by Shawna Seed
Vivian Chalifoux was nothing like Genevieve had pictured. She was very tall, with white hair cut in a flattering pageboy. She wore tan chinos with a blue and white striped T-shirt smartly tucked in. A blue cardigan was draped around her shoulders.
Her face, though lined, was still beautiful.
“Hello,” Genevieve said, offering her hand. “I’m Genevieve McKenna.”
“Yes. Oh yes, so much like your mother,” Vivian said, holding out her own hand, smiling.
Julien finished cleaning his shoe and tossed the stick away. Wiping his hand on his pant leg, he straightened and faced the door.
The color drained from Vivian’s face, and she inhaled sharply.
“I think I wrote that I was bringing my friend with me,” Genevieve said, puzzled. “This is Julien Brooks. His mother was...”
Vivian stood back to admit them. “Regine’s boy. Of course. I thought we could sit outside, by the water.” She led them through the living room to a pair of French doors.
The walls of the living room were bare, painted a stark white. An old-fashioned settee upholstered in pale blue took up one wall. A wing chair faced it at an angle.
Vivian opened the French doors and led them out onto a rock terrace facing the bay. Adirondack chairs were grouped in a corner around a rough-hewn wooden table. A plank sidewalk led down to a small dock.
She waved them toward the chairs. “Please, have a seat. Would you like lemonade?”
“That sounds nice,” Genevieve said. “Can I help you?”
“No, please sit,” Vivian said. She went back inside, closing the doors firmly behind her.
“Did you notice that her walls were completely blank? How strange is that for someone who taught art history?”
Before Julien could reply, Vivian returned balancing a tray with two antique green glasses.
Julien rose to help her. “Just take the glasses, if you would,” she said.
She put the tray down on the table and angled an Adirondack chair toward them.
“The resemblance to your Uncle David gave me a bit of a start,” she said. “And you, Genevieve, are just as lovely as your mother. And you’re together! That’s magnificent. I’m delighted it’s finally all come together, and you’ve come to let me know.”
Julien and Genevieve exchanged a look.
“What’s come together?” Genevieve asked.
“Oh,” Vivian said. “You don’t know, then.”
Vivian tapped her right hand rhythmically against the arm of her chair. “I’m trying to think how to explain all this.” She settled deeper into her chair. “Well, they always say the best place to start is the beginning.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“I never expected to have a glamorous life,” Vivian began. “I thought I’d marry my sweetheart Gordon, a boy I’d known all my life, and we’d be the most conventional of couples. But that changed in the spring of 1938, just a month or so before my college graduation.
“We were at a dance, and I realized that I hadn’t seen Gordon in a bit. I went outside to look for him, and I found him in the back of a car, in flagrante.”
Vivian paused dramatically. “With his best friend.”
“Oh,” Genevieve said, nearly choking on her lemonade.
“Oh indeed. Such things were hardly spoken of in those days, so to say I was shocked would be putting it mildly. Though it did explain a certain lack of ardor on Gordon’s part.”
Genevieve shot Julien an alarmed look. Where was this story going?
“I’d no idea what to do with myself after having my plans upended. Fortunately, I had a small inheritance,” Vivian said, “so I attached myself to a school chum who was traveling to Paris with an aunt and sailed shortly after graduation.”
She scanned the horizon, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Turning out to be a beautiful day,” she said.
“I’d been in Paris a few weeks when I met David.” She stared frankly at Julien. “He was handsome like you. Though not as tall. That must come from your father.”
“My mother always said I didn’t get it from the Lazares,” Julien said.
“David was very sophisticated, had a brilliant eye, and, well, he was just a beautiful man,” Vivian said. “Though with a bit of a reputation for the ladies.”
She grasped the arms of her chair. “Well, why dance around it? We became lovers. I was never so happy, although I suppose I knew deep down it couldn’t last. Herr Hitler would see to that.
“By 1939, things in Europe were very tense. David knew artists and intellectuals who had fled Germany. He was certain a war was coming. And he worried about your mother. She was just a teenager, and David was responsible for her. I suppose your mother told you some of this,” she said.
“She said when he sent her to England, he told her it was just to visit their friends,” Julien said. “She said an American friend of his traveled with her. Was that you?”
“It was,” Vivian said. “David was reluctant to send her alone. And he was determined that I leave, too.”
“I took Regine to England, and I sailed home in August of ’39, one of the last ships to New York. Then Germany invaded Poland, and the war began in earnest.”
Vivian sighed. “I had been home a month when I realized I must be pregnant. David and I always took precautions, but my last evening in Paris, we met in the studio above the apartment, and we were quite overcome.”
Julien and Genevieve exchanged a look. Vivian chuckled.
“Oh dear. Have I shocked you, children?”
“No,” Genevieve said.
“I have a cousin?” Julien leaned forward in his chair.
Vivian held up her hand. She’d tell her story her way.
“As you can imagine, this was quite a predicament,” Vivian said. “I cabled David – the promptest method of communication in those days, but not private, which obliged me to speak in code. I followed up with a letter, in which I was more explicit.”
She stared off into the distance for a moment, then said softly, “But time was of the essence, and I didn’t hear from him.
“Ironically, Gordon saved the day,” Vivian said. “We struck a deal that we’d keep each other’s secrets, and we did love each other, after a fashion. We eloped and moved to Seattle. We cabled our families the next summer and said ‘Surprise, we have a son!’ We neglected to mention he was born in March.”
She smiled. “You’re dubious, but Gordon was a marvelous liar. He had to be.”
“You never heard from David?” Julien asked.
“A letter did catch up with me, that winter before the baby was born,” Vivian said. “I’ve no idea what it said. I was angry. I had Gordon burn it.”
Genevieve gasped.
“I know,” Vivian said. “I’ve never forgiven myself.”
She took a moment to compose herself and then resumed her story. “When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Gordon enlisted. He was killed in the war. So I was a widow with a young child to support. David and I moved...”
Seeing their expressions, she stopped. “Yes, I named him for his father. Gordon didn’t mind. We lived with my mother while I did my graduate studies. Later, of course, I would learn that my great love had not survived.”
She leaned forward and patted Julien’s knee. “And that’s the story of me and your uncle.” She tilted her head. “Now tell me, how is your mother?”
“She died three years ago,” Julien said.
“Did she have a happy life?”
Julien thought about that. “Not especially, no.”
“So few people do,” Vivian said. “No one likes to admit that.”
She stretched her legs in front of her, then stood. “Would either of you like more lemonade? No? If you’ll excuse me a moment, then.”
Julien stood as she left.
“Wow,” he said, easing back into his chair.
“That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard,” Genevieve said. She reached out toward Julien, and he gras
ped her hand.
The door handle turned, and Vivian returned. She handed a bottle of sunscreen to Genevieve. “The sun here is stronger than it looks,” she said, “and you’ve got that fair skin like your mother.”
“Thanks,” Genevieve said, squeezing lotion into her hand and rubbing it on her arms. “You seem to have vivid memories of my mother.”
“Oh yes,” Vivian said. “How could I not?”
Seeing Genevieve’s confusion, Vivian shook her head. “Forgive me. You must find the way I’m telling this story infuriating.”
“It’s your story to tell,” Julien said.
Vivian flashed a smile at him. “So gallant, you Lazare men. Let’s see, how shall I proceed? Well, I suppose this is the part where Genevieve’s mother enters the scene. I think she became my student in 1967, or maybe 1968.”
“It was ’68,” Genevieve said.
“She stood out for so many reasons – a bright girl, of course, and that red hair. And it soon became clear that Grace was an old soul,” Vivian said.
“My son, David, you see... David had an accident when he was 12. He fell off his bicycle and hit his head. No one wore helmets then, and it damaged his brain. Before the accident, I thought he might be an artist. Afterward, while I was teaching, David liked to spend his days at the cafe in town. The owners were fond of him, and he’d sit at the counter all day, sketching.”
“My mom’s roommate said they went to the cafe sometimes,” Genevieve said.
“David noticed her right away,” Vivian said. “The owner had strict instructions not to let him make a pest of himself, and by the same token, girls from the school were not allowed to bother him. He was a grown man with the mind of a little boy, you understand. But Grace was kind to him, and the two of them seemed to have a genuine affinity.”
Vivian paused, unsure, it seemed, how to go on.
“Was it you or your son who told my mother about David Lazare and Paris?” Genevieve asked.
Vivian thought before answering. “If I said she learned of that through her own unconventional methods, would that make sense to you?”
Genevieve looked to Julien, who shrugged.
“Yes,” Genevieve said.
“One day she came to my office,” Vivian said. “Her head was bare, and snow was melting in her fiery hair. I remember thinking there was a metaphor there. She was frantic. She had to know: What happens to David Lazare?
“I was shocked. I hadn’t heard David’s name in years. I’d never confided to anyone but Gordon.
“I asked where she’d heard that name. She wouldn’t answer. She kept pressing me – what happens? I tried to calm her, but she wouldn’t be deterred.’’
Vivian closed her eyes briefly.
“She talked as if it weren’t all 30 years in the past.”
The sun went behind a cloud, and Genevieve shivered.
“She was back the next day, much calmer. She told me, quite matter-of-factly, of these strange experiences she’d had, the sensation of being in the studio above the apartment. I told her what I’d learned after the war, that David had died. She stood up, then, and looked me in the eye, and she said, ‘I can save him.’
“You know the rest,” Vivian said. “Someone alerted your grandparents. They whisked her away to some hospital. I should have done more to help her, I suppose, but I hardly knew what.”
Genevieve leaned forward in her chair. “You believed her.”
Vivian gave a small smile. “Joan of Arc heard the voice of God calling her to save France. And so she did. I suppose they’d say now that she was mentally ill.”
“Why did you send me the catalog?” Genevieve asked.
“Christine is quite the dynamo about sending class updates. I saw in one of her newsletters that you were working at the Hilliard,” Vivian said. “I was struck by the fact that you shared your mother’s interest in art, and I wondered whether you were like her in other ways, and if you were…”
She looked out at the water a long time. When she spoke again, her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“I wondered whether you could save him.”
Genevieve looked at Julien. How much should she tell?
“Go ahead,” he said.
She got up and went to Vivian’s side.
“I am like my mother. I’ve experienced the same things, and I’ve, well... I think I’ve encountered David.”
“But you were not in time,” Vivian said. It was a statement, not a question.
Genevieve put her hand on Vivian’s knee. “No, I was there in time. But I don’t think it’s possible to change anything. I don’t think he wanted to change anything. I think he already knew he would die. And he went anyway.”
Vivian covered Genevieve’s hand with hers.
“Well,” Vivian said finally, wiping away tears with her free hand. “I’m glad to know that. Thank you.” She patted Genevieve’s hand. “Thank you for telling me that.”
They were quiet for a few moments, then Julien said, “Where’s your son now? It would be good to meet another cousin.”
“My David died in ’72. A seizure,” Vivian said.
“Oh,” Genevieve said. “I’m so sorry.”
Vivian fingered Genevieve’s hair, then looked at Julien.
“Together at last,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Genevieve said.
“Come with me,” Vivian said. “It’s time you knew the rest of the story.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Julien stood and took Genevieve’s elbow, helping her up. He offered his other hand to Vivian.
“Follow me,” Vivian said, going inside and heading toward stairs that angled off the entry hall.
“A 93-year-old woman is inviting you into her bedroom,” she said to Julien. “What do you think about that?”
Julien responded in French, something Genevieve couldn’t make out.
That prompted a throaty laugh from Vivian. “You’re as bad as David. He was an incorrigible flirt.”
She grasped the banister and climbed the stairs ahead of them. At the top, she made a turn, took a few steps, and opened a door. She stood aside for them to enter.
Confused, Genevieve walked into the room. White curtains framed the windows, which looked out on the water. Like the living room, it was sparsely furnished. There was an antique wooden bed, topped by a white chenille cover. Next to it stood a nightstand, which held an old-fashioned alarm clock and several prescription bottles.
Turning from the bed, she looked at the opposite wall.
And there it was.
Genevieve gasped.
“Oh wow,” Julien said. “She looks just like...”
“Behold Tristan and Iseult, by Théodore Lazare. Other than my son, and the ignorant man who framed it, you are the first people to see it since the war,” Vivian said. “And yes, Julien, Iseult looks very much like your Genevieve.”
Genevieve was too stunned to speak.
“Sit on the bed, dear, it’s fine,” Vivian said.
“It’s beautiful,” Julien said. “I thought the Thisbe painting in the Louvre was gorgeous, but this… Wait, how did you get this?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment,” Vivian said. “Shall I tell you the story of this painting? You saw Pyramus and Thisbe? So perhaps you recognize the model, although as Thisbe her face was obscured.”
Genevieve backed up and perched on the edge of the bed.
“It’s a woman Théodore Lazare was in love with, right? She rejected him, so he showed her face here to punish her, and his brother kept it under wraps to avoid scandal,” Genevieve said.
“Oh my,” Vivian said. “Who told you that?”
“A French academic pieced it together from gossip in letters,” Julien said, “although she didn’t know who the woman was.”
“Her name is Marianne Mercier,” Vivian said. “She loved Théodore, and he loved her. But their love was doomed. Her family would never let her marry a man who wasn’t a Christian. T
héodore’s brother tried to intervene by sending him to Florence to paint, but all he did was come back with a gift for Marianne, a pendant.”
“So that’s why he painted her as Thisbe, and again as Iseult,” Genevieve said. “Doomed love.”
“Heartbreaking, as you can see from the painting,” Vivian said. “She didn’t reject him. They were separated by her family. And he didn’t want to punish her. He painted her face so he could remember her after she left.”
“Where’d she go?” Julien asked.
“Her family arranged a marriage to a man taking a government post in Martinique.”
“How do you know all of this?” Genevieve asked.
“Henri Lazare wrote a letter to his son, explaining the painting’s history. David showed it to me,” Vivian said.
“It freaks me out how much she looks like Gen,” Julien said.
Vivian put a hand to her chest. “Imagine my surprise when Genevieve’s mother arrived on campus.”
“ ‘He says I look like a girl in a painting,’ My mother wrote that,” Genevieve said. “Your son said that, didn’t he? But he didn’t mean a painting. He meant this painting.”
Genevieve stood. So many things were becoming clear. “The things that happened to my mom – the flashbacks or whatever – that started after she met your son, after she met someone from the Lazare family. And it happened to me right after I met Julien.”
Julien looked alarmed. “Wait a minute. I’m causing this? I’m the problem?”
“On the contrary,” Vivian said, “I prefer to think you two are the solution.”
“You lost me,” Julien said.
“After I saw Genevieve’s mother, I became very interested in the story of Marianne Mercier,” Vivian said. “She had three daughters and two sons. Can you guess where at least one of her descendants ended up, Genevieve?”
When Genevieve didn’t respond, Vivian supplied the answer: “Louisiana.”
“I don’t get it,” Julien said.
“My mother was born there,” Genevieve said.
“I thought your mother was from Texas.”