The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  “How was your dinner party last night?” she asks him.

  “How is the Renoir book coming?” he asks her.

  When they determine that all of Ada’s staff has left for the day, they steal into an area of evergreens and towering rhododendron bushes that are hidden from the house. They seize each other, their lips crushing, and within seconds they slide to the ground.

  Vivienne knows it’s crazy, that Edwin’s phone call could end at any minute, that Henri will be at her house in only a few hours, but the heat flooding her body is far more persuasive than any logic. Their clothes form their bed, and within moments they’re making love. And it’s even more intoxicating than she remembers.

  “I love you,” he says when he’s deep inside her, their eyes fastened on each other.

  She kisses him deeply. “And I love you.”

  Afterward, as they lie coiled together, she presses a finger to each bone in his back, places a flurry of kisses along his arm, and throws his coat over them. “So I guess this means we’re in love,” she says.

  He smiles. “Indeed it does.”

  “So what do we do now?” she asks, not really wondering, because at that moment she doesn’t care what comes next; she wants only this.

  Henri lifts himself on one elbow. “I want you to come to France and live with me. For us to be together. This is what I wished to talk to you about.”

  “Live with you?” she repeats. She isn’t just another lover to him, another conquest. He wants her with him.

  “Is not that what people in love do?”

  Before she can respond, the sound of scraping branches and the crunch of footsteps reaches them. Edwin. She freezes, gropes for a possible explanation but knows there is none. She clutches Henri’s coat to her chest in a vain attempt to hide her nakedness. Holds her breath. Maybe he’ll walk by. Miss them completely.

  But it’s not to be. And it isn’t Edwin. It’s Ada, which is just as bad.

  Ada runs to find Edwin, which gives Vivienne and Henri time to dress hurriedly. The four of them converge as Vivienne and Henri step onto the back patio.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, man?” Edwin demands of Henri. He doesn’t look at Vivienne.

  “Taking a walk,” Henri replies with a straight face. “The mural is complete, is it not? Why the concern?”

  “Vivienne is my concern,” Edwin sputters. “She’s in my employ, and she’s currently at work. So what she does on my time is my business.”

  “If you must know,” Henri explains calmly, “I was asking her to move to France and live with me.”

  “That’s impossible,” Edwin declares. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Edwin . . . ,” Vivienne begins, but stops when she realizes she doesn’t know what to say.

  “I do not understand,” Henri tells him. “As you said, you are her employer. So that is surely where your interest stops.” He pauses. “Does it not?”

  “It’s exactly where his interest stops,” Ada says.

  “Don’t speak for me.” Edwin scowls at Ada. “I’m standing right here.”

  Ada pales. “I told you already, I will never allow you to divorce me to marry this . . . this harlot.”

  “You are not to speak of Vivienne in this way,” Henri orders.

  “This is my home, and I will speak of anyone in it in any way I please.”

  “Stop this, Ada,” Edwin snaps. “That’s quite enough.”

  Ada glares at him. “Given your part in this charade, I’d say that I’m the one who should be telling you to stop—not the other way around.”

  “You seem to have forgotten that you found Vivienne with Henri”—Edwin winces as he says these words—“not with me.”

  “It could just have easily been you,” Ada yells at him. “You think I don’t have eyes? That I don’t know what’s been going on here?”

  “You’ve seen nothing, because there’s been nothing to see.” Edwin’s voice is hard and flinty.

  “There is no reason to continue this discussion,” Henri interjects. “Vivienne will be returning to France with me.”

  “That will be just fine with us,” Ada says.

  “Speak for your goddamned self!” Edwin commands.

  Vivienne looks from one man to the other, at a loss. “But we . . . we . . . we haven’t settled anything yet,” she says to Henri.

  “After everything that just happened, you’d allow her to stay here?” Ada demands of Edwin. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “You do not wish to come with me?” Henri asks.

  “You know how I feel about you,” Vivienne tells him. “About us. It’s just that we need to talk about it. I . . . I can’t just pick up and go . . .” She looks over at Edwin, who still isn’t willing to meet her eyes. “I think . . . I think we should all leave now. Let everyone cool down.”

  When Vivienne gets home, she closes the door and presses her back to it. What a disaster. But even in the face of the consequences, that rush of desire and the sweetness of its consummation were just too delicious to wish away. To finally hold him, be held by him, to have him inside her. To be loved by him.

  She surveys her comfortable bungalow: the beamed ceilings, the stone fireplace flanked by built-in cabinets and benches, the way the living room opens into the kitchen, her bedroom tucked to one side, another smaller one nestled behind it. She’s so fond of this place and enjoys living by herself: the privacy, the quiet, the way things remain exactly where she placed them. If she goes with Henri, she will have to leave her sweet home.

  She throws open the windows that ring the house, letting in the spring-like air. She’s grown to like it in America. She even became a citizen, believing this would cement her as Vivienne, allow her to finally lay Paulien to rest. But that’s just metaphor.

  Henri will never leave France; she’s sure he hasn’t given it a thought. And she’s just as sure that if she suggests it, he won’t consider a move. He has his career and his home, and she will be expected to adapt to his world. Which is right, she supposes. He is, as Gertrude once pointed out, Henri Matisse.

  She walks into the kitchen, the white cabinets warm under the glow of the lamplight, the tiny yellow flowers dotting the wallpaper pretty and soothing. She pours herself a glass of wine and sits down at the table. She drinks slowly, following the intersecting lines of the blue-and-yellow checked oilcloth with her fingernail.

  She wonders what Edwin will do. Will he fire her? Order her out of the Bradley? Or worse, change his will? And what will her response be? If Edwin allows her to stay, she will stay, at least until the Bradley is hers. She can’t abandon the collection, the opportunity to improve it, to share it, to return the colonnade seven. And what of George? If she leaves, she’ll also be leaving behind her chance to crush him, to exonerate herself.

  She pictures a sunny kitchen in a house sitting on a rocky outcropping overlooking the Mediterranean, sipping coffee with Henri, both of them still mussed from their morning lovemaking. She’s always adored southern France, and Nice is particularly charming.

  When Henri arrives, she leads him to the couch. They sit close together, silently holding hands. She rests her head on his shoulder.

  “You understand that now we must leave immediately,” he finally says. “We will go to New York in the morning, and I will book passage on the first ship to Europe. We can come back another time to settle your affairs.”

  “I can’t leave that quickly, my love. I need to talk to Edwin, figure out how to handle all the repercussions.”

  He frowns. The first time she saw him, she thought he looked like a college professor; now he looks like a college professor facing a student who’s performed below his expectations. “You want to stay until he finds someone to fill your position? Is this necessary?”

  “It’s . . . it’s a little more complicated than that. . . . Remember the George Everard story? I need to return the seven paintings my father lost because of him, to make amends. They meant so much to my fathe
r, to me, to us. . . . Three of them are yours.”

  “The paintings are here? Bradley has your father’s paintings? How can that be?”

  “I’ll tell you some other time, but the important—”

  “I will paint more for you. I will do another version of my three. I will make copies of the others.”

  “Thank you,” she says miserably. “It’s a generous offer, but it wouldn’t be the same. I’m Edwin’s heir, and I have to stay here until I can send the real ones back for my father. Until I can open the collection to the public, free the paintings . . .” Her voice trails off as she realizes how absurd it all sounds. “But mostly I have to stay until George comes back. So I can have him arrested.”

  “George will come back? To Philadelphia? Again, I do not understand.”

  “That’s complicated, too. But—”

  “You say you are Edwin’s heir?” He’s clearly struggling to grasp all that she’s telling him. “Does this mean you cannot leave the States until he dies? That could be years.”

  “No, no, it’s going to happen sooner than that.”

  Henri’s eyes narrow. “He is ill?”

  “Lung cancer.” She throws herself into his arms, terrified that her ruthlessness will push him away. “I know it sounds awful, but he’s . . . he’s going to die whether I stay or not, whether my father gets his paintings, whether, well, whether anything.”

  Henri holds her and rocks her. “Let us make love.”

  They go into her bedroom and undress each other with painful slowness; it’s exquisite and it’s heartbreaking because they both recognize that not only will he leave for France in the morning, but she will remain here.

  Henri pushes deep and whispers, “Can you feel how much I love you?”

  She arches her back, holds him in tightly. Afterward, she rocks her hips gently to keep him close. “And I, you,” she says, and begins to cry.

  He kisses her forehead, blots her tears with the edge of the sheet. “I do not want to waste the time we have in argument. I am going home tomorrow, and although there is nothing I want more than for you to come with me, I now understand that you will not.”

  “I want to be with you, you know that. More than anything. But I’ve come this far. I’m getting so close to—”

  “Hush,” he interrupts. “We make our choices because they are our choices. You have made yours and I have made mine, and they do not end in the same place. There is nothing else to be said.”

  “This is only for a short time,” she protests. “You make it sound as if it’s forever. I’ll be back in France before you know it. We’ll be together every minute after that. He . . . he can’t last all that much longer.”

  Henri sits up. “I cannot to wait around for Edwin to die. I cannot live like this.”

  The harsh reality of his words, the shame.

  Henri is gone in the morning. They have each come to a personal decision that makes their separation inevitable, however temporary. Most likely, hers is wrong and his is right. If only she were more like Edwin and George. If only she could find someone besides herself to blame.

  She drags herself to work and waits at her desk, chain-smoking. She has no idea how Edwin is going to react. Yesterday he appeared more hurt than angry, but he could feel completely different in the light of day. More times than she can count, she’s seen his fury erupt when he believed he had been wronged. But just as often, he pretends a disturbing situation doesn’t exist.

  When he storms into her office, he leaves little doubt. “You lied to me, you betrayed me, and you made a fool of me!”

  “Edwin, please.” She stands and touches his arm. “None of those things were ever my intention. It was—”

  He takes a step away from her. “I could never be with a married man,” he mimics her. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

  Vivienne hangs her head. She forgot she’d said those things to him. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

  “I don’t care what you meant—all I care about is what you did.”

  “But you have to look at it in perspective. It wasn’t—”

  “I don’t have to look at anything in any way other than how I want to look at it,” he corrects her. “If the Bradley didn’t need you so much, I’d fire you in a second.”

  Vivienne closes her eyes so he won’t see the happiness in them. He’s going to let her stay.

  “But there will be other changes. If I can’t trust what you say—which I clearly can’t—then how can I trust that you’ll carry out my wishes as you promised? Your word means nothing, and therefore I no longer believe you are qualified to take over the Bradley. You’ve forced my hand, Vivienne. I’ve already spoken with Gusdorff. He’s going to revise my will.”

  Her head snaps up. Although this possibility had crossed her mind, she hadn’t seriously considered it. “Who else can do it? You’ve trained me to be the one. Who’s qualified besides me?”

  “Ada.”

  “Ada? You can’t be serious. She knows nothing about the collection and clearly can’t run the Bradley. She doesn’t have the knowledge or the skills or the wherewithal. And you told me she hates the artworks, that she would sell—”

  “There’s no reason to talk about my wife that way. I’m sorry this choice distresses you, but you see, Ada is a woman who keeps her word. She would no sooner lie to me than she would lie to a priest. I will find people to teach her. I will teach her.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insulting, but I just don’t see how she’s an appropriate choice.”

  “Take the rest of the week off,” he tells her curtly. “We’ll discuss the transition on Monday. Ada and I are going up to Ker-Feal for a few days.”

  Vivienne waits an hour and then goes into his office. “Edwin,” she entreats. “Please look at me.”

  He pretends to read a letter in front of him.

  “We have too much history, too many connections. And too much is at stake here. What happened with Henri has nothing to do with the Bradley. With its future. What we’re building here is what’s important. Not some failing of mine.”

  He signs the letter and places it in his out-basket. Then he takes another and pretends to read that one as well.

  “Edwin, please. After all we’ve been to each other, can’t you try to find it in your heart to forgive me? To accept my apology so we can move forward with our work?”

  He raises his eyes, and they’re so cold that she almost shivers. “I thought you were moving to France?”

  “I’m not. Henri left this morning, and I’m still here. Doesn’t that say something? Show you my commitment to the Bradley? How sorry I am?”

  “Apologies are easy, and coming from you, how could it mean anything? Words. Just words.”

  “But they do. It does. In this case in particular, an apology matters a lot. Are you really willing to take a chance with the Bradley’s future, with everything you’ve spent your life creating, because you’re angry at me?”

  “The Bradley will survive,” he says, but his voice isn’t as adamant as it was earlier.

  “Please give me another chance,” she begs, sensing a weakening. “How about Saturday night? I’ll make dinner and we can talk. Remember how much fun we had the times you used to come over? I’ll cook that pot roast you like so much.”

  “I doubt talking will make any difference.”

  “But maybe it will. And isn’t it worth the try? We need to try for the collection, for what it can be, for what we can make it together.”

  Edwin hesitates. “I told you I’ll be in the country this weekend.”

  “Sunday then,” she says. “Come when you get back. Six o’clock. At my house.”

  He grunts his acquiescence and returns to his papers.

  Without work, Vivienne is filled with nervous energy and dives into an explosion of spring cleaning in January. She pounds rugs and launders draperies, scrubs cobwebs from every corner of the house. Anything to keep busy. To keep from thinking abou
t Henri and Edwin, about the collection.

  On Sunday afternoon, she cooks Edwin’s favorite dinner of pot roast, green beans, and mashed potatoes, sets the table, and chills the wine. Then she waits. But she doesn’t know whether she’s waiting for him to arrive or waiting for him not to.

  It’s six, then seven, then eight o’clock, and Vivienne understands he isn’t coming. She’s on her third glass of wine, much more than she usually drinks, and it goes to her head. Blessedly so. She grabs a blanket from her bed and wraps it around her shoulders, leaving her hand free for the wineglass. She falls asleep on the couch.

  She wakes to the chime of the doorbell and the first rays of light edging the curtains. Disoriented and fuzzy, she stumbles to the door, her face and clothes creased with sleep.

  A policeman stands on the porch.

  Vivienne blinks at him. “May I help you?”

  He shows her his badge and asks to come inside.

  “What?” she asks as she leads him into the house. “What is it?”

  He looks around the room, at the table still set for dinner, at the almost empty wine bottle, at the disheveled blanket, at her disheveled self. He clears his throat. “You are Miss Vivienne Gregsby? Employed by Dr. Edwin Bradley?”

  “Yes,” she croaks. “I . . . I . . . yes, I am.”

  “Dr. Bradley has been involved in an accident.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “A car accident.” He pauses, watching her closely. “I’m very sorry to tell you that it was fatal.”

  “Fatal,” Vivienne repeats, because it seems that he expects a response. And she has none.

  The Trial, 1928

  After the judge denied the motion to dismiss, Ronald and I met to discuss our strategy moving forward. I suggested he could use my knowledge of your terminal cancer to create some reasonable doubt, and he exploded. Although I’m sure I’d told him about this at the beginning, he claimed he’d never heard it before and was infuriated with me. Perhaps it was the first attorney to whom I gave this information. Not Ronald at all.

  Yes, Edwin, I was aware of your secret. I wish you had trusted me enough to confide in me, but I respect your right not to have done so.