I'll See You in Paris

by Michelle Gable

  “Give him my warmest regards!” Nicola said.

  “It would be my pleasure.” Gus extended a hand toward Nicola, and then to Annie. “Well, I best be off. Cheers, ladies. And, Annie, please. As appealing a proposition as it might seem, try to keep yourself out of trouble. That smile helps but it’s not going to cover up every crime.”

  Twenty-nine

  Subject:

  Please be careful

  From:

  eric.sawyer@usmc.mil

  Date:

  Nov 5, 2001 6:48

  To:

  anniehaley79@aol.com

  This old man is a good old charmer … too charming if you ask me. The research must be fun and the duchess … she’s wild. But Annie, don’t get yourself into any messes you can’t get out of. Of course you can’t undo the transcript stealing. So yes, absolutely, read them. I guess “fake researcher” is turning into the real deal. Seems like you’re good at it.

  So. The war. It’s going well so far. We’re almost done. Just kidding. We’re still on the MEU, making our way toward AFG. I wish we’d get there already. There’s a lot of nervous energy on the float, all that damn anticipation.

  It must sound strange, that we want to fight. Well, that’s not exactly right. It’s like this. We’ve been tasked with something huge, and we’re nervous because we want to do our jobs and do them right. It feels important. Monumental. A large load we have to carry alone. The few, the proud, and all that. On the one hand is glory, on the other … I can’t even think about it.

  Plus there’s a little something called revenge. Revenge for all of the destruction. No one will say it, but … well … there it is. Man, we all desperately hope to do some good out there. We want to do right by our nation, and our parents, and all our wonderful Annies back home.

  Not that there’s anyone like you—sweet, pretty, brilliant. I swear, Annie, sometimes it’s like you popped right out of a novel and into my life. It’s the famous “too good to be true” except that you’re real. And believe me, I’ve tried to find the chink. So far, no dice. I know you’d point to your living and employment situation, but all that’s temporary. A person’s job is not who they are.

  Well, I’d better go. As anxious as I am to get to the gettin’ on, I’ll have a lot fewer opportunities to write once we’re there. Our distance will be compounded the second I step off this boat. I can’t imagine missing you more than I do now.

  Stay happy. Stay safe.

  All my love,

  Eric

  Thirty

  WS: Tell me about Bernard Berenson.

  GD: What does one say about the greatest art historian who ever lived?

  WS: The “greatest”? Come now.

  GD: Bernard was solely responsible for creating a market for Renaissance paintings. If not for him, there’d be no quote-unquote Old Masters.

  WS: There is also the converse. Some say he manipulated the market and drove prices to unreasonable levels.

  GD: A person has to earn a living.

  WS: Customarily, yes. From what I’ve read, you and Berenson traveled together extensively.

  GD: We did. I often joined him on trips to secure various pieces of art. He trusted my keen insight and objectivity. Assessing art may sound like a quite fanciful occupation but B.B. was under a lot of pressure. His clients were top-of-the-line.

  WS: Such as?

  GD: Henry Clay Frick. William Randolph Hearst. J. P. Morgan. Andrew Mellon. John D. Rockefeller. To name a few.

  WS: That’s quite a pedigree.

  GD: Well, he was quite a man. B.B. taught me a tremendous amount. About art, of course, but also dedication. He’d travel to monasteries in the farthest outreaches of civilization to examine a single brushstroke.

  WS: Astounding.

  GD: Not big enough a word.

  WS: But the two of you were rather disparate in age.

  GD: One year or a hundred between us, does it matter?

  WS: And what about Berenson’s wife?

  GD: Ah, old Mary. A serious woman, and a respected art critic in her own right. She liked to pretend I was a silly, simple girl. Couldn’t tolerate the intellectual competition because she couldn’t compete on looks. With me, there was nothing she could feel superior about.

  WS: I thought you and Mary were friends. You once asked B.B. to pass along the following message to her. [Sound of papers rustling] “My love in honeyed streams to that sweetest of white mice cooked in gooseberry jam.”

  GD: We were friends, for a time. But that’s what friendships do. They end.

  WS: Ah, so cooked in gooseberry jam by and by. Note to manuscript. Mrs. Spencer appears wistful.

  GD: Mr. Seton, I have no place in my life for wistful.

  WS: But you cared about Berenson deeply, didn’t you?

  GD: I loved him in ways you could never understand.

  WS: Tell me, Mrs. Spencer, if you were so close, how come you stopped speaking in 1920?

  GD: I believe he passed. That’s the problem I often faced, seeing as how I was so much younger than everyone I consorted with.

  WS: That’s not true. I meant the first part! Please! Calm down! No need to throw things, Mrs. Spencer. I was referring to the bit about his passing. Berenson died in 1959. Not so long ago but long after you lost touch. Forty years almost.

  GD: You sure know how to make a gal feel like roses.

  WS: I’m sorry, Mrs. Spencer, I’m only trying to get a story, flesh out your varied cast of characters. So what happened?

  GD: What happened? [Deep sigh, then three long beats] Same as always. A series of misunderstandings. My engagement to Lord Brooke, for one, he did not relish. Many rows followed and then a final, damaging crack. We never exchanged another word.

  WS: How bleak.

  GD: It’s the manner of human nature, though, isn’t it? Our bonds can’t last. Despite our best efforts, the rest of the world always gets in our way.

  Thirty-one

  WS: But you’ve told us yourself—your father shot your mother’s lover. Another thread linking you and the duchess.

  GD: Crimes of passion happen often enough. The French wanted to pass a damned law about it! This story [Sound of newspaper thrashing] is not about them.

  WS: Reading from the New York Times article. “Deacon’s Line of Defense. The Killing of Monsieur Abeille” by Alexandre Dumas.

  GD:…

  WS: Quoting from this same article. “At midnight Deacon goes to the door of his wife’s rooms and hears a noise which convinces him that she is not alone. He returns to his own room to get a revolver. At the same time he warns the secretary of the hotel, who goes with him. At Madame’s door they wait three minutes. Madame opens the door in her night toilet, holding a candle in her hand. Thinking it is his duty, he enters, despite the resistance of his wife. He discovers a man whom he recognizes as Abeille and fires at him thrice.” Thrice. You have mentioned this to me prior. Three times through the couch and whatnot.

  GD: A coincidence. Everyone knows there are only three plots in this world.

  WS: A rather specific plot, this.

  GD: I’m not sure why you want to spend so much time and attention on an assassin.

  WS: Are you referring to your father? Or the man from the article?

  GD: My father. [Audible sighing] Both. I’m not sure what you want me to say.

  WS: It must’ve been an onerous situation for your family.

  GD: I was … away at school. Anyhow, in the end, my father only served a year’s sentence. And got himself a nice cell besides. All’s well.

  WS: “Well” is probably not the most accurate word, I’d reckon.

  GD: True, he was a tragic figure but even now it comforts me to remember his last words before being carted off. “Take care of the children.” Said to his brother.

  WS: So his last thoughts were of you.

  GD: Yes. My father, for all his problems, did love us. He loved Mum, too.

  WS: But he cut her out of his will?

/>   GD. He did. It rankled her something fierce, of course, but at least he left the four of us girls with trusts and income for life.

  WS: Even Dorothy? The bastard child?

  GD: Please don’t speak of my sister that way. She cannot help where she came from. But, yes. Illegitimate. Out of wedlock. Love child. And so on. Dorothy was allotted the same as the rest of us.

  WS: How did your mother react to the change in beneficiaries?

  GD: The lack of income hurt, certainly. Mum was somehow the richest woman I’ve ever known whilst also never having a cent to her name. On top of that, as soon as Father was released and the divorce finalized, he earned custody of us.

  WS: Many would find it unconscionable that the court released children into the home of a convicted murderer.

  GD: Convicted unlawful injurer. Murders aside, as a man, Father was deemed a much better guardian than some wanton sex-obsessed slag, as Mum was no doubt considered.

  WS: Your mother must’ve been gutted.

  GD: Thoroughly, yes. But Mummy always found a way around her troubles. And a way to maintain her gilded lifestyle.

  WS: When I used the word “gutted,” I was referring to the loss of her children.

  GD: Oh, that. Well, the custody situation didn’t last. She kidnapped us from his home before too long. So everything turned out fine.

  WS: Other than for your father, who died in a sanitarium. Note to manuscript. Mrs. Spencer is shrugging, but also tearing up.

  GD: My eyes are watering on account of your gamey scent. When exactly was the last time you showered?

  WS: You’re not the first to ask. Mrs. Spencer, I can understand why it’s hard for you to talk about this.

  GD: Hard? Not necessarily. While the situation presented a unique set of challenges, one must contemplate whether it was for the best.

  WS: If what was for the best? The shooting? Or the kidnapping?

  GD: All of it. Every last miserable detail. It resulted in my parents’ divorce, for one, which was beneficial to everyone involved.

  WS: Including you, who received all that money.

  GD: I won’t apologize for my father’s generosity.

  WS: I’m not asking you to.

  GD: On top of that, the scandal forced Mother into a different sense of purpose.

  WS: How so?

  GD: In a blink, her options were limited. She could no longer portray herself as the toast of Paris. Or of Rome. Her time in the limelight ended swiftly and so she focused on finding partners for her daughters instead.

  WS: A sacrifice in a way.

  GD: Not that she became asexual, mind you. Mother had to pay the bills somehow. But before the “event” she tried to sop up all of the attention, like a spotlight-seeking sponge. After the shooting and the divorce and the kidnapping, she decided to let us shine instead.

  WS: Perhaps I wouldn’t be sitting here, then, if your father hadn’t shot someone.

  GD: Hmm. Yes. Perhaps if not for that, you’d be pestering some other woman, mistaking HER for the duchess.

  WS: Do you ever miss him, your father? I know you’ve mourned your mother since the day you learned she’d passed. But what about your dad?

  GD: My father left me his name. He left me his money. But mostly he remains a shadowy figure. I know he was a cavalry officer in the Civil War. He was dark and fiercely intelligent. He made quick friends with those he met. But mostly I remember he was a very good shot.

  Thirty-two

  THE BANBURY INN

  BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

  NOVEMBER 2001

  Gladys’s mother was nothing if not determined.

  When Florence decided to focus exclusively on making matches for her girls, she succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. And well into the nightmares of various wives throughout Europe.

  Dorothy, the baby of the family and daughter of the slain lover, married a prince and a then a count. At one point she carried the storied name of Radziwill.

  Pretty but cantankerous Edith wed a wealthy industrialist. What she lacked in title she made up for in cash, and many times over. The other sisters would be forever jealous of Edith, and her ability to spend without thought.

  As we know, Gladys would go on to marry the Duke of Marlborough but not before she smashed through a cadre of notables such as Prince William of Prussia, Hope diamond owner Lord Francis Pelham-Clinton-Hope, the Dukes of Norfolk and of Camastra, General Joffre, Lord Brooke, among untold others.

  These relationships may not have lasted but they all contributed to the very essence of Gladys Deacon. When someone complimented her political knowledge at a dinner party, Gladys famously proclaimed, “Of course I’m well informed! I’ve slept with eleven prime ministers and most kings!”

  —J. Casper Augustine Seton,

  The Missing Duchess: A Biography

  “Please be ready by six o’clock for dinner,” said the note from Laurel.

  Whatever grain of regret Annie had about the false-jogger story disappeared at around 6:10.

  By 6:15, her annoyance turned to anger.

  When the clock hit 6:45, Annie wrote off her mother completely. Who was this unreliable woman and what had she done with Laurel Haley? At least Annie had a few “friends” to keep her company, stolen as they were.

  Sifting through the pages, Annie thought about Mrs. Spencer and how living with her must’ve been unnerving in ways that had little to do with yowling outbursts or physical threats. It was the woman’s carefully guarded cunning that frightened Annie the most. How had Win ever wrenched a book from her?

  With a sigh, Annie pitched the transcripts onto the desk, and then watched as they slid, slow-motion style, straight toward an open bottle of Diet Coke. She screeched when the drink toppled over.

  “Shit!” Annie lurched to standing. “Annie! You idiot!”

  She swiped the papers from the desk.

  “Dammit!”

  She blew on them. She shook them. She held them up only to watch helplessly as trails of Diet Coke ran to the floor.

  “Annie, you wanker,” she said, eyes watering.

  She was done for. The drink’s delicious chemical black magic would obliterate the papers as surely as it was eating away at her insides.

  “Dammit all to hell.”

  Just her luck. The one time she made any sort of coordinated contact between two separate objects ended in disaster. Her youth softball coach would be pleased to know she was not made entirely of striking out.

  Annie kicked at the chair in frustration, but missed of course, then peeled the most soda-drenched sheet from the desktop. After pressing it against her shirt, Annie held it up to the light.

  That’s when she noticed. On the back of the paper was an address, written in pencil, in what appeared to be a woman’s hand.

  24 Quai de Béthune

  144071200

  The address of someone in Paris perhaps? And what was the second line? It wasn’t a zip code. A phone number, maybe?

  Without thinking, Annie picked up the phone and began to dial.

  “We’re sorry, but your number cannot be reached as dialed. Please try again.”

  Annie frowned. She remembered from a semester abroad junior year that the correct country code for France was 33. Annie tried again but the congenial-voiced British lady was back. We’re sorry …

  With a small huff, she hung up. Probably better not to get through. She’d have a hard time explaining long-distance charges to her mom.

  “Quai de Béthune,” she said as she paced the room, staring at the address.

  It sounded familiar, which was why she guessed Paris, but Annie couldn’t exactly place the name. An address along the Seine, most likely, as you needed water to have a quay.

  “Quai de Béthune,” she repeated and inspected the paper.

  It was starting to crumple and dry, a faint brown blotch marring the sheet top to bottom. Annie glanced at the other papers on the desk, most of them equally stained and damp. She’d kick herself
but would probably bungle that, too.

  “Damn it,” she muttered. “Gus is going to kill me.”

  Suddenly, she heard a click.

  Annie lifted her head with a jerk. Across the room, the doorknob jiggled. Her heart jumped.

  “Crap!” she yelled, and scurried to collect the transcripts. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Most were wet. She could already feel them clumping together.

  “Annie?” Laurel said. “Are you in there? Dang it, my key always jams in this lock.”

  “Yes, yes, coming!”

  She looked at the papers now in her hands, and saw no choice but to cram them into her backpack. Annie cringed as the sheets bunched together into soggy globs of pulp.

  The door popped open.

  “Oh, hi, Mom,” Annie said to the rasp of her backpack’s zipper.

  She chucked it toward the bed, almost pummeling Laurel as she made her way across the room.

  “Ugh! I’m so late! Whoops … flying backpack.”

  “Nice of you to show,” Annie grumbled.

  “I am so sorry,” Laurel said.

  She paused to catch her breath as Annie gawked, astonished to see her mom looking so wild and unkempt. Laurel’s face was shiny, her hair a riot of knots and gnarls. And the suit. It looked like something out of the donation bin at church.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Laurel said again. “The meeting ran over and traffic was abominable and…”

  She stopped, then exhaled, appearing to deflate all at once.

  “In other words,” she said. “All the regular excuses.”

  “Yeah,” Annie answered with a grunt. “Exactly. Your excuses are getting old so feel free to sell them to someone else because I’m no longer in the market.”

  Annie should’ve given her mom more leeway, seeing as how her own actions of late weren’t exactly beyond reproach. But she couldn’t help herself, an alarming trend the past few days.

  “Honey, you seem agitated,” Laurel noted.