by Shawna Seed
“My French is pretty good,” Julien said. “Why don’t I come with you? Is tomorrow good?”
Genevieve hadn’t seen that coming. “I have to warn you, it could be really tedious.”
Julien merely shrugged, and it occurred to Genevieve that perhaps Henry wanted his cousin to keep an eye on her. She began to gather up her things to leave.
“Well, suit yourself,” she said. “It opens at 10, I think. Do you know where the library entrance is?”
Julien walked her down the hall. “I’m basically on your way. Do you want to meet at my house and we’ll drive together?”
Genevieve couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. “How about 9:30?”
“Let’s make it 9:15. I’ll email you the address.”
Genevieve had timed her exit from Cohen and Associates perfectly for sitting in traffic. She did what she often did when she had time to kill – she called D.
She knew better than to bore D with the art history stuff. She stuck to the details about Julien Brooks, telling her about his volunteering to cover for Belle, the receptionist with the migraine, and Belle’s droll comment that the boss could be a real pain in the ass.
“And guess who the boss is?”
“No idea,” D said, her attention clearly wandering.
“Julien’s ex-wife.”
“WHAT?” A thousand miles away, Genevieve could hear the wheels turning in D’s head.
“How did you find that out? What did he say about it?”
Genevieve told her about the overheard phone conversation, finding the photo, her assumption that Erica Cohen was another Lazare cousin.
“What did she look like?”
“Dark hair,” Genevieve said. “Great bones. Tan. Really buff arms.”
“And how did he seem about her?”
Genevieve thought about that. “On the phone they were giving each other grief, like they were friends.”
“Well, I think that’s weird, but whatever,” D said. “He wasn’t worried about telling you. What should we read into that?”
“That he doesn’t care what I think?”
D ignored that. “He’s telling you about his personal life. That’s good! And what’s her name again? Erica? I’m thinking she’s kind of snotty.”
Genevieve laughed. “D, how can you possibly reach that conclusion?”
“I read people, Gen. That’s what I’m good at. Now, tell me what he was wearing?Did he seem like he’d spiffed up for you?”
“We’re working together, D. It wasn’t a date.”
“Humor me,” D drawled.
“Jeans. Long-sleeved T-shirt. Flip-flops.”
“I am liking that,” D mused. “Comfortable in his own skin. When do you see him – I’m sorry – work with him again?”
“He’s going to the research library with me tomorrow,” Genevieve said. “We’re meeting at his house and driving together. It’s on the way. His idea.”
“Oh, I’m liking that,” D said. “You should definitely maneuver it so that he drives. Can you invent some reason he has to have a drink with you afterward?”
“D, this is work,” Genevieve protested.
“Anyway,” D said, “tell him your car is acting up or low on gas if you have to.”
“D!”
“Now, another thing: make sure you get there on time. Because, you know, some men are sort of charmed by that 20 minutes late thing, it’s a lady’s prerogative and all that, but my gut tells me he’s not one of them.”
“Be on time. Let him drive,” Genevieve repeated. “Anything else?”
“What are you going to wear? And please don’t say a frickin’ turtleneck or another one of your old-lady sweaters.”
CHAPTER TEN
Genevieve calculated the worst-case traffic scenario from her place to Julien’s house. Then she gave herself an extra 10 minutes.
She got off the freeway at 8:55, a full 20 minutes early, which left her time to stop for a latte.
Julien lived just a few blocks from Cohen and Associates. Some houses in the neighborhood had obviously been expanded, and the late-model SUVs and luxury sedans in the driveways told Genevieve that the neighborhood was gentrifying. Other houses showed more wear and tear, as did the cars parked out front.
Julien’s place, a Spanish-style house of caramel-colored stucco, had been fixed up but appeared to occupy its original footprint. It had not grown up and out like some on the block.
The real attraction was the landscaping. The front yard had no grass, just a collection of desert shrubs. Genevieve recognized rosemary and lavender but not much else. Even though it was the last day of January and little was blooming, she could tell a lot of effort had gone into the project.
She was grateful to find a parking spot at the curb out front. A silver Audi convertible was in the driveway, which hugged the side of the house and led to a detached garage in the back.
Genevieve was exactly 8 minutes early. She could see Julien through a big window, sitting at a table, drinking from a mug. He was talking on the phone with the newspaper spread out before him. He looked up when she shut her car door.
He opened the front door when she knocked and held up one finger, phone pressed to his ear. He was wearing jeans and a dark green T-shirt, his hair still wet from the shower. “OK, just email me the details and I’ll get you an estimate tomorrow,” he said into the phone.
He beckoned Genevieve in. “Uh-huh,” he said into the phone. “OK. Thanks.”
“You’re early,” he said as he hung up. “Come in. I just need a second. You want coffee?”
She hoisted her Starbucks cup. “I already stopped.” She stepped over the threshold as Julien disappeared into another room, giving her an opportunity to check out his house unobserved.
The wood floors were buffed to a high sheen. On the wall opposite the door was a leather sofa in chocolate brown. The coffee table was covered with magazines and books. The long wall to her right was filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, broken up only by a giant plasma screen TV.
D was definitely going to declare this a bachelor pad. Julien probably had nothing in the refrigerator but beer and mustard. But it was, Genevieve had to admit, cleaner than her apartment.
Julien reappeared, having added a black sweater and shoes. “Ready?”
On the porch, Julien took one look at her car and said, “I’ll drive.”
D will be so pleased, she thought, and I didn’t even have to lie.
She paused when she noticed the Audi’s spotless interior. He might be one of those guys who was fussy about his car. “OK to bring my coffee?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t you?”
Genevieve sank into the buttery leather seat. “Oh, you know, some people are funny about eating or drinking in their cars.” She deposited her coffee in the cup holder and fastened her seatbelt. “And this is a really nice car.”
“It’s criminal how much I love it. It’s a cliché, I know,” he said, reversing out of the driveway. “Get divorced, buy a convertible.”
“At least it’s not red,” Genevieve said.
Julien rewarded her with a smile. “No, but it is German. My mother would be furious.”
Soon they were on the 10 freeway, crawling west.
“Sitting in traffic on the 10,” Genevieve said. “I don’t miss that about my job.”
“You must really like your place to have put up with that commute,” Julien said.
“Not really,” Genevieve said.
“No? So why live there?”
“I needed a place in a hurry,” she said, not eager to get into the details of that particular catastrophe. “I didn’t have time to be picky.”
“When’s your lease up?”
Genevieve laughed self-consciously. “This summer? But I’ve been there six years already. I know; it’s ridiculous. Something always happens right when I should be moving.”
“So quit worrying about when you should have done it, and do it this year,�
� Julien said. He glanced over his shoulder and changed lanes. “Just move.”
“You sound like D,” Genevieve said. “She’s always on me to do something.”
“So, tell me something about D,” Julien said. “Was she hitting on me at the craps table, or was she just being friendly?”
Genevieve laughed. “Oh, that was her version of friendly. She’s just very Dallas, and kind of larger than life. You’d know if she was hitting on you. When she does, your only options are submit, or run for your life.”
“Good to know. So you’re from Dallas?”
“Oh God no. I’m from Wichita Falls. Very much smaller than life.”
Julien smiled at that. “I wondered about the accent.”
“This is not a Texas accent,” Genevieve said. “I hate it when people say I sound like I’m from Texas. I mean, I gave up all my ‘fixin tos’ and ‘might coulds.’ What else do I have to do?”
“Fixin to? Do people really talk like that?”
“It’s a really handy phrase,” Genevieve said. “Fixin to. Might could. Used to could.”
“Might used to… what?” Julien shook his head. “Use them in a sentence.”
“I’m fixin to go to the store, do you need anything? If I hurry, I might could make it before they close. I used to could get there in 10 minutes, but now we’ve got all this dang traffic.”
Julien laughed out loud.
“See, I’m what you’d call a recovering Texan,” she said.
“So how did a girl from Wichita Falls end up with a French name like Genevieve?”
“That’s my mom’s doing,” Genevieve said. “Everybody back home thought it was really pretentious.”
“I think it’s pretty,” Julien said, nodding once for emphasis. “And not pretentious at all. It suits you.”
By 10:15, Genevieve and Julien were seated at a long library table plowing through information on Théodore Lazare.
Genevieve had been prepared for a complex negotiation over her research credential and Julien’s presence. But he’d taken charge, waving her credential while pushing through the library doors, and no one had said a word.
They started with the books and journals Genevieve could pull from the library shelves. She’d save the items that required special requests until later.
After two hours of slogging through scholarly articles, most of which mentioned Lazare only in passing, Julien looked pointedly at his watch. “Let’s get some lunch,” he whispered.
They found a table in the sun at the museum’s cafe.
Julien stretched his long legs in front of him. “It feels good to be outside.” He gave Genevieve a long look. “So, do you write interminable essays like that? Because you don’t seem that dull. But maybe I’ve misjudged you.”
Genevieve laughed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you that you’d be bored. To answer your question, I wasn’t good at scholarly papers like that, not at all.”
“So why did you choose this as a career?”
“That’s a really good question,” Genevieve said.
Julien said nothing. He just sat there with an amused expression on his face.
“Oh, you actually want me to answer?”
He laughed.
“I’ve always loved art. My mom and I used to look at art books when I was little. I took a bunch of art history courses in college, and it just sort of turned into my major,” she said.
She turned her face from the sun and looked at Julien. “I didn’t really have a plan.”
“So what do you love about art?”
This was a question Genevieve could answer easily. “I like the way you can look at something an artist created hundreds of years ago, something that captures a moment of life, and that moment can still feel real centuries later. Passion, love, loss... So much of the world feels temporary, but a really great piece of art is timeless.”
Julien didn’t respond, and she suddenly felt self-conscious.
“I guess that sounds dumb.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Although it doesn’t seem to have much to do with the stuff we’ve just been reading.”
“Sometimes I think I went about this all wrong,” Genevieve said. “I should have had my dad take me to the gun range to teach me to shoot, and then I could have been a museum guard,” Genevieve said. “You know, just stand around the paintings all day.”
“Of course you were no good at writing boring papers,” Julien said. “You’re too funny.”
The afternoon was not especially productive. Most of the references they found to Théodore Lazare were in larger articles about other artists, and Genevieve uncovered no footnotes that would lead her to other sources.
At 3:30, Julien leaned over and whispered, “I think I’m done for the day. I have plans tonight. Let’s get out ahead of the traffic.”
Soon they were on the freeway back to Julien’s house, where Genevieve had left her car. The day of research had gone about the way she’d expected – perhaps a little worse – but still she felt the need to explain to Julien.
“I’m sorry; you must feel like you wasted a whole day.”
His eyes were unreadable behind his sunglasses. He gave a little shake of his head, but whether that was directed at her or the SUV trying to force its way into his lane, she couldn’t say.
“That’s just the way research goes,” she said. “I should have made it more clear.”
“Oh, you were pretty clear about that,” Julien said. “Don’t do it, pal,” he cautioned the SUV driver. “So, when are we coming back for round two?”
Genevieve was incredulous. “Oh, come on. You don’t want to do this again.”
“Sure I do,” Julien said evenly. “I just said I would.”
Genevieve found the blandness of his answer infuriating. She didn’t get mad very often, but when she did, it tended to come on in a hurry. “You and Henry must really not trust me if he’s going to make you watch me every day,” she said.
Just then, the SUV made its move, and Julien accelerated and veered left to avoid a collision. Genevieve’s purse tipped over, scattering her things across the floor of the car and angering her further.
“You OK? I knew that guy was going to try that,” Julien said. “Now, what were you saying about Henry?”
Still strapped in her seatbelt, Genevieve bent over awkwardly and began rounding up her belongings.
“Does Henry think I’m goofing off?” She chucked her hairbrush, compact and cell phone back into her bag. “Is that why he has you chaperoning me every second?
“I don’t even know why he hired me,” she huffed as she tried to pry her lipstick from an especially tricky spot between her seat and the center console.
To her horror, Julien began to laugh. She stared out the window as a red flush crept up her face. “Well, I’m glad you’re amused,” she said, her voice tight.
“Sorry to laugh. It’s just that the idea of Henry ordering me to do anything is pretty funny,” Julien said. “He wishes he could, I’m sure.”
“So why are you doing this?”
“Honestly?” Julien let out a sigh. “You can only design so many logos and websites before it gets monotonous, you know? Trying to track the drawing is interesting. It reminds me of the newspaper business, back when the newspaper business was fun.”
He chuckled. “I can’t believe you thought Henry sent me to spy on you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The lights that lined the driveway were off when Genevieve got home, a sure sign that the musician who lived in the house at the front of the property was away. She cursed under her breath. Her fellow tenant was fanatical about setting lights in his house with timers when he was out of town, and somehow he always managed to disrupt the programming for the outside lights. Genevieve would have to complain to the landlord again.
She goosed her Camry up the driveway’s steep slope and maneuvered into her parking place. This move required first nosing the car up to the wall of her buildin
g, where the garage door had once been. Then she put it in reverse and executed a tight 90-degree turn onto a concrete pad tucked between a six-foot-high wall that sheltered the other tenant’s patio and a shorter wall that created a small courtyard around her entryway, the former side entrance to the garage.
The first 50 or so times, this procedure had filled Genevieve with terror. If she’d been less desperate when she’d been apartment hunting, the parking might have put her off the place altogether.
She’d long ignored the warning signs in her relationship with Pete, but once she’d decided to leave, she’d grabbed her things and gone. Her landlord seemed to grasp the situation when he showed Genevieve this place, and, after a quick call to verify her employment, he’d rented it to her on the spot. She moved in right away and slept on the floor the first night.
Procrastination had kept her there for six years, but so, too, had a perverse sense of loyalty to her landlord. It was silly – Genevieve knew that. The neighborhood was trendy now, and the apartment would rent quickly if she left. For all she knew, the landlord was holding the rent down out of a perverse sense of loyalty to her.
Genevieve let herself in, turned on the lamp and petted Mona, who was curled up in her usual spot in the rocking chair by the door.
She dumped the mail and her bag on the bar that separated the living room and kitchen, and surveyed her apartment. If Julien’s leather sofa and big TV screamed “bachelor pad” – albeit a clean one with really nice floors – what did her place say?
When the building was converted to living space, the side that had been the garage door had been walled in without the addition of windows. As a result, the front half of the apartment got natural light only from small windows on each end – one near the front door, and one over the kitchen sink.
Genevieve was forever trying to brighten up the space. The long windowless wall held white shelving units from IKEA with a few ceramic pieces she’d picked up, her TV, stereo, books and CDs. She had covered most of the floor with a rug in pale blue, lavender and green chevrons. It helped hide the pickled oak laminate that, as Thomas liked to say, “goes with nothing and looks terrible with everything.”