by Shawna Seed
She immediately excused herself to the restroom. She wanted to wash her hands and freshen up after her misadventure on the Metro, and she also wanted to steel herself for the conversation ahead.
Julien had ordered her a glass of red wine, and it was waiting when she got back. She didn’t even take a drink, just sat down and launched into what she’d decided needed to be said.
“About last night: I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”
Julien choked a little on his wine.
“You’re sorry?”
“I wasn’t seeing how much of this is my fault. But I kissed you first.”
“That’s true, you did.”
Genevieve felt her face begin to color, but there was nothing to do but keep going. “You’re seeing someone, right?”
“What?”
“Please don’t...” She’d started to say, “Please don’t lie.” How many times had she said that to Pete?
“Please don’t feel like you need, I mean, I would feel better if you would be straight with me,” Genevieve said. “I’ve been the woman on the other end of those calls.”
Julien’s face registered nothing but confusion. “I’m sorry, what calls?”
“At dinner just now, last night in the attic, in the hall at the hotel.”
“What are you talking about?” Pulling his phone from his pocket, Julien put it on the table between them. “Air France called during dinner to offer me an upgrade. The two calls I got last night were from a client who forgot I was out of town. You want to check the call log?”
Genevieve pushed the phone back toward him. “I’m not grilling you, for God’s sake.” She recognized this tactic. Pete had used it. He’d shift the focus onto her so he wouldn’t have to answer her questions.
“Look, I knew you were out with someone before you brought my wallet by, and then when I was at your house, you were out late, and I’m just saying, I get it now, I understand.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Julien said. He tipped his wineglass back and took a generous drink.
“The woman you’re asking about, I’ve seen her exactly twice,” he said. “We met for drinks, and that would have been it, but she called me with an extra ticket to a concert, and that takes guts, so I said yes. She’s very nice, but there’s nothing there.”
“Oh.” Genevieve felt like an idiot.
“If I were seeing someone, we wouldn’t have been up there last night,” Julien said. “I have a lot of faults, and I admit I’ve screwed up here, but I’m not that bad.”
Genevieve turned her head away and watched the bartender methodically wipe down glasses.
“Please don’t hide behind your hair,” Julien said. “I’m trying to talk to you.”
She straightened in her seat and looked him in the eye.
“I am so sorry about this. When I came down this morning and saw how happy you were, I knew this was going to be hard, and I was so mad at myself,” Julien said. “And then when you didn’t want to talk about it, I went with that. But I shouldn’t have, because that was taking the easy way out.”
He took a deep breath. “Genevieve, I can’t do this, and not because I’m seeing someone. I can’t be with someone who...”
“Someone who’s crazy?”
Irritation flashed across his face. “If you’re crazy, then I’m crazy, too. And why do you do that? It’s like you can’t wait to let me finish a sentence, you have to say it first. To prove you know what I’m thinking? Because I don’t think you do, actually.”
Genevieve sat back, stung. He was right. It was a bad habit. If the conclusion was something negative about her, she wanted to be the one to say it. That made it hurt less, somehow.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She waved her hand over the table. “You have the floor. I’ll listen until you’re finished. You can’t be with someone who...”
Julien drained his wine and put the empty glass on the table.
“Who makes me feel… this seems like a compulsion, like you have some kind of power over me.”
Stunned, Genevieve put a hand to her chest and began to protest. “But I...” Then she remembered that she’d promised to let Julien talk.
“Last night was...” Julien stopped, then threw up his hands. “I can’t even come up with a word to describe it. I mean, I had your shirt halfway off, and I don’t even know how that happened.”
Genevieve felt the color begin to creep up her face.
“Maybe you had it totally under control and I’m the one who...” Julien shook his head. “Seriously, if my phone hadn’t rung, that would have ended on the floor with clothes everywhere and me wondering what the hell? Wouldn’t it?”
Genevieve put one hand over her eyes. Her face was now burning.
“I’m making it sound like it’s all about sex, and it’s not,” Julien said. “That’s what I mean – I can’t even explain it. God, that blushing kills me.”
Genevieve raised her hand. “Can I say something?”
“God, yes,” Julien said. “Please do.”
“Do you think I’m trying to manipulate you or something? Because I’m not.”
Julien caught the eye of the barman. “Do you want another glass?”
Genevieve tipped the half-glass she still had left toward him. “I’m fine.”
The barman shuffled over to refill Julien’s glass. Julien murmured “Merci,” and waited for him to leave.
“I don’t think you’re trying to do anything,” Julien said, smiling. “That’s the thing. You can’t help it. You make me believe things I can’t believe. And even when you’re doing something that annoys me, like interrupting, you’re just...”
Aware that she’d promised not to interrupt, Genevieve waited for Julien to finish the sentence. She was just... what? Everything he’d said so far made it sound suspiciously as though he felt about her the way she felt about him. So what was the problem?
She watched as Julien’s smile faded.
“I can’t do this. I can’t get pulled into something overpowering like this. The last few years – changing careers, my mother, the divorce – life’s been too hard already. I want to keep my life really...” He extended his arm like a referee signaling a first down. “Simple. Straightforward.”
Julien paused and took a drink. “I am so sorry that I didn’t have this realization sooner, because I know I jerked you around and hurt your feelings, and I never wanted to do that. I will make that up to you. I promise.”
Genevieve sat still, thinking.
“Genevieve? You can talk now.”
Could she promise Julien that a relationship wouldn’t be complicated? She knew the answer was no. If her father had it to do all over again, if he knew the misery to come, would he still go inside the bank and cash a check for $10 – all he could afford – just so he could talk to that pretty redhead in line?
“Genevieve?”
She smiled her bravest smile. “That’s probably the smart decision.”
Was it her imagination, or did Julien’s shoulders sag, just a little?
They sat quietly for a few minutes, nursing their drinks.
Then Genevieve sighed. Time to move on. “Well, I guess the thing to do is keep things professional and maintain a certain amount of distance. You should call the airline about that upgrade.”
“We’ve discussed this. I’m not doing that.”
“You don’t have to jam yourself into coach to make a point. My ex-boyfriend upgraded all the time. I’m used to it,” Genevieve said, then immediately regretted it. More personal information. She really needed to stop that.
Ignoring Julien’s frown, she said, “The point is, this is a business relationship. Treat me as you would any other colleague.”
“I was hoping for something more like friends,” Julien said. “I promise you, I’ll be a great friend. You can count on me. I’ll do anything for you.”
He looked down at his hands. “And the physical attraction – who knows? Maybe it’ll burn itself o
ut. It happens.”
“You might be right,” she said, “but it won’t if you flirt with me.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “If I’m crossing the line, you just have to tell me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
After Paris, Washington seemed grimy and depressing.
In Paris, the bare tree branches seemed architectural. In Washington and its suburbs, they just seemed bare. Remnants of a recent snowstorm were piled along the edges of the pavement, like trash swept to the curb after a parade.
Genevieve and Julien were booked into a hotel on the University of Maryland campus. It would take them only a few minutes to get to the National Archives the next morning.
Once they’d checked in and the elevator deposited them on their floor, Genevieve looked left, then right, trying to decipher which direction led to her room.
“You are seriously jet-lagged,” Julien said, nudging her with his elbow. “This way. You’re right next to me.”
In her room, she took a shower and changed into her pajamas. She flicked through all the TV channels twice. Nothing looked interesting.
She called the cat-sitter in LA and got an update on Mona, who seemed to be enjoying her vacation from her owner just fine.
D was expecting an update, and Genevieve had promised to call. But she knew a phone call would last hours and leave her in tears. She saw that D was online and took the easy way out.
Gen: Long talk last nite
D: And?
Gen: Friend zone
D: What the WHAT???
Gen: Relationship too complicated, life’s been too hard already. etc.
D: I call BS on that. He wants you. You don’t have to take no for an answer.
Gen: Yes, I do. Need to sleep now.
It was after 11 p.m., but she didn’t feel sleepy. She decided to call Thomas. She needed to hear the latest on Philip, and maybe Thomas would have art-world gossip that would put her to sleep.
He picked up right away. “Gen? Are you still in Paris?”
“No, Maryland.” She pulled the second pillow from the other side of the bed and propped it behind her. “We’re hitting the MFFA records at the National Archives tomorrow. What’s new with Philip?”
At Julien’s urging, she’d sent Melvin details about the anonymous email that had led to Philip’s suspension from work. She hoped he would conclude it was unrelated to her research. Until she knew for sure, she didn’t want to mention it to Thomas.
“I gather the lawyers are wrangling. He doesn’t tell me much.”
“Thomas, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. How are you? You don’t sound so good.”
“Jet-lagged,” Genevieve said, “and blue that Paris didn’t turn out better. Could we yak awhile? Please tell me you have juicy gossip, or if you don’t, could you maybe make some up?”
“Oh, Gen, have I ever.” Thomas was playing up the drama, probably for her benefit. She loved him for that. “Did I tell you about the woman in Newport Beach who bought a $12,000 sculpture and then tried to return it to the gallery because it didn’t match her coffee table?”
“I’ve heard that one,” Genevieve said.
“How about the publicist in San Francisco who...”
“Hit reply-all on the email where she described a reporter as having the artistic sensibilities of a New Jersey mob wife?”
“Well, how about this one,” Thomas said. “Word is the Kaufman deal is oh-eff-eff.”
Billionaire Edward Kaufman owned the largest private art collection in the United States. His announcement a few years earlier that he was leaving it to a small, private university had been an art-world blockbuster.
“What happened?” she asked.
“My source says there was a blow-up over the architect for the museum the school was supposed to build,” Thomas said.
“So who gets the collection now, according to your source?”
“No one knows. But Malcolm has been at all these mystery meetings lately.”
Genevieve laughed. “Remember when you thought he was interviewing for a job in Florence, and it turned out he was visiting his in-laws in Florida, who you insist are not wealthy shipping magnates even though everyone else says they are?”
Thomas let out an exasperated sigh. He never liked it when she played devil’s advocate.
“As if you’d ever let me forget,” he said.
“What would the Hilliard even do with the Kaufman collection? There’s no place to put it.”
“They could start by getting rid of that hideous Kandinsky,” Thomas said.
“You are completely wrong about that painting,” Genevieve said. “It’s fantastic.”
They spent the next 15 minutes picking apart the Hilliard collection, a parlor game they’d played many times. Soon, Genevieve was yawning.
“Have I put you to sleep?”
“Yes,” Genevieve said. “Thank you.”
Genevieve’s eyes snapped open at 3:22 a.m. She was wide awake.
She grabbed her laptop, thinking maybe she should give D a more complete report on the Julien situation.
Genevieve launched her email program, then shrieked and scrambled off the bed, dumping her laptop to the floor.
Suddenly she heard a banging, and Julien’s voice. “Genevieve?” He was pounding on the door that connected their rooms. “Open the door!”
Genevieve fumbled with the deadbolt. Julien pushed past her and scanned the room. “What happened?”
Genevieve could barely get the words out. “He killed my cat.”
Julien whirled to look at her. “What?”
“He cut her head off. He sent a picture.” She pointed shakily at her laptop, which was lying on the floor next to the bed.
Julien retrieved it. “You’ve got to stop opening these emails.” He sat on the bed and adjusted the screen. “Oh, ugh.”
“I didn’t click on it,” Genevieve said. “It was just there.” She hugged her arms across her chest. “How could this happen? I talked to the cat-sitter before I went to sleep and she was just there and Mona was fine.”
Julien looked up from the computer. “When did you talk to her?”
“I don’t know,” Genevieve said. “It was maybe 6:30 in LA?”
“This isn’t Mona.” Julien patted the bed next to him. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
“I can’t look at that again,” she said.
“I’ll cover up the gruesome part,” Julien said. “Come here.”
Genevieve reluctantly sat next to him. He had his hand over the top part of the screen. All she could see was the lower half of the cat’s body in the photo.
“You talked to the cat-sitter around 6:30 in LA, and Mona was fine,” Julien said. “This photo is taken in afternoon sunlight. The sun’s down by 6 this time of year.”
Genevieve looked again. “Mona’s sort of beige on her belly. That cat’s white.”
“It’s some sick photo he found online,” Julien said. “He’s trying to scare you.”
“Oh God,” Genevieve said. And then she began to sob.
She leaned her head against Julien’s shoulder. He hesitated for an instant, then put the computer aside and wrapped both arms around her.
“This is so dumb,” she sobbed into his chest. “Why am I crying now?”
“No idea,” Julien said, his chin against her forehead.
The sobs began to subside, and it was only then that Genevieve realized Julien wasn’t wearing a shirt. She pulled away. “I need a Kleenex,” she said.
Julien was sitting across the room at the desk when she came back from blowing her nose.
“I’m sending this to Melvin.” His fingers clicked rapidly on the keyboard. “Tomorrow we’ll set up a new address and you can selectively give it out, and I mean, seriously, five people can have it. This has got to stop.”
“I’m so tired.” Genevieve plopped down on the edge of the bed. “It’s like I’m too tired to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you up.”
&nbs
p; “I was watching cartoons,” he said, eyes trained on her laptop. “It’s jet lag.”
“Would you watch cartoons with me for a little bit?”
He exhaled slowly. “Sure.”
She clicked on the TV. “Can you see from there?”
Julien looked at her for a few beats. Then he got up. “Give me a second,” he said, disappearing into his own room.
He came back pulling a T-shirt over his head, another in his hand. He tossed it to Genevieve. “That one’s clean,” he said.
She looked down. She was wearing pajama pants and a thin, white cotton tank top. “Oh,” she said, embarrassed. She pulled Julien’s T-shirt on. “I’m sorry.”
Julien sat up against the headboard, stretching his legs out, keeping two feet of space between them. “Not as sorry as I am.”
When Genevieve woke again, it was 6:46 a.m.
She was on top of the covers, curled up in Julien’s T-shirt, a spare blanket draped over her. The TV was off, and the door to the connecting room was shut.
Julien was gone.
She showered and met him in the lobby a few minutes before 8. He was reading the Washington Post and drinking takeout coffee. He had a latte and a muffin ready for her, which she gratefully accepted. He said nothing about what had happened in the middle of the night. She decided to let it go.
The Archives building was tucked amid woods on the edge of campus. Genevieve supposed it was pretty when the trees had leaves. But on a gray day in March, it seemed forbidding.
In France, Genevieve had known what she needed to find. Here, she didn’t even know whether any documents on the artwork looted from the Lazare family existed.
She decided to start with the reports filed by the monuments officers in the field. She thought that would give her the best overview. Julien would look through records of confiscated property in France.
She discovered a trove of memos written by James J. Rorimer, who had been at Neuschwanstein and gone on to a long career at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.