by Shawna Seed
“The family that adopted her was from Texas, but she was born in Louisiana.”
“The adoption may make things difficult to trace,” Vivian said, “but I would wager that you are descended from Marianne Mercier.”
“Wait a minute. You think…” Julien began.
“Two kindred souls, endlessly circling, looking for the right opportunity, the right circumstances...” Vivian sighed. “Perhaps I’m just an old woman who reads too many novels. But that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it, as they say.”
“But how did you get the painting?” Genevieve asked.
“In 1946, I got a letter from a gallery owner in New York, an acquaintance of David’s. He said he had a package for me,” Vivian said.
“In the early days of the Occupation, David worked with a network of like-minded people to keep art out of Nazi hands. Somehow he managed to get the painting to a friend, who got it to a friend, who got it to the colleague in New York by way of Lisbon. David intended the painting to be a legacy for his child.”
“But there’s no record of anything. This painting just dropped out of sight,” Genevieve said.
“David burned all his records, so the Nazis wouldn’t know what to look for,” Vivian said. “He cut the painting from the frame – how it must have pained him to do that – and sent it to me, along with a letter.”
To Julien, she said, “This rightfully belonged to you, I suppose, once my son died.”
She turned to Genevieve. “You must wonder, given my background, how I could countenance this, allowing the world to believe a painting is lost when it’s been hanging on my bedroom wall. I took pains to hide it, too. ”
She crossed to the painting and adjusted the frame slightly. “I have no good answer to that. All I can say is this: It’s the last thing I have that was touched by David.”
“Do you still have the letter?” Genevieve asked.
“Of course I still have the letter,” Vivian said, squaring her shoulders. “But you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I don’t show it to you. It’s rather personal.”
Genevieve gave a little gasp, embarrassed that Vivian had misunderstood. “I only meant that if you have the letter, that proves the provenance.”
Julien put his hand on her arm to stop her. “You don’t owe my family anything. David wanted you to have it, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s yours. I don’t think anyone needs to know about this.”
He looked at Genevieve. “What do you think? Can you live with this on your conscience?”
Genevieve nodded, knowing this was one decision she would never second-guess.
“Well,” Vivian said briskly, “that’s settled. I’m so glad you came. It’s been lovely visiting with you.” She looked at her watch. “But tonight’s my book club, and I really must have a nap if I’m going to be sharp. Our theme this month was erotica, and I think it’s going to be a lively discussion!”
Julien threw his head back and laughed.
Twenty minutes later, they were in the rental car, headed back to Boston. Julien found a scenic spot where they could pull over, and they sat on a rock, staring out at the vast expanse of the Atlantic.
Genevieve wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her head on them.
“Are you cold?” Julien asked.
Genevieve shook her head. “I’m just really sad. It all turned out so awful for everyone. Nobody got to be happy.” She began to sniffle. “I think I’m going to cry.”
Julien put his arm around her.
“I’m sorry,” she sputtered. “Do you think it’s true, what Vivian said? About us?”
“What, that we’re some kind of cosmic do-over for a couple that got wronged by the universe?”
“More science-fiction crap for you not to believe, I guess,” Genevieve said.
“I don’t know, Gen.” Julien leaned his head against hers. “I know that when I saw you in Vegas, sitting there drinking coffee, I plugged in a laptop that was already fully charged just so I could talk to you. And it wasn’t like ‘Oh, I think I’ll talk to her.’ It was like ‘I have to talk to her.’ ”
“Really?”
Julien nodded. “And I know I love you so much that I can’t quite believe it.”
Genevieve drew back and looked at him.
“Yeah, I really said that. I know. It’s too fast.” He shrugged. “But I love you.”
“Julien…”
“You don’t have to say it back,” he said. “It’s cool.”
Genevieve began to laugh. “I promised myself I would wait another month before I said it.”
Julien began to laugh too.
“It’s marked on my calendar,” she said. “You can look when we get home.”
“OK, I love that, too,” Julien said. He glanced around. “It’s kind of deserted here. Want to climb down to the beach and make out?”
“Julien! It’s cold!”
“I said make out, Gen.”
She shot him a look. “It’s too bad you didn’t bring your camera,” she said. “You like taking pictures of deserted landscapes like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are no people in the photos in your house,” she said.
Julien pulled his phone from his pocket. “We’ll fix that. Come here.” They turned so the ocean was behind them. Julien rested his head against Genevieve’s and wrapped one arm around her. He held the phone out and snapped the picture.
“How did it come out?” Genevieve asked, craning her head to see.
Julien showed her the photo. “There’s your happy ending.”
Author’s Note
Not In Time is a work of fiction. Théodore Lazare never existed, nor did Galerie de l’Étoile in Paris, nor the Hilliard Museum in Santa Monica.
The Nazis did loot thousands of works of art, many of which have not been returned to their rightful owners – as recent news events have made clear.
James Rorimer and the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives section, mentioned in passing in these pages, were real. The thieving typist I’ve placed in their orbit at war’s end is an invention.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my husband for thinking a time-traveling art detective would make an excellent premise for a novel. I’d also like to thank him for taking a job in Culver City, California, in 2006. I wrote the first two drafts of Not In Time at our dining room table in a house very much like Julien’s.
My agent, Lauren Abramo of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management, saw something in the first draft of Not In Time and encouraged me to find a better ending, for which I thank her.
Dr. Sue Williams, purveyor of fine chocolates, advised me on ER protocol in cases of concussion. Barbara Morris, the pixel-packin’ mama, makes my website and paperbacks purty.
My sister read every version of this manuscript and liked them all. My parents probably hit the refresh button all night waiting for this book to show up online so they could buy it first. Writing can be lonely and discouraging work, but I couldn’t ask for better cheerleaders.
I’d also like to thank the stickman at the Paris casino in Las Vegas who helpfully informed me (after I hit him with the dice) that the dealers are in play.
About the Author
Shawna Seed is a writer and editor whose work has taken her to both coasts and several spots in between, working for organizations ranging from The Dallas Morning News to ESPN.com. Her previous novel, Identity, was released in March 2013.
Originally from Kansas, she has lived in seven states and every continental U.S. time zone. She and her husband – and their two cats, Gus and Lulu – now make their home in Dallas.
You can learn more about the author at www.shawnaseed.com
Like Shawna Seed on Facebook: www.facebook.com/shawnaseedauthor
Follow Shawna Seed on Twitter (@shawnaseed)
Find Shawna Seed on Goodreads (www.goodreads.com)
Cover design: Heather Kern, popshopstudio.com
Also by Shawna
Seed
IDENTITY
New job. New town. New life.
Risky Business is big at the box office, Journey is on the radio, and Sharlah Webb’s luck is finally turning.
Or she thinks it is, until the day she comes home from her waitressing job to find police cars in her driveway and her boyfriend, Brian Lowry, in jail on drug charges.
Suddenly, she’s got all kinds of trouble. She’s broke, Brian’s family blames her for his arrest, and a hurricane is bearing down on their Texas Gulf Coast town.
Even worse, Brian refuses to cooperate with the police and won’t tell her why. It soon becomes clear that his secrets have put them both in jeopardy.
As the danger grows, so does Sharlah’s confusion. Is Brian not the man she thought he was? Can she trust the police? Brian’s family?
Should she stay put, or flee the approaching storm?
Sharlah embarks on her own search for answers. Then one fateful decision launches a mystery that will take years to unravel.
Identity: A novel of suspense, love and finding your true self.