by Shawna Seed
“I know,” D said. “And I don’t even have big boobs, so how is that fair?”
Genevieve laughed and dashed at a tear running down her cheek.
“Action Plan: Go to your meeting,” D said. “Then pack up your stuff and your kitty and go home. Then call me, and we’ll watch TV. Or I can put you on speakerphone and let you bawl if that’s what you need. OK?”
“OK,” Genevieve sighed.
“And Gen, really, after the meeting, just pack up and go. Don’t have drinks to celebrate. Don’t let him make you dinner. Don’t wait for rush hour to clear,” D said.
“But...”
“No buts,” D said. “It’s like getting a bikini wax. They rip that sucker off fast for a reason. Still hurts like hell, but it hurts a whole lot worse if you drag it out.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
When Genevieve, Julien and Henry arrived at the Hilliard, they were ushered into a boardroom on the second floor that Genevieve had never seen.
At the head of the table was the board chairman, whom Genevieve recognized but had never met. On his left was a man Genevieve didn’t know, although she suspected he was a lawyer. He had a pile of manila folders and a legal pad in front of him.
The chairs next to the lawyer had been pushed aside to make room for a wheelchair, which held a man with an impressive mane of silver hair. An oxygen tube snaked from his nose to a tank on the back of his chair. He wore an expensive-looking shirt, open-collared. His neck swam in his collar like a single flower in a too-large vase.
A young man in a polo shirt and khakis stood behind the chair.
The lawyer stood when they entered the room. “I’m Paul Travis, counsel for the museum. You know Mr. Landley, of course, the chairman of the board.”
The lawyer gestured toward the man in the wheelchair. “And this is Stimson Miller.”
Genevieve had seen photos of Stimson Miller in her research, but she realized now that they must have been several years out of date. The frail man in the wheelchair bore no resemblance to the tycoon she’d seen in publicity photos.
Julien cleared his throat quietly. Genevieve looked over. He was holding a chair out for her. She sat.
The lawyer shuffled the papers in front of him.
“We’re here to discuss the drawing Study for Tristan and Iseult, which the descendants of Georges Lazare and Regine Lazare Brooks suggest was appropriated from their family in Paris in...” He shuffled more papers. “Sometime after...”
Genevieve glanced at Henry. He seemed unperturbed by the lawyer’s preamble.
“We’d like to establish that the museum received this drawing in good faith,” the lawyer said. “Mr. Miller, who donated the drawing, has volunteered to waive his anonymity and join us today in an effort to facilitate this process. For which we thank him.” He nodded toward Miller.
Miller did not acknowledge him. The lawyer droned on.
“Questions of provenance are quite complicated and can take a long time to resolve, but the museum is committed to...”
“Actually, we can make quick work of this one.”
They all turned toward Miller, whose words trailed off into a cough.
His caretaker took a few cautious steps toward him.
Miller waved him off. “I’m fine,” he wheezed.
They all waited while Miller caught his breath.
“You notice I’m the only one here without a lawyer? Just Viharn, who’s here to get me in and out of the car and make sure I get my meds on time.”
He might be frail, but he was obviously used to commanding an audience.
“The museum told me there were questions about the drawing. Said they’d protect my privacy. But I said I’d take this meeting. Do you know why?”
The lawyer tried to regain control. “Mr. Miller, we do thank you for coming, but I think it’s best if...”
“Shush,” Miller said. “You know how long it takes me to get in and out of the car? I didn’t go to all that trouble to sit here like a lump.”
The lawyer began aligning the corners of his file folders.
“So, why am I here?” Miller continued. “I’m here because I’m an old man who’s not well. And I’d like to square a few things up.”
His eyes bore in on Henry. “You know how I made my money?”
“Real estate, I believe,” Henry said.
Miller waved his hand dismissively. “That’s the fancy explanation. I made deals, that’s what I did.” He leaned toward Henry. “Let’s make a deal.”
The board chairman tried to intervene. “Stimson, really...”
“Oh, shut up,” Miller snapped.
The silence in the room was broken by one word from Julien.
“Why?”
Miller turned toward him. “Which one are you again?”
Julien stood and leaned far over the table, extending his hand. “Julien Brooks. Regine Lazare was my mother.”
Miller shook his hand. “Why did you steal it?” Julien asked.
Miller studied Julien. “You want to hear the story?”
Julien sat back down. “Yeah, I want to hear the story.”
“Toward the end of the war,” Miller began, “I got myself assigned to the unit that was cataloging loot from France.
“It was quite an eye-opener for a poor boy from Bakersfield. Paintings. Sculptures. Piled to the rafters. I’d never seen so many beautiful things in my life.
“I saw the drawing one day and fell in love with it. Nothing more complicated than that. You have to understand, we’d been away from home for years, fighting our way across Europe. We felt like we’d earned souvenirs. I felt like I was stealing from the Nazis, not you people. I took it out of the frame, erased the code off the back, fudged some paperwork, rolled it up and mailed it home.”
Miller smiled ruefully. “I didn’t know anything about art then. If I’d known what I was doing, I might have taken something more valuable.
“When I got home, I made some deals, made some money. Married a girl with taste. I decided to learn about art.
“Study for Tristan and Iseult was the first piece of art I loved. But it nagged at me. It’s the only thing I ever flat-out stole in my life. Not even a piece of candy when I was a kid.
“So I gave it to the museum, to ease my conscience, I guess. It never occurred to me that any of your people survived.
“Now, the lawyer there is telling the truth when he says the museum didn’t know it was stolen when I gave it to them. But once this looted art thing blew up a few years ago, I told Malcolm Stewart the whole story. He said the museum was working on this provenance thing, trying to set things right. But then nothing happened.”
The lawyer made a little strangled noise of protest.
“Oops,” Miller said. “Guess I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part.”
He chuckled, and Genevieve realized that he was enjoying himself.
“So, what do you folks want?” Miller asked. “You want your drawing? I’ll buy it back for you. You want your money? I’ll have it appraised and pay you what it’s worth.”
Julien looked at Henry, who said nothing.
The lawyer spoke up. “Really, Mr. Miller, I must insist... The purpose of this meeting is to open a dialogue, not facilitate some kind of back-room deal. The family’s claim to the drawing is far from meeting a standard of...”
Miller continued to talk over him. “You want to expose me as a thief? Go ahead. My wife’s dead – you can’t embarrass her. And my only child is an environmentalist who thinks having a developer for a daddy is as low as you can get already.”
“Mr. Miller, we have to think about the precedent we’d be establishing,” the lawyer went on. “There’s no definitive proof of the drawing’s ownership on the eve of the war and...”
“My cousin and I need to talk about it, Mr. Miller,” Henry said.
Miller signaled to his aide that it was time to leave. “Don’t talk about it too much. I won’t last much longer.”
As soon as the Hilliard contingent had filed out and the door closed behind them, Genevieve slumped in her chair. “I think I’ve been holding my breath for half an hour.”
Henry put his briefcase on the table and hitched up his pants. “That was fun. Don’t remember the last time I ended a meeting without even opening my briefcase.”
“The lawyer’s right,” Genevieve said. “We don’t really have enough proof. It would set a bad precedent for the museum. There’s still a gap in the drawing’s provenance and... what?”
Henry looked incredulously at Julien, who shrugged.
“Yes, she’s serious,” Julien said.
“Let me explain a few things to you,” Henry said.
Genevieve sneaked a glance at Julien, who rolled his eyes.
“The director of this museum has just been implicated in using inside information to orchestrate a real estate windfall for himself, hiring an ex-con to terrorize a former employee and conspiracy to commit murder.”
Genevieve gasped. “Malcolm tried to murder someone? Who?”
Julien laughed. “Hello? Us?”
Genevieve felt her face begin to redden. “But that wasn’t actually...”
“This museum is facing a shit storm of bad publicity,” Henry said. “Actually, it might be more like a shit hurricane. So they may talk a good game about precedent, but they’re going to cut us a deal. The only question is whether we’re going to let them dress it up as some kind of service to humanity.”
“Oh,” Genevieve said. “I suppose you’re right, when you look at it that way.”
“You realize they’re going to offer you a settlement too, right?”
“Really?” Genevieve looked at Henry, then at Julien for confirmation, then back at Henry.
“Oh good grief,” Henry said. “Let me give you some recommendations on counsel. If anyone from the Hilliard or the board calls you in the meantime, tell them your attorney will be in touch and hang up. Got that?”
“Just hang up?”
Henry smiled and patted her hand. “People like me eat people like you for breakfast.”
There was a tap at the door. Carol poked her head into the room. “I’m here to see you out,” she said.
“I’d like to take a look at our drawing before we go,” Julien said.
“Follow me,” Carol said. “We’ll cut through the employee area.”
They walked by Malcolm’s office, where Genevieve had experienced the worst 10 minutes of her adult life a few months before. The door was shut, the lights off.
Several of her former colleagues looked up as she passed. One nodded at her. Another smiled and waved.
Thomas stood as she walked by his desk. He didn’t say a word, just watched as she passed, her head held high.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Henry suggested they all meet up later for a drink to celebrate, but Genevieve begged off on the grounds that the doctor had told her to avoid alcohol.
As she and Julien got in her Camry to leave the museum, Genevieve began to have guilt pangs about her plan to head home. Julien had no car, and that was her fault.
But then she remembered D’s bikini-wax analogy.
“Do you want me to drop you off to pick up a rental car? Didn’t you tell me there was a place on Venice close to your house?
Was Julien startled by her offer? Maybe a little.
“Sure,” he said. “Good idea.”
Dropping Julien off also gave Genevieve the advantage of a head start on packing. She had everything zipped up and ready to go – well, everything except Mona – within 15 minutes of arriving back at his house.
She was tempted to write a note and leave, but she knew even D wouldn’t approve of that quick a departure.
With time to kill, she found herself wandering around the house, indulging in the worst kind of nostalgia, remembering the first time Julien made her dinner and the way he pretended not to like her cat.
The first night she was out of the hospital, she heard Julien’s phone alarm several times during the night. He padded down the hall, came into the guest room, and stood next to the bed, making sure she was OK. Once or twice he had smoothed her hair away from her face. It was comforting, and she pretended to be asleep, because she didn’t want him to stop.
What if she had opened her eyes and reached out for him?
Genevieve shook her head. This was not a good road to be on. Not good at all. D would talk her out of this kind of thinking.
Unfortunately for her, D’s phone went straight to voicemail.
Genevieve sat on the guest-room sofa, tapping her foot impatiently. What about Thomas? She started to dial his number, then stopped. She had another idea.
“Genny?” Her father sounded slightly alarmed. “Is everything OK? You aren’t back in the hospital, are you?”
Genevieve rubbed her forehead. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“I’m fine, Dad. I didn’t mean to worry you. Is this a bad time?”
“Hang on, just let me put the dog out,” Jack McKenna said. “Go on now, Ranger. Git! No, don’t stand there makin’ your mind up. I said git! That’s right. Good dog.”
Genevieve smiled. Talking to their animals – maybe she and her dad had more in common than she thought.
“How are you feeling?” her father asked. “I’ve been meaning to call and check up on you, but I know how busy you are, and I don’t like to stick my nose in.”
Did her father really think he couldn’t call to ask how she was? “I feel fine, Dad. No headache today. I do have a couple questions that might be kind of strange, though.”
“Well, that’s all right,” he said. “Shoot.”
“Did Mom ever see a neurologist?”
“Your mom saw lots of doctors. I don’t really know about a neurologist.”
“Do you know if she ever had a CT scan?”
“Did we have those back then?” He fell silent. “I think I’d remember that, because it would have been something pretty new, right? So I don’t think so. Sorry, I can’t say for sure.”
“That’s OK,” Genevieve said. “I was just curious.”
“What’s this about, Genny?”
“I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, about things we might have in common. Something will happen, and I’ll wonder if it ever happened to her,” Genevieve said. “It doesn’t exactly make sense, I know.”
“It’s your age,” her father said, his voice hushed. “Once you have your next birthday, you’ll have lived longer than she did. That’s got to be strange for you. I know it is for me.”
He was right, of course. Genevieve had never done the math until that moment, but he was right.
“That must be it.”
She took a deep breath and composed herself. “Well, I know it’s your suppertime, so I’ll let you go. I’m headed back to my apartment, and the traffic’s going to be brutal.”
“You be careful on the highway, Genny.”
“I will, Dad. And Dad? It’s OK to call me.”
“OK, honey. I’ll remember that.”
Genevieve heard a car door slam. “Dad, can I ask one more thing about Mom, and do you promise to tell me the truth?”
“I always do,” her father said.
“I know this is a hard question, but just take me out of the equation, OK? Pretend that I never existed, so it’s not, like, a referendum on me,” Genevieve said.
“I’m not really following, honey.”
“If you had it to do over again, if you knew everything that was going to happen, would you still have gone into the bank to cash a check just so you could talk to that redhead waiting in line?”
Jack McKenna was quiet for a long time. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Genny, I have so many regrets about so many things. But my biggest regret when it comes to your mother is that I didn’t have more time with her. So the answer is yes, I would do it all over again. And not just because of you.”
“Genevieve?” Julien called wh
en he came into the house. “Where are you?”
She walked into the kitchen, where Julien was pulling items from a shopping bag.
“There you are,” he said. “I was thinking chicken Milanese for dinner, pasta, and you like arugula, right?” He took in her expression. “You don’t like arugula. OK. No problem. I got asparagus too, just in case.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were going shopping, or I would have said something,” Genevieve said. “I can’t stay for dinner.”
Julien paused with the refrigerator door open, asparagus in his hand.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going home,” Genevieve said. “I’ve just been waiting for you to get back. All I need to do is put Mona in her carrier and load the car.”
Julien nudged the refrigerator door closed. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Genevieve said, mustering a smile. “It’s just time for me to go home.”
“Traffic’s going to be awful,” Julien said. “Stay for dinner. Go later.”
“I really need to go now.”
“If you leave now, you’ll sit in the car twice as long, which means Mona has to be stuck in her carrier twice as long.”
“Don’t you use my cat against me.”
Julien’s eyes widened at her sharp tone. Genevieve turned and walked away.
OK, so the conversation hadn’t started off so well. Time to try again.
“I left the key in here,” she said, starting down the hall. “Oh, and there’s an exhibit coming to LACMA in May that’s supposed to be really good. If you’re interested, I could talk to Thomas about getting us all into the preview cocktail party. That might be fun.”
Julien followed her down the hall. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand what’s going on here.”
Genevieve sighed. Why was he doing this? He acted like she was breaking up with him. They weren’t a couple. Wasn’t that the whole point?
“I’m going home. That’s what’s going on here.”
“Why can’t you stay for dinner?”
“Because I’ll stay for dinner, and then it will be late, and I’ll be tired, and you’ll tell me to go tomorrow, and...” Genevieve sighed. Again.