, and when she opened them, he’d leaned across the table. His lips met hers, soft and inviting, and then he deepened the kiss, wrapping his other hand through her hair.
“You’re not my student anymore,” Philip said, breathless, as he settled back into his own seat. “I’d never pressure you toward something you didn’t want. But I’m going to leave you with an address and a date two weekends from now. And if you’re there, I promise you’ll walk away knowing more about yourself than you could ever learn wholly on your own.”
* * *
Evangeline chewed at her nails. She paused when Colleen stopped talking. “Wait, that’s it?”
“Is that not enough?” Colleen wore a look of pure torment.
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem is he is my senior, and I am his subordinate!”
“I’m gonna have to side with the prof on this one, sister. Technically, he’s not your teacher anymore, and you’re volunteering to help him now, not for credit. Tell me this, have you ever had a conversation like this with Rory?”
“It’s not fair to compare them.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re nothing alike!”
“Exactly,” Evangeline said. “Exactly. Colleen, look, you’ve always been a weirdo. I mean that with love. Poor Rory never stood a chance, and most men your age won’t fare any better. Philip is on your level, even if he is twice your age, but who cares about that? He’ll have a nice pension when he dies and you’ll still be young enough to remarry.”
“Stop,” Colleen said, but she was smiling now.
“You have my advice. Go for it. Don’t let your inner old woman keep you from something that might make you happy. And since you’re here, we need to talk about the gold digger coming after our brother.”
“Cordelia?”
“Cordelia? No! I’m talking about Augustus and Ekatherina.”
“Who is Ekatherina?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously! Am I supposed to know?”
Evangeline rolled her eyes. “Your turn to settle in for a story.”
Ten
It’s That Time
Charles had two meetings that day, as summer wound to fall, and because he expected neither to go well, he was not disappointed.
Colin asked him to come by Sullivan & Associates when he was in New Orleans. Call ahead, he said, because he had one year of law school ahead of him still and wasn’t yet a regular in the family firm. You wouldn’t have known it, with how serious he took the firm and everything that happened there. Dad wants to talk to you, about business, but I’d like to see you, too, so I’ll tag along.
Colin Sullivan Sr. rarely had occasion to summon Charles to the law firm for business. He could count on two fingers the times he’d gone down by himself, and not tagging along with his father or mother. The first had been when his father died. He was eleven and legally not old enough to sign anything, but Colin Sr. explained that the acceptance of the family estate and position of heir was a symbolic gesture that was meant to bestow a sense of duty on the signer. Charles had signed the non-legally binding document with all the seriousness the task demanded, thinking of how they’d watched the somber video of Jack Kennedy’s widow standing nearby when Johnson took on the duties of the nation.
The second was when he’d turned eighteen and the deed to Ophélie had formally been signed over to him. Ophélie, and several dozen other properties scattered across the state, all of which meant so little to him when it would have meant the world to someone else.
He should have gone down a third time, after turning twenty-one, when his trust opened up for his use, but he’d talked them into wiring the money to his account and having the paperwork delivered by courier.
But he was past all major milestones in the management of the estate, so he had no idea why they wanted to see him now.
Charles hadn’t seen Colin since the wedding. They were back now from their honeymoon to Paris, which Charles knew had been Catherine’s idea through and through. Paris was a dream to her, like so many other futures she’d cast aside in favor of safety and security.
He climbed the dark green carpeted steps, ascending into the law office that had maintained all markers of its old world charm. Desks of oak and mahogany, men traversing the space in crisp seersucker suits. Colin explained once that this was all intentional, to provide a timeless comfort to their clients, to which Charles had replied, of course it’s fucking intentional; nothing looks like this accidentally.
Colin Sr. and Colin Jr. awaited him in the boardroom, which he could have found on his own, but a lovely young secretary had been perched in reception to bring him back.
“Thank you, darling,” he said with a wink, enjoying her small grin and flushed cheeks.
Charles shut the door behind him.
“Mr. Sullivan.” He shook Colin Sr.’s hand, then turned to his friend. “You’re looking nice and tan, Colin.”
“We extended the trip by a few days and spent time at a beach in the south of France. I must admit, it would have never occurred to me, but Catherine is full of ideas, and she keeps me on my toes.”
She kept me on my knees. “So, what’s this about?”
Colin Sr. gestured for Charles to sit. He loosened the top button of his sport coat and sat down himself. “I believe you know where your money comes from?”
Charles snickered. “Is this a quiz? I was never good at memorization.”
“No, but, you see, that’s why we’re here. To gauge what your level of interest and desired involvement is, in the business side of the estate. Or, more to the point, how we continue to not only protect your money but grow it. Your father took a great interest in how the sausage is made, so to speak. He attended meetings, was involved in key decisions, and even redirected us from time to time.”
“Business side of the estate?” Charles felt suddenly like a great fool. He’d never considered where the money came from, only that it was there. Had always been there, long before him, and would be there long after him. That they were the wealth of old money seemed to be the only pertinent fact involved. It had never once occurred to him there might be work involved in sustaining this.
And now that he considered it, it was obvious what an idiotic assumption this had been.
Where Colin Sr. seemed confused at Charles’ confusion, Colin’s eyes indicated he understood it implicitly. “The Deschanel money, as you know...” And Charles knew in that moment that Colin had inserted those three words, as you know, to save him from his growing horror of ignorance. What did he think August had been doing in his office, all those hours, all that time? “Comes from four sources primarily. Over two billion dollars in real-estate investments, which are comprised of both the steady revenue of equity and a re-investment of dollars into propert
ies that are then sold for double the investment or more. Second are a complicated series of investment opportunities, large and small. The level of detail involved in maintaining these would likely not interest you, but there’s another three billion in this careful dance of trading and monitoring. Third, the Deschanels own another half billion worth of interest in various banks, hospitals, and even smaller firms. Lastly, we’ve had success lately in fronting venture capital dollars, of which we have quadrupled investments made. Your family’s net worth is just over seven billion dollars, Charles. Other than the reinvestment of some capital to keep the growth where it is, at over twenty percent per annum these past few years, most of that could be liquidated if the need arose, not that we expect it to. All the properties that are bestowed into the family upon maturity are owned outright by the estate and transferred to the bequeathed outright as well, so are not counted in the net worth estimate. As well, all trust fund dollars are kept separate, so anything paid out to your siblings, say, is protected. I could give you estimates on that as well.”
Charles’ head spun. He was glad to be seated. No one had ever bothered to explain any of this to him, and even now, he didn’t know what half of it meant. He couldn’t blame his father, who didn’t expect to die before he could pass the baton. Nor could he exactly be mad at Irish Colleen, for what the hell did she know about any of this?
“Now that you’re less than a year from your wedding, and hopefully soon after, the birth of your heir, we felt it prudent to see if you wanted to be part of everything, or continue to let us run it in your stead. It’s that time.” Colin Sr. watched him with a kind but hawkish smile.
“Can I think about it?”
Both men laughed. “Think about it? Charles, the estate is yours, to enjoy without disruption,” said Colin Sr.
“If you decide nothing should change, then nothing will,” Colin added. “With help from the accounting team we hired just for this, we’ve more than doubled your family’s money over the years. We’re good at this, even if it seems unusual to have your lawyers handle all your financial interests as well. So what we’re saying is, this is all yours, and if you want to know more, or to get involved, we’re here to help with that. But if you’d rather not burden yourself, and instead focus on growing your new family, or anything else, really, that’s okay, too.”
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