Not in Time

by Shawna Seed

  Genevieve rested her head against his shoulder again. “So, just to be clear, I’m allowed to call you Julien? I don’t have to call you Jay? Or Hey? Or Oh?”

  Julien put on a serious face, made a show of considering it. “I think you are allowed to call me Julien. Yes. Definitely.”

  He pulled her closer. “If you kiss me.”

  When they reached the hotel, the cab driver coughed discreetly to get their attention.

  Julien paid him and held the hotel door open for her.

  They walked up the stairs and down the hall. Genevieve stopped outside her room and faced Julien.

  He leaned his arm against the wall above her head. They stood like that for a few minutes, eyes locked. He toyed with a strand of her hair. “Genevieve,” he said. Then he said it again, in French.

  His phone buzzed, and he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I can wait while you check it.”

  He looked her in the eye and smiled. “Big day tomorrow. We’d better call it a night, don’t you think?”

  Of course, she thought. That was the smart thing to do.

  “Right,” she said, fumbling with her key. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Julien put his hand under her chin and just brushed her lips with his. “See you then,” he said.

  Genevieve couldn’t remember whether her limited international calling plan included text messages. She didn’t really care.

  She turned on her phone and typed a message to D.

  Gen: Back from dinner. wore heels

  D: Yay! Fun?

  Gen: I think I love him

  D: Haha. Just how much did you drink?

  D: Gen?

  D: Haha right?

  D: Gen?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Genevieve woke up the next morning expecting a hangover. But she felt fine. Terrific, even. And hungry.

  She hurried through her shower and got dressed, at the last minute adding her new scarf to her outfit, her favorite lavender twin set and a pair of black pants. The scarf was even more beautiful in daylight, the colors just right for her. Julien had a good eye.

  To her surprise, Julien wasn’t waiting in the breakfast room off the lobby, a small, arched space with stone walls.

  Genevieve thought that maybe he was feeling great, too, and decided to push his morning run an extra mile or two. Or perhaps he’d rushed out to accomplish some romantic last-minute gesture, like buying flowers.

  Genevieve ordered a café au lait and snagged a fruit-filled pastry and a cup of yogurt from the buffet.

  Then, making sure she was seated with her back to the wall where no one could peer over her shoulder, she sent D an email update: the drinks at the bar, dinner, the attic, the scarf, the cab ride back, all of it.

  She had just hit the “send” button and was beginning to wonder whether she ought to call up to Julien’s room when he appeared in the doorway. He scanned the room, and she smiled when he finally spotted her.

  “There you are,” she said as he dropped into the chair opposite her. He hadn’t shaved, which Genevieve thought gave him a slightly roguish look that was very attractive. “Did you run an extra couple miles or something?”

  Julien winced. “God, no. I slept in. I feel like hell.”

  “I feel great,” Genevieve said, beaming at him. “I couldn’t believe how hungry I was after that big meal. You should try those fruit-filled things; they’re really good.”

  Julien flagged down the waitress for coffee. Genevieve checked to make sure her email to D had gone through and clicked over to the account she used for work.

  “I got an email back from Henry, and you said Henry hates email!” she said. “But he saw the documents I sent yesterday, and he said, ‘Excellent progress.’ That’s a huge compliment from him, right?”

  “Sure,” Julien said. He wandered over to the buffet, surveyed the offerings and came back with a plain croissant. He picked at a corner of it.

  “Do you think I should fill Henry in on the whole thing about not displaying the painting in public? I didn’t get into the Dr. Marchand interview with him.”

  Julien tentatively sipped his coffee, carefully set his cup down and pushed away the plate that held his croissant. He sighed.

  “Look, Genevieve...” He sighed again. “I think we probably got a little ahead of ourselves yesterday.”

  “I guess we can wait until we find the rest of the wills to update him. I just thought he might be interested in the story about your great-whatever-grandfather trying to keep the painting under wraps.”

  “Genevieve.”

  Genevieve had already hit the “reply” button. She hit “cancel” and looked up.

  “I’m not talking about what you told Henry yesterday,” Julien said. “I meant last night.”

  Then he smiled. Kindly. To soften the blow, she supposed.

  “Oh.”

  She looked back at her computer screen, desperate to think of a way to salvage some shred of dignity. What would D do?

  D would brazen it out, that’s what D would do. She would make it all a big joke.

  “What was in that after-dinner drink anyway?” she said. “The last thing I drank that hit me that hard was served out of a 5-gallon Home Depot bucket at a house off-campus with a couch on the front porch and a ping-pong table in the dining room.”

  This was a lie. When she went to those parties in college, she was the designated driver.

  Was Julien buying any of this? She had no idea. She studiously avoided looking at him.

  “Genevieve, I don’t mean... I just think...”

  “It’s fine,” Genevieve said. Another lie. “I totally understand.” Also a lie. “Shouldn’t have happened.” That, at least, was true, she supposed.

  She shut her laptop, a little harder than she meant to. “The good thing is, nobody knows but us. Well, and the driver. But I’m sure we can count on a French cabbie to be discreet. We’ll just say it never happened, and that’s the official version.”

  She slid her laptop into her bag. “There’s a lot to get done today. If you’d like to finish your breakfast, I’ll just go on, and you can catch up with me at the archives.”

  “Genevieve...”

  “I can manage the Metro on my own. I’m sure I won’t get lost.” She was rising now, trying to put on her coat and pick up her bag all at the same time. She couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.

  Julien stood and grabbed his own coat. “Hold on. I’m coming with you.”

  The Metro was crowded, forcing Julien to stand and allowing Genevieve to avoid conversation with him. As they walked to the archives, they passed a group of protesters, and Genevieve asked Julien to explain their signs. She could read the signs well enough and understood that they were demonstrating against government cutbacks. But she preferred faking illiteracy about current events to another conversation about what had happened between them.

  What had happened? Genevieve tuned out Julien’s political commentary and ran through the entire evening in her mind, trying to find the point at which things had turned, the thing she’d done wrong. Nine hours ago Julien Brooks could hardly keep his hands off her, and now it was all a mistake. What had she done?

  At the archives, Julien returned to his task from the day before: trying to find his grandfather’s will. Genevieve concentrated on those of his great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather.

  Fortunately, in a library it was perfectly acceptable to ignore someone, and that was exactly what Genevieve did, until Julien pulled his chair over to hers.

  “I’m dying for coffee,” he whispered. “Want to take a break?”

  Genevieve didn’t even look up. “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  “There’s a place right across the street,” Julien said. “Won’t even take 15 minutes.”

  “You go,” Genevieve said. “Take your time.”

  She suspected he would; Julien was probably eager to avoid her, too.

&n
bsp; When he’d been gone 10 minutes, she switched over to the carrel where he’d been working. His grandfather’s will was the linchpin to the family’s claim to the drawing, and so far it had eluded Julien. Maybe she’d have better luck. And if she showed Julien up in the bargain, well, that would be OK, too.

  She managed not to crow with delight – but just barely – when she found Laurent Lazare’s will. Julien apparently had not been using the speedier method she’d figured out, even though she’d explained it to him.

  She quickly paged through the will looking for references to Tristan et Iseult, but when she reached the end, she realized there would be no shortcuts. She’d have to read the whole thing, slow as she was with her rusty French.

  When Julien returned, she was on the second page, having just worked through the bequest to Georges, Henry Lazare’s grandfather. He got money but no property from his father’s estate.

  “What’s up? You’re in my chair,” Julien whispered.

  Genevieve showed him what she’d found.

  “You found it? Wow. You’re good.”

  “I haven’t found the listing of the art,” Genevieve said. “The will started with the bequest to Georges, which was complicated.”

  “Just scan for ‘Tristan et Iseult,’ ” Julien said.

  “I did,” Genevieve hissed. Realizing how she sounded, she moved aside to make room for Julien. “You should probably take over. You’re faster.”

  He began to move briskly through the pages. “Provisions for my mom’s education. Several paragraphs about the gallery.”

  Julien read for a minute, turned back a page, read again.

  “Well?”

  “It’s not here,” he said.

  “What?”

  He ran his finger along a line from the will. “It says, ‘the apartment and all its contents, including furnishings and works of art.’ ”

  “No,” Genevieve said. This could not be happening. Surely the universe would not heap personal and professional humiliation on her in the same day. “Maybe there’s an addition, another page.”

  “It ends here.” Julien showed her the last page. “The drawing’s not mentioned. We struck out.”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Genevieve grabbed her bag and headed to the bathroom. She needed to compose herself.

  She locked herself in a stall and sat for a minute with her head in her hands, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, trying not to cry.

  She’d started the day so happy – how could everything have gone to hell before lunch?

  Well, whatever the reasons, she couldn’t very well hide in the bathroom all day. She unlocked the door and went to wash her hands.

  In the mirror above the sink, she noticed the scarf, which she’d forgotten she was wearing. She looked like a total idiot. She whipped the scarf away and immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t the scarf’s fault. Folding it carefully, she put it in her bag. One more deep breath, and then she pushed the door open and went back to face Julien.

  He was waiting by her chair, his backpack zipped and ready to go, his coat folded over his arm. He offered her a wan smile.

  “I guess the silver lining is an afternoon free. What would you like to do next?”

  Genevieve pulled out her chair and sat. “I’m going to stay and look for the other two wills.”

  She wasn’t sure what to make of his expression. Surprise? Annoyance? “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “Look, I know this is a setback, but we still have those records in D.C.”

  “I do have to do it,” Genevieve said, loud enough to earn her a shushing from another patron. “I’m staying.”

  Julien dropped down into a crouch so that he was at eye level with her. “Can we talk about this outside?” he whispered.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Humor me,” Julien said. “Please?”

  Genevieve waited just long enough to make it clear that yes, she was humoring him, before gathering up her things and following Julien out of the room.

  He led her down a flight of stairs and into a small courtyard. The sky had clouded over since they arrived, and the air seemed chillier. Genevieve pulled her coat tight around her.

  “Look,” Julien began. “I know you’re angry with me, and that’s...”

  “I’m not angry with you,” Genevieve said.

  Julien stopped, looked away, took a deep breath.

  Then he started over. “I realize you’re disappointed, but that’s no reason to go through some pointless exercise...”

  “It’s not pointless.”

  Julien stopped again. Took another deep breath.

  “It’s your last afternoon in Paris. Wouldn’t you rather go see something? What about the Impressionists at the Musée d’Orsay, all those paintings you used to look at in books with your mom when...”

  “Please don’t do that.” It came out more plaintive than Genevieve intended. Shock registered on Julien’s face.

  This was the worst part. She’d shared memories, little bits of herself, because she wanted to let him in. But to Julien, it was simply information, just conversational currency to be dropped the way he might leave the small change on the bar after he’d paid the tab.

  Don’t tell people things. The worst people would use her secrets against her, and even the best people would be careless with them. Hadn’t she learned this lesson in first grade? Why did she always make the same mistakes?

  “Don’t do what?”

  Genevieve recovered, squared her shoulders. “Please don’t try to talk me out of this. Maybe I can fill in some gaps in the drawing’s provenance. It’s not pointless to me.”

  Julien ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “The thing is, I have to leave, at least for a little bit.”

  “I’m fine on my own here,” Genevieve said, striving to sound as pleasant as possible.

  “I have to take the key back,” Julien said.

  “Of course,” Genevieve said, trying to keep her face neutral, desperate not to blush at the memory of the previous night. And then an idea occurred to her.

  “As long as you’re going there...”

  She opened her bag and pulled out the scarf, held it out to Julien folded neatly in her palm. “I’ve been thinking maybe you’d like to return this.”

  Julien’s shoulders slumped. “I thought you liked it?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Genevieve said. “It’s just, under the circumstances...” She continued to hold the scarf out, but Julien wouldn’t take it.

  “It was very thoughtful,” she said. “But I’d feel so much better if you took it back. I know you must have a bad case of buyer’s remorse. Just take it back. Please.”

  “Genevieve.” Julien shook his head slowly. “Genevieve, let’s go get some lunch, have a glass of wine and really talk about this. And I don’t mean the scarf, which I am not taking back, so put it away.”

  Genevieve put the scarf back in her bag.

  “I had a huge breakfast. I’m not interested in lunch,” she said. “I’ll get back to my research now.” She shouldered her bag and turned to go inside.

  Julien caught her arm. “Genevieve, please. I’m sorry. I know I’m making a mess of this. I... look, let’s just go sit down somewhere and...”

  “You were perfectly clear this morning,” Genevieve told him. “I don’t want lunch. I don’t want to walk around Paris with you, and I most certainly don’t want to have a conversation that is only going to make me more embarrassed than I already am. The nicest thing you could do for me right now, honestly, is just leave me alone.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Genevieve left the archives a little before 4 in the afternoon with a consolation prize: copies of four generations of Lazare wills.

  Emile Lazare, nephew of the artist, mentioned the drawing and painting by name in his will and repeated his father’s admonition that the painting Tristan and Iseult should not be displayed in public.

  Emile’s so
n Daniel, Julien’s great-grandfather, listed “two works by the artist Théodore Lazare” among his possessions. That was less definitive, but still helpful, especially in the context of the earlier wills. She’d managed to do a little, then, to document the drawing’s history.

  Julien, mercifully, had stayed away.

  She planned to squeeze in some souvenir shopping for D when she left the archives, but she had no guidebook, not even a map. She’d been relying on Julien to help her navigate Paris, which now seemed ridiculous.

  When she walked outside, the skies were low and threatening, and she was daunted by the prospect of wandering without a plan. Much better, she decided, to take the Metro back to the hotel and regroup. Perhaps someone at the front desk would have a helpful suggestion.

  She also needed to figure out a plan for dinner, something close to the hotel where she could eat on her own and not feel conspicuous. She’d skipped lunch, and now her head was pounding.

  Beyond dinner loomed the prospect of a flight with Julien the next day to Washington, D.C. How long could she avoid conversation by reading her book, watching a movie, feigning sleep?

  And after a day in the archives in Washington would come another long flight and then, perhaps the thorniest problem of all: what to do when she got back to Los Angeles. Staying at Julien’s house was unthinkable. She couldn’t go back to her apartment.

  As she climbed the stairs from the Metro, the skies opened up. Naturally, she had no umbrella. She turned up the collar of her coat and trudged the two blocks to the hotel, arriving wet and thoroughly depressed.

  She shelved any thought of souvenir shopping. Instead, she went up to her room for a hot shower and a good cry.

  The hotel had a happy hour in the breakfast room. Genevieve wasn’t happy and didn’t want a drink, but she needed to get online, so she took her laptop and headed downstairs.

  Genevieve accepted a glass of Perrier and took a hunk of baguette and a few sweating slices of cheese from the picked-over remains of the happy-hour spread.

  She had an email waiting from D, a response to the one Genevieve had sent that morning, before Julien had come downstairs and completely rearranged her thinking. Genevieve didn’t have the heart to open it.