A Friend in Paris

by Jennie Goutet

  “Bravo. I’ll tell the others. Can’t wait to try it.” Penelope leaned in to study April’s work more closely. “You chose your location well on this painting. Don’t worry too much about the other one yet. I’m sure one of these is going to be chosen, and I’m not giving up hope that we find the other.”

  In a swift change of subject, she said, “Victor called me and said they’re coming on Saturday. You gave him my number?” April nodded. “He said Margaux might know me, and I’m sure he’s right. I went to school with a Margaux de Bonneville.”

  April looked at her in surprise. “He didn’t tell me that. What’s she like?”

  “Oh…” Penelope looked down at her palette. She hadn’t started mixing the paints yet. “She was like all the girls in our school. Privileged. I never got to know her very well, though we have many acquaintances in common.”

  “If that’s what everyone was like, you’re lucky to have found your group,” April said. “They’re good friends. Real friends.”

  “Yes, it’s true. I’ll be curious to see Margaux with Victor. I can’t really picture them together.”

  “Really?” April toyed with the end of her brush, feeling strangely empty. “I would think they’d be perfect together. I mean, I know this is judging on appearances alone, but they seem to come from the same world. They both have money, they’re both super good-looking—”

  “Oh, so you think Victor is good-looking, do you?” Penelope teased.

  “Come on.” April rolled her eyes. “Who doesn’t?”

  “Hmm.” Penelope wore a smile that April chose to ignore. “Anyway. Apparently Margaux is not bringing the baby. They’re going to have her parents watch him, so we’ll get to see them together. See if they’re a good fit.” Penelope squeezed white paint on her palette and reached for the ochre. “They’re not really from the same world, you know.”

  April looked up from her painting. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Margaux is from old money.” Penelope shrugged. “Victor is nouveau riche.”

  “I don’t really know what that means.”

  “It just means that Margaux comes from a family with an old aristocratic name and property—an apartment in Paris, land and a house in the countryside. A heritage passed down from one generation to the next. Victor wasn’t born to money, but he has a father who is very successful.” Penelope smiled at April’s look of confusion. “Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. If I didn’t know Victor at all, I would say that that was what attracted him to Margaux in the beginning. The privilege that you can only get from birth. But since I’ve seen how he is with you, I’m willing to bet any feelings he once had for Margaux are over. He’s staying with her because of the baby.”

  April rinsed her brush in a swift motion. “That doesn’t help at all.”

  “Because he’s not available?” Penelope grabbed the nearby stool and sat so she could be level with April.

  “Yeah. Totally unavailable, and he’s doing the right thing by being with the mother of his child.” April met Penelope’s gaze and shook her head. “Don’t encourage me about him. I need to focus on being a good friend to him because that’s all it will ever be.”

  Penelope breathed in. “Got it.” She picked up a dab of ochre with her palette knife and swirled it into the white. “I had better get started on my own painting. I don’t have high hopes of its being included, but I need to give it my best shot.”

  April went back to her canvas, the weight of despondency settling over her again. Everything she’d told Penelope was true. Victor should be with Margaux. It was not April’s style to try to pull a man away from another woman, and that was doubly true if they’d already started a family together. She would not allow any thoughts of crushes, or feelings, or anything of that nature to turn her from doing what she felt was right.

  She couldn’t help her thoughts, though. They drifted to Victor and the way he’d defended her, punching Lucas after he pulled him off her, the way he leaned in to kiss her cheeks. She wished…

  “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  April jumped as the stool scraped at her side. Ben had finally showed up. She looked at her painting, which now had an errant brushstroke across the canvas. “Oh shoot.” She examined it. No, it wasn’t a staining pigment, so she could wipe it off with the soft cotton rag. “Hi, Ben,” she said, absentmindedly.

  “Are you avoiding me now?” Ben was studying her face, his own a mask of irritation, or of hurt. She couldn’t tell.

  “No, Ben. I had to settle in after the move. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you back.” She didn’t meet his gaze, not wishing to see what else he was trying to communicate to her. “It’s not been easy for me.”

  “I wish you’d let me help.” Ben reached over and put his hand on her knee. April, startled, looked to see if Penelope was still there, but she had gone to get some water. It was time to redirect Ben’s thoughts.

  “Do you have any idea what happened to my painting? The surrealist one with the apartment building and my face?”

  He took his hand off her knee. “No. It’s missing? You looked behind all the paintings on the wall? And in the back?”

  “Yes. I’ve looked everywhere. My one hope is that Françoise put it somewhere, though why she would is beyond my guess.”

  “I’m sorry, April. I hope you find it.” Ben stood. “I’d better get my painting started. Did you know Mr. Chambourd is going to make his decision by this weekend?”

  “Yes.” April gave him a look. “Get to work. You still have all the pipes to fill in on the Georges Pompidou center. And Ben?” He looked back at her. “We’re still friends. We can go out for lunch later this week, or at least for coffee, depending on how much more we need to get done before the paintings are judged.”

  “All right. “ Ben nodded and went to his painting on the wall. He was a good guy, and she didn’t want to burn any bridges.

  Françoise came in then. There was to be more free painting than class hours as everyone got ready for the exhibit, and Françoise had adjusted her hours, using class time, and staying late, to help whoever needed it. April decided to go to her before others claimed her attention.

  “Bonjour, Françoise.” Their teacher required all her students to use proper French greetings, insisting it was something everyone should know how to do since they were living in France. A bonjour for the day, a bonsoir for the evening, and never, ever start a conversation without first greeting the person in front of you if you didn’t want to be written off as having no manners.

  When April had her teacher’s full attention, she asked, “Have you moved my painting somewhere? The one you said Mr. Chambourd noticed? I thought perhaps you put it in a room to ready it for the competition.”

  Françoise shook her head, and frowned. “No…” Then she shot her head up with a look of alarm. “Two weeks ago, though, the lock was broken to this room. We were panicked until we saw that nothing had been tampered with and nothing was missing. At least…I thought nothing was missing. I didn’t think to check each painting. Yours is gone?”

  April nodded her head, miserable. “There aren’t surveillance cameras in the room?”

  Françoise said, “Not in the room. There are on the east corner. If the person passed by there, the cameras will have caught him, but that’s a small chance. Maybe it was one of the students. Someone who was jealous that you were singled out that way.” She let her breath out in a huff. “Stupid of me, really, to say which painting was noticed. I’ll have to do better in the future. But I hate to think of anyone here…” She looked around at the classroom, which was now nearly full, with students working assiduously.

  “I don’t think it’s anyone here,” April said. “Do you remember how I told you I was attacked? And that’s how I got the bruise?”

  Françoise nodded, concerned. “You think it’s the same person?”

  “Yes. I told you he destroyed my father’s paintings? Well, I’m afraid that was not en
ough for him, and he wants to keep going and destroy…” April threw her arms out, “…everything.” Her eyes filled with tears and she swiped at them angrily. That Lucas could make her cry, that he would have any power over her at all, made her want to scream.

  Penelope had come up to stand by her, and Ben was watching them from his easel. Françoise said, “You’re going to need accompaniment everywhere until we find him. I’ll check with the local police to see if they can examine the street camera. Penelope, you’re friends with April, right? Do you think you can arrange to see her home safely from here?”

  “Sure.” Penelope put her arm around April. “So the painting is really missing? I can’t believe it.”

  “I didn’t know he even knew where I went to school.” April was trying hard not to cry, and her throat ached from the effort. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to accompany me everywhere. I’ll just be careful not to go out where there aren’t a lot of people.”

  “Let’s take one day at a time.” Penelope exchanged a glance with Françoise. “I’ll come to your new apartment with you today. Then we’ll see about the future. I agree, though. No going out alone, especially at night. This Lucas guy seems to be more capable than any of us gave him credit for. So far, he’s eluded getting caught, he’s tracked where you go to school, he’s managed to destroy your things in two different places. From what you’ve told me of him, I didn’t think he had it in him.”

  “Honestly,” April said, “I think he has nothing else to lose.”

  “And those are the most dangerous ones,” Françoise said. “I want you to focus on your work now. We’ve replaced the lock to this room with a better one, and I’ll be keeping this painting in the back storage area just in case.”

  “He hasn’t seen this one, so there’s probably not a risk. But thank you. And thanks, Penelope. I’ll be glad for your company today, at least.” To her teacher, April said, “Would you mind coming over to look at what I’ve been working on to see if there are any improvements I should make? I really hope Mr. Chambourd will like this one as well.”

  “Sure,” Françoise said. “I think we need to work on the couple outside the umbrella shop. That’s the touch of whimsy in this painting, and it’s missing something.”

  Chapter 19

  Victor held the elevator door for Margaux and let it shut behind them as they went up to the apartment where the dinner with Penelope was being held. She leaned into him in an old familiar way, and said, “It’s weird without Matthias. I’m not used to being without him.”

  “He’s taking the bottle now?” Victor asked. “In case he gets hungry?”

  “He’s always had mixed from birth,” she said. “I didn’t have a lot of milk at first, so he needed formula, and I liked the freedom of being able to go out.”

  “Is that what you used to do in Monaco? Go out?” Victor asked, and when she shot him a look, he protested. “You never told me what you were doing there.”

  “I was visiting my cousin—”

  “Yes, your cousin,” Victor said. “But really? For a year? What were you doing all that time, and why didn’t you come home before the birth? You didn’t even tell your parents.” Why am I bringing this up now? he thought. What’s the point? But he couldn’t help the surge of anger that had seemed to spring up from nowhere.

  Margaux clucked her teeth in impatience as the elevator door opened. “I told you I couldn’t tell my parents, or they’d make me come home.”

  They walked into the corridor, and Victor turned and stopped her in her tracks. “Why didn’t you want to come home?” Victor knew he had chosen the worst possible moment for the conversation, but the frustration that had been building in him just wouldn’t stay put anymore. “Was there someone there you wanted to see?” Whoa. Where did that come from? Suddenly, Victor knew what had been bothering him ever since Margaux had come back. He didn’t know what had brought her to Monaco, and he didn’t know what had kept her there. This was too vital a piece of information to shove under the rug if they were going to be married, even if Matthias was involved.

  “Victor…” Margaux's voice had gone soft, though there was a tinge of frustration there. “All that doesn’t matter now—”

  The door to the modern elevator pinged behind them, and April stepped onto the corridor, carrying a quiche pan. “Oh.” Her eyes opened wide when she saw them. She was wearing jeans and a soft pink shirt, cropped short in the front and lower in the back. Her hair was down over her shoulders—the first time Victor had seen it like that—and the skin around her eyes had returned to a porcelain white, which made the blue of her eyes stand out. He suffered a pang of longing for what would not be. “Bonsoir, Margaux,” she said.

  She smiled at both him and Margaux in her welcome but seemed to sense the tension, because she held back from saying more. Victor hadn’t seen April all week, and his first glimpse of her was like a buzz. Then he came to his senses. “Hi, April.” He reached over to kiss her cheeks. She smelled so good, he wanted to throw his arms around her and pull her close, but there was the quiche pan in the way. And, of course, there was Margaux.

  “Are you coming in?” she asked, looking at each of them in turn.

  “Yes.” Margaux moved toward the door. It was only one word, but it was the first Victor had ever heard her utter in English. It was as if she wanted to show him that she, too, could speak another language.

  Penelope opened the door. “Bonsoir, Margaux,” she said, casually, as if they had seen each other only a few days ago.

  “Bonsoir, Penelope,” she replied, giving her the bises and following her into the living room. Then it continued like that. Every person in the room, except Arthur, knew Margaux and greeted her in a relaxed, unsurprised manner, although Victor sensed a bit of reserve in their welcome.

  He hung back with April. “Seems like they all know each other, huh?”

  “Uh huh,” she said with a smile. “So we’re the odd men out.”

  “April, I heard you brought us a sample of your culinary delight,” Guillaume called out from the kitchen.

  “Yes, a tarte,” she called back, but didn’t move forward just yet. It was as if she wanted to stay in the entryway with Victor. He hoped that was the case because it was exactly what he was feeling. Suddenly he remembered. He was not available. The realization must have shown on his face because she took a step toward the living room where the others were.

  “Are you coming then?” Guillaume asked. “Let me meet your friend.”

  “Coming,” April said. Then she whispered, “Everything okay with Margaux and the baby?”

  Victor pressed his lips together and muttered, “Perfect.”

  This dinner was like the last one April attended, except Margaux seemed to throw a blanket of reserve over everyone. There was less laughter and teasing as the group sat around the table peeling cucumbers and cutting crosses into the radishes so they could stuff pats of butter inside. Victor immediately grabbed a knife and began helping with the radishes, but Margaux sat, primly, hands on her crossed knees, watching everyone work.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” Arthur came over to Margaux, holding the bottle of rosé.

  “Just a Schweppes, please,” she said. “I’m still breast-feeding.”

  “A Schweppes it is,” he said, then called out to Guillaume. “T’as du Schweppes?”

  “In the pantry,” Guillaume called back. “April, bring your tarte here so I can take a look.”

  “I want to see it too.” Victor dropped the knife on the cutting board and walked to her side, and April noticed Margaux's head shoot up as she watched him walk over.

  “Pressure,” April murmured, with a little smile, as she removed the clean cloth that was covering the dish and set it to the side. She was proud of herself. The tomatoes were cut in thin slices and scalloped around the top of the tarte over the Dijon mustard and grated Emmental cheese. She had sprinkled fresh chopped basil and pepper, and had drizzled olive oil over the top just as Mis
hou had showed her.

  “It’s magnificent,” Penelope said, peeking around Guillaume’s shoulder, and he leaned back into her. “I told you it was a good idea for you to stay with Victor's grandmother.”

  “There’s no one like her for cooking,” Victor confirmed. “Are you going to serve it like that or warm it up?”

  “I think warm it,” April said, biting her lip. “I mean, right? Wouldn’t it be better?”

  Guillaume stood straight as Penelope pulled away, releasing him from his spell, April thought, and she didn’t think she was imagining things. “Guillaume is the best chef here. So do whatever he thinks.”

  “We’ll warm it at a hundred and fifty degrees,” he said with a smile. “A slice for everyone with some salad for our entrée, and I’ll put the filet mignon in while we eat that. Victor, want to give me a hand with the potatoes?”

  They spent another hour preparing the dinner while they munched on smoked salmon toasts and buttered radishes, then finally sat to sample the entrée. Margaux seemed to relax and fall into conversation with everyone, even reminiscing about their high school days. “How many years younger were you?” she asked Aimée.

  “I was in the class just behind,” Aimée said. “So not a big age difference.”

  “Yes, I remember you. You look familiar.”

  Morgane said, “You weren’t in the science track with the rest of us, but we did have history together. I don’t know if you remember.”

  Margaux nodded. “I remember. Madame Cheval.”

  “And she looked like a horse, didn’t she,” Théo said with a snort.

  “Come on, she was nice.” Auriane batted him on the arm.

  April’s French had improved, and she was starting to catch most of the banter between everyone. She darted glances at Victor. He must have been happy that Margaux was participating in the conversation. Penelope kept drawing him into a separate conversation, and April wondered why. She wasn’t jealous, but it was as if Penelope wanted to get to know him better. To take his measure? She couldn’t be sure. Guillaume threw his napkin on the table and got up to fetch the next course.