by Shawna Seed
Julien sat before an open laptop, talking on his cell phone.
“Sure,” he said. “Me too. Looking forward to it. OK. See you then.”
He ended the call and looked up at Genevieve. To her relief, he did not check his watch.
“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t label any of this stuff when I packed it, which I can’t quite believe. This is going to be more of a scavenger hunt than I thought. Have a seat and pick a box.”
“OK.” Genevieve sat opposite him and opened the box nearest her. It was full of insurance and medical forms. Even though Regine Lazare Brooks was dead, Genevieve felt like she was violating her privacy. She put the papers back. “This is all health insurance forms and doctor bills. Paperwork.”
“Which reminds me, I saw Henry this morning.” Julien reached for a folder near his laptop and passed it to her. “That’s your copy of the contract, or whatever he calls it.”
“Thanks.” Genevieve put the folder to one side.
Julien pushed another box toward her. “Try that one. There are photos here somewhere. And you might put the folder in your bag. Pretty sure there’s a check in it.”
Genevieve put the folder away. Julien, she thought, seemed to be studiously ignoring her. Which was fine.
“I might as well shred that stuff,” he said, hefting the box she’d just poked through. “No need for it all now.” He walked out and turned toward the reception area.
“Belle?” His voice carried back down the hall. “If your head’s so bad you’ve got to turn the lights off, you should just go home.”
“I have to wait for the mail, a client’s bringing a check, and Manny’s coming for a work order,” Belle said. “I can’t clear it with the boss because she’s busy, and I don’t know if you knew, but Erica can be a real pain in the ass.”
“Really,” Julien said, and even from another room, Genevieve could detect the sarcasm. “She can’t be mad that you had a migraine. Just go. I’ll cover things here.”
A whispered conversation ensued. Genevieve opened the folder Julien had given her. He was right. It contained a check, one that would cover her bills for the rest of the month.
Julien reappeared in the doorway.
“Belle has a migraine and is going home,” he began. “I’m going to stay to answer the phone and deal with the apparent flood of people” – at this he looked over his shoulder – “expected through the office doors this afternoon.”
“OK,” Genevieve said, confused.
“You’re welcome to stay or go, it’s totally up to you.”
Taking in Genevieve’s expression, he dropped his voice. “Belle’s worried that you’re uncomfortable being left here alone with me.”
Belle appeared in the doorway and elbowed him. “Jay!”
She smiled at Genevieve. “Only because you girls can’t be too careful. Jay’s a prince. I’d let him marry my granddaughter, but she’s a lesbian and wouldn’t have him.”
With that, Belle hitched a giant raffia purse up on her shoulder and headed out.
Julien waited in the doorway. “Staying or going?”
Genevieve debated with herself for a moment. She didn’t feel uncomfortable. “Staying,” she said.
They’d been working about 45 minutes and had found nothing useful when the office phone rang.
Julien hit the speaker button. “Cohen and Associates,” he said.
“Jay?”
“Hey, Erica.”
“Why are you answering the phone? Where’s Belle?”
“She had a migraine. I sent her home.”
“So you’re making executive decisions now?”
Genevieve glanced up from the box she was working on, which so far had yielded nothing but cruise itineraries and faded travel agency brochures. Julien’s expression was untroubled, and Genevieve couldn’t tell whether the woman on the phone was upset or whether this was just banter.
“I told her I’d cover the phone. Did you want something or is this some kind of spot-check?”
“There’s a number on my desk I need,” Erica said.
“Hang on.” Julien hit the hold button and walked into an office across the hall.
Genevieve took advantage of the diversion to study him. He was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved olive T-shirt and flip-flops. Clearly, he’d put a lot less thought into his outfit than she had. And yet he was no less attractive for it.
D had asked her that morning why she was dressing up if she thought he might be gaslighting her. Genevieve had to concede that was an excellent question.
Julien had put the call on speakerphone again, and she eavesdropped as he found the number for Erica, whoever she was, and scolded her for not storing it in her cell phone.
“Hey, are you going to the thing at Brent and Sandy’s?” he asked her as the conversation wound down.
“If I finish work soon enough,” Erica said. “Are you bringing what’s-her-name?”
A clue about Julien’s social life? Genevieve tried to listen more closely.
“Meg? God, no,” Julien said.
“Not Meg.” Erica sounded exasperated. “The podiatrist.”
“Mika? She’s a pediatrician, not a podiatrist. And I haven’t seen her lately.”
“Ha. Called that! Why would I think you were bringing Meg?”
“Didn’t you always call her what’s-her-name?”
“I call them all what’s-her-name,” Erica said. “Jay, you and Meg aren’t actually on again, are you?”
“No,” Jay said. “Hey, I need to get back to this archaeological dig through Mom’s stuff. Thanks for the conference room. See you Friday, maybe.”
He strode back into the conference room just as Genevieve reached the bottom of the box she was working on, where she found several stacks of photos. Most were still in the glossy folders from the processing center, but a few were loose – a badly lit luau, a lake flanked by snow-capped mountains, a group of people at a restaurant table.
She picked up the last photo and studied it more carefully. An elegant, silver-haired woman in a pale blue dress was at the center of the photo. To her left was a woman in her 30s with chestnut chin-length hair, dark eyes and a square jaw. She wore a green sleeveless shift that showed off tanned, toned arms. The woman on the other side was a decade or so older, blonde, and wearing a shade of caramel favored by Beverly Hills women of a certain age.
Behind the women, leaning forward, was a younger version of Julien. His hair was much shorter, and there were fewer lines around his eyes. One hand rested on the back of the older woman’s chair, the other, on the chair of the woman in green.
“What have you got there?” Julien’s question startled Genevieve.
She showed him the photo. “Is this your mom? Looks like a special occasion.”
He glanced over. “That was her 75th birthday. We took her to Catalina for dinner. The blonde is Henry’s second ex-wife, Sherry. He must have taken the photo. And that’s Erica in the green – this is her office.”
“Is she another of your cousins?”
Julien seemed to find the idea amusing. “No. Erica is not my cousin.”
Clearly, Genevieve had said something stupid. She began to blush.
“Erica’s my ex-wife,” Julien said.
“Oh.” Genevieve’s face began to feel hotter. “Sorry. That was, um... that was really stupid.”
For the first time since Vegas, Julien gave her one of his megawatt smiles. “No reason to deploy the camouflage,” he said, gesturing toward his own cheek.
Genevieve ducked her head. “You guys are friendly.”
“Amicable divorce is the way to go,” he said.
“Not sure I’ve ever seen one of those in action,” Genevieve said.
“Your parents went the ugly route?”
“What? No,” Genevieve said, flustered. “I meant with my friends.”
“So they’re still together, your parents? That’s cool.”
“Until my mom died,” Genevieve said.
<
br /> Julien’s eyes flicked to her face. “Oh. I’m sorry.” He went back to the box in front of him. “Hey, look at this.”
He showed her a photo of a man and woman standing next to a grinning boy wearing a shirt with loud stripes.
“Is that you?”
“Yeah, and my parents. Check out my coast-to-coast collar! Who dressed me?”
Flowers bloomed in a pot in the corner of the frame. His mother’s hair was still mostly dark, although gray was showing at her temples. Julien’s father was tall, with silver hair and a certain grace. He reminded Genevieve of Cary Grant. Several inches of daylight showed between him and Julien’s mother.
“When was this taken?” Genevieve asked.
Julien thought about it. “I was 10 when my dad died, so maybe a year before that?”
“Oh,” Genevieve said. “I’m so sorry. That’s so hard when you’re a kid.”
She paused. Should she say more?
“It’s all so awful: the creepy celebrity it gives you at school, kids who never liked you wanting everyone to see them being nice to you, not being able to talk to anyone about it, all of it.”
Julien stared at her for a few beats.
“I was seven,” Genevieve said.
Julien gave her a sad smile, a nod of recognition. “My dad had a heart attack. What happened with your mom?” He set the photo aside.
Genevieve suddenly wished she hadn’t mentioned her mother, uncomfortable under Julien’s steady gaze. “Fire,” she said in a way that she hoped would shut down the conversation.
“Your house? That’s horrible. Were you there?”
“No,” Genevieve said. “It was in the garage, kind of a shed, almost. She smoked out there. I was at school. My dad was at work.”
CHAPTER NINE
Julien’s laptop dinged, rescuing her, and he checked the screen. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he said. “Helen, Henry’s first ex-wife, said she would export her genealogy file to me.”
He typed for a few minutes, then pushed the chair next to him out with his foot. “This has the names and dates you want,” he said. “Come over and take a look. She’s got photos, too.”
Genevieve grabbed her notebook and a pen, and slid into the offered chair.
Julien angled the screen toward her and scooted his chair a bit closer. She caught a whiff of the scent that she’d come to think of as his, the one that reminded her of clean laundry and blue summer skies.
“Let’s start with the artist’s brother, Henri. The stuff farther back really isn’t germane,” he said.
Genevieve flipped open her notebook to jot down the dates of death for Henri and his wife, Clothilde.
“You don’t have to take notes. I’ll send you a copy of the file,” Julien said. He scrolled down. The photos started in the next generation, with a stiff portrait of Henri’s son, Emile, taken late in life. Emile’s son Daniel and his wife, Veronique, had posed for a portrait on their wedding day in 1878.
The file included wedding portraits for Julien’s grandfather Laurent with both of his wives – Olivie, who had given birth to the boys Georges and David, and Esmé, who was Julien’s grandmother.
On the next row of the family tree was a wedding portrait of Georges and his wife, a photo of David as a child, and a shot of Julien’s parents when his mother must have been in her 20s. She was wearing a corsage and a hat with a small veil.
All of the photos appeared to be studio shots with the exception of the one of Julien’s parents, who posed in an office. No art was visible in any background.
“Well, I guess that gives you names and dates, but not much else,” Julien said, moving to close the file.
Genevieve reached out to stop him. “Wait!”
Julien paused. “Did you see something?”
“No,” she said, abashed. “Sorry. I just wanted to look at what they’re wearing. I like vintage clothes. But if you’re sending me a copy, I can do that on my own time.”
He slid the laptop toward her. “Go ahead.”
Genevieve slowly scrolled up and down, studying the wedding photos.
“Your parents look so serious,” she said.
“Not sure how happy they were,” Julien said. “Shotgun wedding.”
Genevieve turned to look at him. “You have a brother? A sister?”
He shook his head. “No, Mom lost the baby, kind of late. They thought she couldn’t have kids after that. Imagine their surprise when she got pregnant at 41 or whatever.”
“They must have been so happy,” Genevieve said, glancing from the screen to Julien.
“I guess.” He shrugged.
Genevieve scrolled back to the earliest wedding photo and then forward to the photo of Julien’s grandparents. Something about the earlier pictures was nagging at her.
“Is your sweater vintage?”
Genevieve’s hand went to her shoulder. The cardigan had a small tear along the seam that her dry cleaner had repaired. “Did you spot the place I had it fixed?”
“What? No. I just wondered,” Julien said.
“I found it at a yard sale,” Genevieve said. “Someone was unloading their aunt’s work clothes from the 1960s.”
“It’s a great color on you.”
“Thanks. The vintage thing is really just kind of defensive, because I have no fashion sense. I never know what’s in, and even if I did I can’t afford it, so I buy old stuff and pair it with cheap basics, and...”
Why was she telling him this? Julien Brooks couldn’t possibly be interested in her shopping philosophy.
“I think you have a great look.”
“Well, thanks...” Suddenly, the thing that had been nagging her became obvious. “Look,” she said, pointing. “Aren’t these three women wearing the same necklace?”
Julien pulled the laptop back toward him. “Yeah, they might be.”
He pulled the photos out onto his desktop, dragged them into another program, and began to manipulate them.
“My mom told me there was some necklace all the brides in the family wore, but she didn’t get to, because the Nazis snatched it. Supposedly Théodore bought it on a trip to Florence.”
“I thought Théodore Lazare died single?”
Tapping away at the keyboard, Julien nodded once. “Yeah, that doesn’t make sense, does it? Maybe that part was the pain meds talking.” He paused to study his work. “You’re right. It’s the same necklace.”
He turned the screen back toward Genevieve to show her the enlarged photos. Suspended around each woman’s neck was an open-work, heart-shaped pendant of gold.
The door jangled up front and a woman’s voice called down the hall. “FedEx!”
“Be right back,” Julien said. He got up and headed toward the reception area.
Genevieve pulled the laptop toward her and felt an odd tingle of recognition.
Where had she seen that pendant before?
Two more hours of work yielded nothing. Genevieve was relieved to be down to the last box. Julien had gone quiet, and she had never been good at small talk.
In the last box, though, they did discover something promising – a cigar box full of black-and-white photos from Paris before the war.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Julien said, handing her half the stack.
Genevieve gasped as she pulled out a photo of a man who bore a striking resemblance to Julien. He had the same dark hair, the same eyes. “He looks like you. Who is this?”
“Probably David,” he said, craning his head to look. “My mom always said I looked like him, only taller.”
In the photo, a man and a young woman stood close together on a sidewalk. They weren’t touching, but there seemed to be an intimacy between them.
“David was single, right?”
“Yes.” Julien looked more closely at the photo. “Wonder who that is?”
“Her name is Vivian,” Genevieve said. She showed him the faint pencil scrawl on the back of the photo: “David et Vivian. 1938.”
Julien took the photo. “Never heard of her. That’s not the French spelling.” He turned the photo over again. “You know, I think that might be the gallery in the background. You can just see the last few letters of the sign.”
“I think you’re right,” Genevieve said. “I recognize it from the catalog.”
Julien’s head snapped up. “What catalog?”
Genevieve silently kicked herself. “I have a 1939 catalog from the gallery,” she said, trying to sound casual.
“Where did you get it?”
Was he angry? She couldn’t tell.
“Someone sent it to the museum a couple years ago, I have no idea why. I’ve checked everything in it against the looted art database,” she said. “No hits. I don’t think there’s any connection.”
Julien turned the photo of David over a couple times, then set it aside. “Why didn’t you tell me about the catalog yesterday?”
What could she tell him? “Hey, I’m not sure I trust you and your cousin?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t sure it had anything to do with this.”
Julien stared at her for so long that Genevieve had to look away.
“So,” she said, finally. “Next steps. The Getty library has some reference material on Théodore Lazare that I need to check out, just to get a sense of what other archives might have. Unfortunately, my research credential was issued through the Hilliard, so I’ll need to go through the whole rigamarole of applying for a new one, which can take a week or so.”
“If you already have a credential, why not use that?” Julien’s tone was impatient.
“Because it says I’m affiliated with the Hilliard.”
“You’re a legit researcher, so what difference does it make? I lost my LA Times badge at one point, and I got into the building for months just flashing my gym ID at the guards,” Julien said. “Do they really check?”
Genevieve felt vaguely guilty that she’d withheld the gallery catalog and obliged to make a peace offering. “Well, I can see whether they’ll let me in with it, I suppose. It would be good to get started as soon as possible. I know that some of the articles will be in French, and mine’s pretty rusty, so it could be slow going.”