Not in Time

by Shawna Seed

  Her sofa was a shabby chic thing in blue chenille originally owned by Philip. A recent move had finally given Thomas the chance to banish it. Above it hung a watercolor of the Santa Monica Pier, which Genevieve bought from a guy on the 3rd Street Promenade for $20 simply because she liked it.

  The walnut rocking chair by the front door had belonged to Genevieve’s parents, and she’d brought it from Texas in a U-Haul.

  What did her living room say about her?

  She owned very little of value. Like her lease, most everything in her life was a year-to-year proposition.

  The earlier conversation with Julien about procrastination had left her feeling guilty. It was too early to do anything about a lease that was up in August. But she still hadn’t signed her Hilliard severance paperwork. That was something she could quit putting off. She vowed that she would go to the museum the next day, no more excuses.

  To keep herself from weaseling out, she called Thomas and made plans to have lunch after her paperwork errand. Then she’d go to the bank and deposit her check from Henry Lazare. Once it cleared, she’d take care of her bills.

  What else had she been avoiding? Wasn’t there something she could dispatch right now, something that would make her feel virtuous? She had yet to write a thank-you note to her mother’s college roommate for her Christmas gift. That would do the trick.

  Genevieve’s mother had lasted less than a year at college back East, but Grace Knapp McKenna and Christine Kern Jensen had forged a strong bond. Even after Genevieve’s mother had a breakdown and left school, Christine stayed in touch. She was there when Genevieve’s parents got married, and she was there when Genevieve’s mother was buried. She always remembered Genevieve at her birthday and Christmas.

  Christine had sent amethyst earrings at Christmas and a copy of the book that had been produced for the school’s anniversary, which she said had some pictures of Grace, even though she hadn’t graduated.

  Genevieve had put off writing a thank you because she thought she ought to say something about the photos, but then she couldn’t bring herself to look at them. So she did nothing. And now February was nearly here, and Christine was sitting in Chicago undoubtedly wondering whether Genevieve had received the gift at all.

  Genevieve hunted through her stash of art cards purchased from the Hilliard gift shop using her employee discount and found a Georges Seurat snow scene she thought Christine might like. Eliding the subject of the book, she thanked Christine effusively for the earrings, which she really did like.

  Writing to her mother’s college roommate gave her a flash of inspiration on the Lazare project. One of her grad school classmates wrote her master’s thesis on Delacroix. She might know an expert on the French romantics who had done useful research on Théodore Lazare or could lead Genevieve to someone who had.

  It took her nearly an hour of online searching, but Genevieve finally tracked down the former classmate. She was teaching at a small college in Illinois – much smaller than Genevieve would have expected, given the woman’s outsized ego in grad school. Either she wasn’t nearly as brilliant as she thought she was, or the academic world was tougher than Genevieve had imagined. Perhaps a little of both.

  Genevieve emailed, explaining what she hoped to find, then went to the website of her favorite Thai restaurant. It was nearly 8 p.m., and she was famished. Would it be Pad Thai or Panang curry tonight?

  Genevieve made her selections and clicked through to the payment screen, then reached into her bag for her wallet.

  It wasn’t there.

  Slowly, she removed everything in the bag and ran her hand around inside. No wallet. She tipped the bag upside-down over the bar and shook it. Nothing came out but an old receipt from Starbucks.

  She pawed through the mail, thinking perhaps her wallet was buried in the stack. No luck.

  The trick to finding something that was lost, she knew, was recalling the last place she had it and working forward from there. So, where had she last seen her wallet?

  She bought coffee in Culver City before going to Julien’s house. Had she lost it at the coffee shop? No, because she and Julien split the lunch check at the Getty cafe later. Had she left her wallet on the table? Dropped it on the patio?

  Genevieve sighed. She never carried much cash, so no great loss there, but she dreaded the thought of replacing her credit card, her insurance card, and most of all, her driver’s license.

  She knew she should call the credit card company right away, but first she had to eat. No way could she deal with that phone menu on an empty stomach.

  In the refrigerator, she found two cans of Diet Dr Pepper, three bottles of Shiner and the remnants of a pizza she’d ordered the night before she’d been laid off. She cautiously peeled back the aluminum foil on the pizza. She wasn’t that hungry.

  Her phone rang, and Genevieve checked the display. Jay in LA. She really needed to edit that. She hit the answer button. “Hello there.”

  “Hey, I found your wallet in my car,” Julien said.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, exhaling. “I just discovered it was missing when I was ordering takeout from my Thai place, and I was freaking out.”

  “I guess it fell out when you dumped your purse over.”

  “That wasn’t my fault! You swerved!”

  Then, embarrassed by her display of temper, Genevieve hastily added, “I’m going to Santa Monica in the morning. I could swing by your house, if that works for you.”

  “Didn’t you say you live in Silver Lake? I was just having a drink in Hollywood,” Julien said. “I could run it by.”

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “I don’t mind,” Julien said. “Anyway, seems only fair, since I swerved.”

  It took Julien 20 minutes to get to her apartment, which gave Genevieve time to straighten up the coffee table, comb her hair, brush her teeth and put on lipstick – while telling herself she was being ridiculous, he was just going to hand her the wallet and leave and it didn’t matter anyway because they were just working together.

  When she opened the door, her first thought was, “Damn, he looks good.” Since she’d seen him last, he’d changed into an off-white dress shirt and topped it with a black sport coat that had a subtle caramel-colored pattern.

  That thought was immediately followed by a disappointing realization: Drinks in Hollywood. As in, a date.

  He had said he had plans that evening.

  Julien handed her the wallet and smiled. “Did I beat the Thai delivery guy here? I overshot your driveway the first time. It’s really dark.”

  Genevieve, confused, blinked at him. “What? Oh, um, actually, I didn’t order.”

  Mona strolled up to sniff his shoe, and Julien eyed her warily. “Should I be worried it’s about to do something disgusting on my foot?”

  “That’s how cats say hi. Her worst habit is sneaking outside while the door is open,” Genevieve said. She paused. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Sure.” Julien stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him, marveling as she did at how this was unfolding. D would be so impressed.

  “How late does your place deliver?” He checked his watch. “Because I haven’t eaten either.”

  Genevieve tried to mask her surprise. “They know me pretty well, so as long as I call by 9, it’s cool. Do you want to look at the menu?”

  They walked to the bar, where her computer was still open to the menu, and Genevieve pointed out the best dishes. They made their selections, and when she clicked through to the payment screen, Julien reached for his wallet.

  “My treat,” he said. “Because I swerved.”

  Genevieve felt her face grow hot. “Is this going to be a thing now? The swerve?”

  “Your righteous indignation when you said it was pretty priceless,” Julien said.

  “In my defense, I was contemplating a day at the DMV to replace my license,” Genevieve said.

  Julien spread his hands wide. “Fair enough
. So, I firmly believe Thai food goes best with beer. Any chance you’ve got one?”

  Genevieve, who almost never had beer in her fridge, rounded the bar into the kitchen. “You’re in luck.”

  “Interesting place,” Julien said, wandering over to inspect her books. “Used to be the garage?”

  “Yeah,” Genevieve said. “Do you want a glass?”

  “Bottle’s fine.”

  When she came back to the living room, Julien was leaning over her sofa, staring at the watercolor of the Santa Monica Pier.

  “Great use of color. Who’s the artist?”

  “Some scruffy dude who sells his stuff on the Promenade, down by the Apple Store,” she said, handing him the beer. “Twenty bucks.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I just liked it. And the price was right.”

  Julien threw his head back and laughed.

  Every time she earned one of those laughs felt like an accomplishment. She’d always disdained the girls in high school who slavered over the popular boys, and now she was basking in Julien’s attention like Mona in a sunbeam. It was embarrassing, really. But he was so nice, so easy to be with. She couldn’t quite believe she’d mistrusted him. D was right; she was too paranoid.

  Once the food came, they sat side by side at the bar to eat. Julien nodded thoughtfully as she told him about her email to her classmate, her latest attempt to track down anyone with expertise on Théodore Lazare.

  “What about this gallery catalog?” he said. “Are you sure it won’t help?”

  Genevieve took a swig of her beer. Julien was right – it did pair well with Thai food. “I went through it three times. Nothing in there shows up in the looted art database. There’s nothing by Théodore Lazare. It’s mostly 20th century stuff. The only connection is that it’s from Galerie de l’Étoile, which was run by your family.”

  Julien pushed his plate away, and Genevieve did the same. His was empty; she’d save her leftovers for another meal.

  He turned his bar stool toward her. “Tell me again how you got it.”

  “It just showed up at the museum one day,” Genevieve said. “No note or anything. The Times did a story about looted art and the impact on local museums, and my boss – my former boss – was quoted in it.”

  She took another sip of beer. “He gave all these really pretentious comments about the ‘tragedy’ of looted art and how dedicated the museum was to making sure nothing in the collection was affected...”

  She took in Julien’s expression. “I’m just jabbering, aren’t I?”

  “A little.”

  “Sorry. I really didn’t like him. He would give interviews like that, and then once, I got forwarded an email about a project he wanted me to help on, and at the bottom was the very first message from him, and it said, ‘Use Genevieve, because she’s not doing anything important right now.’ ”

  “Ouch,” Julien said. “OK, so this catalog showed up right after the article ran in the Times?”

  Genevieve thought about that. “Actually, I’m not sure about the timing.”

  “Can I see the catalog?”

  Was there any reason, really, to hold it back? Genevieve hopped down from her chair and dug around in the pile on her coffee table, extracting the catalog from its envelope and handing it to Julien.

  “Give me the envelope, too,” he said.

  “The envelope?”

  “You know more about art than me, and you say there’s no connection between the drawing and the pieces in the catalog,” he said. “So let’s look at the envelope.”

  Genevieve handed it to him, and he smoothed it out on the bar.

  She gathered up the plates and took them to the sink.

  “OK, first question, were you mentioned in this article?”

  “Me? No. Too far down the food chain.” Genevieve put the leftovers in the fridge and began to wash plates. “Why?”

  “The envelope is addressed to you,” Julien said.

  “Right. I knew that. I guess I forgot. Well, it could be that someone called the museum to ask who was working on provenance,” Genevieve said.

  “Possible,” Julien said. “The envelope’s torn, but there’s part of a postmark with a date. I’ll have a friend at the Times check the article’s date in the archives.”

  Julien came into the kitchen, where the light was better, and tipped the envelope up so that Genevieve could look at it too. “We’ve got a zip code, too. What do you think, is that a four or a nine?”

  Their elbows brushed. Genevieve tried hard to concentrate. “I vote four.”

  “Me too.” Julien walked back around the bar. “So let’s look up zip code 04578. Mind if I use your computer?”

  Genevieve, busy with the dishes, waved her assent.

  Julien typed. “Wiscasset, Maine. That mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “So maybe it was a nine, not a four,” Julien said. He began typing again. “Well, this is more interesting.”

  Genevieve dried her hands and came around to look over his shoulder. “It’s the beginning of an FPO address,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s sort of the zip code for the military. See?”

  “You’re saying someone sent me this from a ship?”

  “Does that make more sense?”

  “Even less.”

  Genevieve liked the idea that they were a team, trying to solve problems together, but something still nagged at her.

  “Can I ask you something?” Genevieve turned from the screen to look at him. “Doesn’t it seem weird to you, how we met in Vegas?”

  “A little,” he said. “But stuff like that happens. When Erica and I had been dating about six months, we realized that we’d finished within seconds of each other in a half-marathon a couple years before. You can see me in the background of her finish-line photo.” He grinned. “Yeah, she beat me. In my defense, I was coming off knee surgery.”

  He tapped the manila envelope impatiently on the bar. “So now what?”

  “More research, I think,” Genevieve said. “Back to the Getty.”

  “Another day at the Getty.” He sighed. “You got that family tree I emailed you, right?”

  “No. When did you send it?”

  “When I got home this afternoon. Maybe it’s in your spam filter? I used the address Henry had for you.”

  “Lost Art Investigations? I don’t check it very often. I’ll look later.”

  Julien stifled a yawn. “I’d better get going. I have a client call early. Call me when you’re ready to make another Getty run?”

  “Sure. Maybe Monday?” Genevieve walked with him to the door, scooping up Mona and depositing her in the rocker so she could keep an eye on her. “Thanks for bringing my wallet by. I hope it didn’t tumble out onto your date’s foot or anything. That would be awkward.”

  Julien glanced away, and just for an instant, Genevieve thought he was uncomfortable.

  But then he met her eyes again, and he seemed his usual confident, breezy self. “We met up at the bar. Standard operating procedure for the low-risk, weeknight meet-for-drinks first date that might segue into dinner but might not. No harm done.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Genevieve woke up the next morning bursting with energy. She wanted to attribute this to her newfound commitment to avoiding procrastination. But deep down, she knew she was buoyed because Julien Brooks had gone on a date that could have segued into dinner but did not.

  In fact, he had dinner with her.

  It had been too late back in Texas to call after he left; Genevieve had contented herself with sending an email. She had come up with this D-worthy positive spin all on her own, and she was rather proud of it.

  In fact, she thought she might try living her whole day in a D frame of mind, just to see what it was like. For instance, the trip to the Hilliard to sign her severance paperwork was not a humiliating task to be dreaded. Rather, it would cut her last tie
to a job that hadn’t worked out.

  Her good mood even seemed to have affected Mona. Instead of burrowing into the covers while Genevieve was trying to make the bed, the cat was tearing around the apartment in a playful mood.

  Before the glow could wear off, Genevieve signed on to her new consultant’s email to find the family tree information from Julien had arrived. He’d also scanned the photo of David Lazare and his friend Vivian on the sidewalk outside the gallery.

  Then she clicked over to the email address she used most of the time, user name GenwithaG, and emailed Thomas to confirm their lunch date.

  Mona began to meow piteously, and Genevieve turned away from the computer to see what the fuss was about.

  The cat was stretched out on the floor beside the sofa, one paw extended underneath it.

  “Are you in another of your blue periods, Mona?”

  Mona went through intermittent bouts of intense devotion to a small blue toy mouse. She’d prance around the apartment with it in her mouth mewling, then drop it and bat at it until it flew under a piece of furniture. Once it did, she’d sit vigil and howl until Genevieve retrieved it for her. Then, mysteriously as it had begun, her blue period would be over.

  Genevieve fetched the broom, inched the sofa away from the wall, and swished back and forth. Out came cat hair and an earring missing for months, but no blue mouse. She made another pass, and Mona pounced on something.

  But it wasn’t a blue mouse.

  Genevieve bent down to investigate, snatching the bauble away from the cat.

  It was an open-work, heart-shaped pendant of gold.

  Genevieve sank to her knees on her living room floor.

  She knew this pendant – a man gripping her arm, his other hand trying to force her fist open, then the pendant falling to the floor and rolling away.

  As she stared at the pendant in her palm, she noticed four bruises in a row, each about the size of a dime, marring the skin of her forearm.