Lisa’s eyes softened. “I just received a call from our birth mother. She was going to pump her breasts for a few weeks to help Ruthie get a good start, but now she’s not going to do that. She’s been rooming with a friend from school this summer, and now she’s decided to move to California and start graduate school. Robert wants to get our lawyer involved, but I don’t want to spend more money on her or legal fees. Every penny is earmarked for Ruth’s care.”
“Can the NICU get donor breast milk?”
“There’s a milk bank in Norfolk, but it’s not covered by our insurance. Robert told me we could use some of our savings to pay expenses, and he ordered me”—she made air quotes—“to stop worrying.”
“If Kevin told me to stop worrying, it would go in one ear and out the other. You can’t tell someone to stop worrying.”
“The problem is, we have different views about money. He grew up in an affluent family in Charlottesville. I grew up in a working-class family in New York City. I know what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck. And besides, I’m a natural worrier. I saved every penny I could to pay for a surrogate, and now I’m afraid we won’t be able to pay Ruth’s expenses.”
“They won’t hold Ruth hostage until the hospital bill is paid. The business office will work with you.”
“I know they will, but I’m obsessive, and can’t stop worrying.”
“Then go see my psychotherapist. She’s in the building and insurance pays for the sessions.”
“Give me her number and I’ll call and make an appointment.” Lisa patted her chest. “I don’t deal well with things I can’t control. When I was seventeen, I went on spring break with friends. One day, while we were at the beach, someone broke into our room and stole my food money. My girlfriends were all on tight budgets. No one could float me a loan. We were all eating fast food and skipping meals. I had to get a job stocking shelves so I could eat.”
“Sounds like you handled it with panache. You knew what you had to do and did it. You took control.”
“It’s gotten all warped in my head. When I don’t have money of my own, I feel out of control.” Lisa ran her hands over her hair and pulled it together in a ponytail she then looped over her shoulder. “I mean, Robert has this covered, but having my own secret stash is insurance for me. I know it’s not logical—”
“Logical?” JL gave Lisa a reassuring squeeze on her arm. “Putting our babies in Plexiglass boxes isn’t normal or logical. Hey, here’s a thought. Why don’t you sell one of your sculptures and keep the money in your secret stash? Bet it will make you feel better.”
“I don’t have time right now to look for exhibitions to take my art.”
“Kevin’s father has connections in the art world. He can make a few calls and sell whatever you want.”
“I couldn’t impose.”
“I’ll impose for you. Send me photos and descriptions of your sculptures, and he’ll take it from there.”
Lisa’s shoulders slumped as tension seemed to seep out of her. After a minute she said, “I have four pieces ready to sell. There’s a market for my work, but I just can’t deal with it right now.”
“If those sell, you’ll have plenty in your secret stash. Right?”
Lisa let loose with one of those half laughs that pop out when you really want to cry, or you find yourself so overcome with relief that you can’t do anything else.
“I know I’m crazy. Robert just rolls his eyes. But I can’t help it.”
“We all have our little idiosyncrasies.”
“Now you know mine, what’s yours?”
JL raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m a hard-ass cynic.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“Trust me. I wouldn’t have survived the streets of New York without a healthy dose of cynicism.” JL’s cell phone beeped with a text message. She looked at the screen. “Blane sent me a beating heart emoji.”
“He’s so cute.”
“He’s a handful,” JL said.
“So where are you going now?” Lisa asked.
JL pointed over her shoulder. “I was going to the moms’ room to look for my jacket.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll see you in the pod,” Lisa said. “And, JL, thank you. I’ll send the photos and information.”
JL watched Lisa walk away. She knew what it was like to live paycheck to paycheck, and when emergencies popped up, she used to run out of money long before the week was up.
Neither she nor Lisa had any idea if their preemies would have long-term medical issues, and if they did, what out-of-pocket expenses they’d have. But JL would never have to worry about money. And once Lisa sold her art, she might not have to worry either.
JL searched the moms’ room and found her jacket, swung it over her shoulder, and returned to the pod. Kit MacKlenna Montgomery had arrived and was standing over Lawrence’s incubator with Kevin. Kit was a decade older than Kevin was now, because of the years she spent living in the past, but you couldn’t tell. Her green eyes were still as bright as they’d been in her family pictures, her hair was the same shade of blonde, and her petite figure was still trim and muscular.
JL went over to Kit and gave her a hug. “Thanks for sitting with him. Where’s Cullen?”
“He and Braham assigned a scene from Romeo and Juliet to read and discuss. The kids decided they wanted to act it out instead. So they put their creative hats on, designed a set for the performance space in the library, divvied up parts, and sent out email invitations for a performance at seven o’clock.”
“Oh… I’m sorry to miss it. Does Blane have a part?”
“Everyone who wanted a part got one, but only a few have a speaking role. Blane is a tree.”
JL grinned at Kevin. “Ah. A tree. How cute. I’m sure he’s thrilled just to be part of the action. Do we have time to get to the plantation?”
“If you want to go, it would be good for you. And a wonderful surprise for Blane.”
The decision tugged on JL’s heart. If she went to the plantation, it would take longer to get back if there was an emergency. This was one of those situations the NICU staff warned her about. She had two other sons. They needed her too.
“Okay. I’ll go,” she said before she could change her mind.
“If you want to see the performance, Kit, I’ll stay,” Kevin said.
“Heavens, no. Been there, done that. The first time I reenacted a scene from Romeo and Juliet was on the Wyoming prairie. Adam Barrett played the role of Tybalt, and I played dual roles: Romeo and Mercutio. While we were sword fighting, we were interrupted by a mother’s heart-wrenching scream. I can still hear it.” Kit shivered. “I’ve never acted in a Shakespearean role since.” She glanced at Lawrence and ran her hand along the top of the incubator. “It was an amazing trip, but full of hardship and heartache.”
“You met Cullen,” JL said.
“You wouldn’t believe all the excuses Elliott made for you,” Kevin said. “He spread a rumor that you were living in Scotland in seclusion. I had no idea what was going on.”
“He was furious because I went off without him.” Kit shivered again. “So, how’s Lawrence been today?”
“No emergencies. We’re taking it hour by hour, though,” JL said.
Kevin picked up his duffel bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “JL did kangaroo care for a few hours.”
“I’m sure it was wonderful to hold him. Now, you two run along. I’ll text Kenzie and tell her you’re coming.”
Kevin swept his arm around JL’s waist and steered her toward the entrance to the pod. “You heard Kit. Let’s go.”
JL didn’t get two feet away when she noticed Lisa sliding her hands in the portholes of Ruth’s incubator. “That’s Lisa Harrison,” JL said to Kit. “She’s a sweetheart. She’s also an artist, and Pete knew her when she was in high school. It’s such a small world.”
“If there’s any down time, I’ll speak to her. Now enjoy the play, and don’t worry
about this little guy. I’ll watch over him.”
JL stood in the entrance to the pod and watched Kit sanitize her hands before slipping them through the portholes. If anyone could handle things here, Kit could. JL squeezed Kevin’s hand, and together they drifted out of the NICU, leaving part of their hearts behind.
29
Paris (1789)—Sophia
Thomas’s leave of absence from President Washington arrived on August 26, 1789, but it was another month before he was able to tie up loose ends and prepare for departure.
Except for Sophia, who knew what was happening from a historical context, probably no one in France was more acutely aware of the gathering storm than Thomas. His intimacy with Lafayette and his access to the ministry and diplomatic corps, put him in a favorable position to learn exactly what was going on. As far as she was concerned, it was past time to get out of the city, out of the country, and off the continent.
Sophia often went with him to assembly meetings to sketch the people in attendance. At her suggestion, he included the sketches in his letters to John Jay. It was a marketing strategy for her, because if she couldn’t go home again she would need to grow her business. Including her sketches in his correspondence was a perfect way to promote her art.
Watin had restocked her supplies over the past few days, and she’d packed them in black leather traveling trunks. Her paintings were crated or rolled and her sketching materials boxed. There wasn’t anything left to do as she walked through her studio except check items off her list and lock all the trunk lids. Even though she used the room for only a few short weeks, the space vibrated with memories.
While being stuck in Paris was stressful, something amazing had taken place in her studio, something so unique it could never, ever be recreated. She had become, in the truest sense of the term, an Old Master. She could now check off the three requirements: (1) a painter of skill, (2) who painted in Europe, and (3) before 1800.
While she was already a painter of skill, Jacques David’s two-month master class on eighteenth-century art had propelled her talent into another dimension. She chuckled at the thought. She was already in another dimension. She didn’t have to be propelled anywhere.
How art historians would eventually evaluate her paintings of Thomas, the girls, Mr. Petit, Sally and James Hemings, Lafayette and the marquise, she could only guess. If she made it home again, it would be mind-boggling to read the reviews.
She stood at the French doors, shaking slightly at the thought of how her art would be remembered. But what about her? What would she remember about her time in Paris? What would she hold forever close to her heart?
That was easy. Time spent with Thomas. They had visited Parisian gardens, fountains, pavilions, and shady paths, shopped at the Palais Royal, visited museums and toured the countryside, dined at the marquise’s salon, and attended the opera. They laughed, flirted, drank wine, and longed for something impossible.
Reality was hitting her now with a severe case of stomach jitters, and she fidgeted with her hair ribbon, her apron strings, and even a broken fingernail.
Her mind was a storm of what-ifs.
Crossing the Atlantic in the eighteenth century wasn’t safe. What if the ship sprang a leak, a big leak? What if they were attacked by Barbary pirates? It happened to ships in the 1780s. Wasn’t there a Barbary War? She couldn’t remember when it happened.
Large bodies of water made her anxious. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, which was why she’d never entered a triathlon. Ha. Ha. Bad joke. Not only wasn’t she a strong swimmer, but she was the slowest runner she knew. Bicycling was her strong suit.
I wonder when bicycles were invented. Maybe Thomas can make me one. “I’d enjoy riding a wooden bicycle more than a horse.”
Marguerite laughed softly. “Are you talking to yourself, milady? I don’t know what a wooden bicycle is, but I know how much you dislike your riding lessons.”
Sophia whirled to find her maid swishing through the empty room carrying a leather satchel the size of a small briefcase. She enjoyed Marguerite’s laughter and its unfettered energy. It was often contagious, but today she had too much on her mind.
“Yes I am, and finding myself an awful bore. What’s in the satchel?”
“I found this at a shop at the Palais Royal. It will hold sketching paper, pencils, and chalk, so you’ll have what you need when you want to sketch during the journey.”
“How clever.” Sophia accepted the satchel, untied the straps, and peeked inside, pleased to see Marguerite had already packed it. “Did you pick up the last of your dress order while you were out?”
“Yes, milady. They’re all packed, but Mr. Petit questioned me about the purchases because he knows I could have made everything I bought.”
Sophia retied the laces and handed the briefcase back to her. “He’s right. I hated paying such exorbitant prices, but we ran out of time. What’d you tell him?”
“That I’d be managing your household and studio when we arrive in America and you want me to look…pratique.”
“Yes, businesslike, exactly. What’d he say?”
“He said you are an unusual woman, very fair and thoughtful, and he’d never question any decision you made.” Marguerite smiled. “I think the monsieur will miss you.”
“I’ll definitely miss him.” Sophia had become rather attached to the maître d’hôtel, and she couldn’t believe Thomas was leaving him behind. But somebody had to stay and pack up the rest of the belongings when Thomas finally realized he wouldn’t be returning to France.
As for Marguerite, Sophia had debated for about five minutes whether to take her to America. Marguerite could have a prosperous future if she emigrated. So after consulting with Marguerite’s brother, Sophia made Marguerite an offer. If she would accompany her to America and help Sophia get her home and studio established, then Sophia would help her open a dress shop, and she could become America’s Rose Bertin.
Sophia locked the last of the trunks and gave Marguerite the keys. “Have the other trunks been loaded in the wagon?”
“Yes, milady, and they’re coming for the ones in here shortly.”
“Where are Mr. Jefferson’s daughters?”
Marguerite slipped the keys into a pocket inside the satchel. “The mademoiselles are saying farewell to their schoolmates.”
“Oh, I forgot they were stopping by. What about Mr. Jefferson?”
“He went to call on Monsieur Houdon to pick up his plaster busts.”
Hands on her hips, Sophia tapped her fingers. “Hmmm. I hope Monsieur Houdon prepared them for shipping.”
Thomas had taken Sophia to Jean-Antoine Houdon’s studio, and she’d been honored to meet the preeminent sculptor of the French Enlightenment. When he discovered she’d been studying with Jacques David, he invited her to spend a day at his studio. One of his terra-cotta, patinated busts of Thomas would one day be on display at the Met in New York City, and two others in Philadelphia and Paris. And a marble bust made from the plaster original would one day be on exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. To see the busts in the sculptor’s studio had been an awe-inspiring experience. And, not to overdramatize, but she did pinch herself while she was there.
If Thomas ordered twelve and only three of the plaster busts survived to be exhibited in the future, did it mean the others hadn’t survived the trip to America? Or were they destroyed years later?
“I thought Mr. Jefferson wanted to get an early start this morning. Was he going anywhere else?” Sophia asked.
“He had an appointment with General Lafayette.”
Sophia’s mental art trivia catalogue flipped open, giving her a start. If Thomas was going to see Lafayette after leaving Houdon’s studio, did that mean he was delivering a bust to Lafayette as a farewell gift? The provenance of the Jefferson bust at the Met dated back to 1934, when it first appeared on the art market. The bust was traced back to Lafayette’s daughter. Coincidence?
Envisioning the presentation of the
bust to Lafayette and their farewell made her heart ache. The men wouldn’t see each other again until a brilliant fall day in 1824, two years before Thomas died. Thirty-five years.
If Sophia went thirty-five years without seeing someone she cared about so much, she wouldn’t recognize them. She hadn’t seen Pete in twenty, but she knew without a doubt her heart would recognize him even if her eyes did not.
“I guess we’re finished, then,” Sophia finally said. “You can tell the men to come get the trunks.”
“I’ll go get them now.”
“I’ll be out in the garden.” Sophia wanted a few minutes alone to say goodbye to her studio and the garden where she and Thomas spent so much time. The sound of her thumping crutches still echoed in the room. And there was another echoing sound that couldn’t be ignored—their soft moans. She shivered, shaking her head as she strolled around the small garden, remembering every moment with him—and General Lafayette, too.
While she was painting the general he often reminisced about Thomas’s time in Paris, especially the early years, when Parisians saw the reticent, red-haired American Ambassador as some variation of a country bumpkin, a man out of his league when pitted against the seasoned diplomats of Europe.
Sophia couldn’t imagine him as a country bumpkin. To her he was a Renaissance Man, and an incredible kisser.
They still disagreed on three major issues—women’s rights, slavery, and religion. Although they agreed to disagree, the issues remained points of contention. While their differences didn’t cool their ardor on moonlit strolls in the garden, the issues were a ball and chain around her ankle, and kept her from stepping over the sizzling, invisible line. A physical relationship would have been condoned in France, but, God forbid, if she had sex with him and ended up pregnant, what would she do?
One illegitimate Jefferson child at a time was more than enough.
As she gazed around the garden, she could see Thomas doing Tai Chi with her every morning. Her knee had healed, and, after some coaxing, he agreed to try a few movements, quickly discovering he had an aptitude for the powerful, graceful form of exercise.
The Pearl Brooch Page 38