Climbing the stairs behind them, Megan remarked, “I see you lost a sneaker, Claire.”
“It’s in the river, Gran,” Laura said, glancing over her shoulder.
“I see. Never mind, we’ll drive over to Kent later and buy you another pair, Claire.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Claire answered rapidly. “I have my sandals with me.”
“Sneakers are useful in the country, comfortable, and they’ll be a gift from me,” Megan told her as they reached the landing at the top of the stairs. “Now, girls, into the shower, both of you.”
Claire hurried off to the blue-and-white bedroom where she always stayed, and Laura went into hers.
Megan followed her granddaughter, and once she had closed the door behind them she said, “Out of those wet clothes at once and into the shower, Laura. Later you can tell me exactly what happened.”
“But I have told you, Gran.”
“Claire could be suffering from shock,” Megan said. “I think I ought to drive you both over to Dr. Tomkins.”
“We’re both okay, Gran,” Laura protested.
“I’m going to pop along to Claire’s room. I want to see how she’s feeling.”
“Yes, Gran,” Laura said, and went into the bathroom.
Megan knocked on the door of Claire’s room, and when there was no answer she went in. From the bathroom she could hear the sound of water running in the shower. Turning, she caught sight of herself in the mirror hanging on the wall above the antique French chest.
How white her face was. But that was no surprise. Claire’s misadventure had upset her greatly, even though she had not let the girls see this. Laura had not yet given her the details of the accident, but obviously they had been in a precarious situation. And Laura had put herself at risk because she had run to Claire’s rescue. The wide part of the river was dangerous, and the outcome might have been very different. Megan shivered and goose bumps flew up her arms as she realized how terrible the consequences might have been. Little Mervyn … he hadn’t been so lucky when he had fallen into the lake….
She walked across the floor, stood gazing out of the window for a moment, waiting for Claire to emerge. At sixty-eight, Megan Morgan Valiant was a beautiful woman. Tall and slender, she held herself erect, and in her carriage and deportment she was very much the great Broadway musical star. Although the color of her rich chestnut hair needed help from her hairdresser these days, it was, nevertheless, thick and luxuriant; her face was relatively free of wrinkles and had remained youthful. Her eyes were her most arresting feature. They were a deep vivid blue, large, and set wide apart. Her granddaughter had inherited them as well as her height and coloring. Lithe and full of energy, Megan was a woman who had remained young in spirit. Her career in the theater was somewhat curtailed these days because she wanted it to be so, but her popularity as a star had never waned.
“Oh, it’s you, Grandma Megan,” Claire said, sounding surprised as she stepped into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. “I’m feeling better after my shower. And warmer.”
Megan nodded. “But perhaps we should go and see the doctor in Kent—”
“No, no, I don’t need a doctor,” Claire interrupted. “I’m fine, honestly I am.”
“What happened? Why did you venture into the river when you can’t swim, Claire dear?”
“I didn’t. I fell in. I was picking flowers and slipped. I rolled down the bank. And I somehow got swept into the middle, into the deep part of the river.”
“There’s some sort of strange current there,” Megan explained. “And it is very dangerous. We’ve been aware of it for years. You’re very lucky Laura was with you.”
“Oh, but she wasn’t! I was alone. She must’ve heard me shouting for help. She dived in, but at first she couldn’t get me out of the water. My foot was caught in a roll of wire netting. She had to cut my sneaker off.”
“My God, it’s worse than I thought! You were very lucky indeed!”
“Yes, I was. I’d better go and dry my hair.” Swinging around, Claire headed back into the bathroom. As she did, the towel slipped down at one side, revealing part of her body.
“Claire, whatever happened to your back?” Megan exclaimed, staring at the yellow bruises under her shoulder blade.
“I must have hurt myself when I fell into the river,” Claire muttered, pulling the towel around herself swiftly.
“Claire, those are old bruises,” Megan answered, her voice gentle but concerned.
“I fell off my bicycle in Central Park,” Claire replied, and disappeared into the bathroom.
A few minutes later Megan found her husband in the dining room, where he was breakfasting on boiled eggs, thin buttered toast, and his famous coal miner’s tea, which was very strong and sweet.
“I heard all about it,” Owen said as Megan hurried into the room. “Fenice told me, and from what she said, they’re both all right, aren’t they, Megan?”
She nodded. “They are, but it could have been fatal for Claire,” she replied, and then went on to explain what had happened to her.
“Laura’s a plucky one, and strong for her age,” Owen exclaimed. “And thank God she had the presence of mind to jump in and help Claire rather than running back here for me or Tom. You say Claire’s foot got caught in a roll of wire netting. God knows how that came to be in the river. I’ll talk to Tom later, and he can lift it out.” Owen gave Megan a pointed look and added, “But I’m afraid I’m going to insist Claire learn to swim. Laura and I will give her lessons in the pool.”
“That’s a good idea—” Megan paused, leaned back in her chair, and looked off into the distance.
Owen, watching her closely, said slowly, “I know, I know, my darling, this mishap has brought back bad memories for you … you’ve been thinking of poor little Mervyn.”
“Yes, I have,” Megan answered, her voice as quiet as his. Sitting up straighter, finding a smile, Megan went on. “I think I’ll have a cup of tea. I need it after all this.” As she spoke she reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup.
Owen said, “I’m glad I helped Laura to become an athlete. It’s served her well, and will in the future.”
“Laura’s always been brave, Owen, even when she was a small child. And quick-thinking as well.”
“She idolizes, Claire,” Owen remarked, thinking out loud. “She’ll always rush to her rescue whatever the circumstances.”
“I know.” Megan sighed and looked across at Owen.
“What is it?” he asked, frowning. “You look troubled.”
“Claire’s back is covered with old bruises.”
“What?” He sounded startled.
“I saw them when she came out of the shower. She said she’d fallen off her bicycle in the park,” Megan explained.
“But you don’t believe her?”
“I don’t know whether I do or not.”
“I’ve always thought the Bensons were a bit odd,” Owen said, bringing his hand up to his generous mouth. He rubbed it thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowing. “She could have fallen, you know.”
“Yes …” Megan was silent, but eventually she said, “I hope you and I live a long time, Owen, so that we can look after Laura and Claire, be there for them.”
Reaching out, he put his hand over hers and smiled at her lovingly. “So do I. But remember this … those two will always be there for each other.”
Part One
Winter 1996
1
Whenever she was in Paris on business and had an hour or two to spare, Laura Valiant inevitably headed for the Musée d’Orsay in the seventh arrondissement on the Left Bank.
Today was such a day. The moment her lunch with two prominent art dealers from the Galerie Théoni was over, she thanked them, promised to be in touch about the Matisse, and said her good-byes.
Leaving the Relais Plaza, she crossed the lobby of the Plaza-Athénée hotel and stepped out onto the avenue Montaigne.
There were no cabs on the rank
in front of the hotel and none in sight, so she decided to walk. It was a cold December day with a hint of rain in the air. She shivered and shrugged farther into her black topcoat.
Laura was dressed entirely in black, from the coat to her smart woolen suit underneath and soft leather boots that stopped just short of the knee. Her jet-black hair, styled in a short, sleek cut, accentuated both her pale face and her eyes of a blue so brilliant, they seemed supernatural. A slender, tall young woman, she looked much younger than her thirty-one years.
Laura was a striking figure as she hurried along; many a male head turned as she glided past. But she did not notice those admiring glances, so intent was she in her purpose.
At one moment, she lifted her head and looked up at the sky. It was leaden and gray, and a watery sun was trying to push through the clouds without much success. But the weather was irrelevant. To Laura, Paris was a city full of nostalgia and memories, memories happy and sad … so much had happened to her here.
First love—oh, how she had loved him and willingly lost her virginity at eighteen—and first heartbreak, when he had said it was over and had left her with such sudden abruptness she had been stunned. And, oh, the terrible jealousy when she had gone to see him a few days later and found him in bed with another girl. But there was more self-love than love in jealousy, de la Rochefoucauld had written long ago; she had taken those wise words to heart on that awful day and made them her own personal motto over the years. And she had fallen in love again, and more than once, even though she had believed she never would. Miraculously, or so it had seemed to her at the time, she eventually recovered from her broken heart to discover that there were other attractive young men in the world, and many were available.
It was her mother who had first brought her to Paris when she was twelve, and she had been captivated. At the age of eighteen she had returned to study art history and literature at the Sorbonne. In the two years she had lived in Paris as a student she had come to know it as well as she knew New York, where she had been born and raised. Whether shrouded in spring rain, wrapped in the airless heat of summer, or coated with winter snow, Paris was the most beautiful of cities.
City of Light, City of Lovers, City of Gaiety, City of Artists … But no matter what people chose to call it, Paris was a truly magical place. She had never lost her fascination with it, and whenever she came back she immediately fell under its spell once again.
Mostly, Laura thought of Paris as the City of Artists, for had they not all worked and lived here at one time or another, those great painters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? Whatever their origins and from wherever they sprang, they had eventually come here, armed with their palettes and brushes and paints, and their soaring talent. Gauguin, van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Cézanne, Vuillard, Degas, Sisley, and Seurat. The Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters she most admired, and in whose work she was an expert, had all converged on Paris to make it their home, if only for a short while.
The world of art was her world, and it had been for as long as she could remember. She had inherited her love of art from her mother, Maggie Valiant, a well-known American painter who had studied at the Royal College of Art in London and the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris.
But Laura was the first to admit she lacked her mother’s talent and vision as a painter, and when she was in her early teens, painting became an avocation rather than her vocation. Nonetheless, she had decided she wanted to work with art once she had finished her studies, and after her graduation from the Sorbonne she did stints with several galleries in Paris before returning home to the States. Once back in New York, she did gallery work again, and then completed a rewarding four years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
One of her superiors at the museum, impressed by her unerring eye, superb taste, and knowledge of art, encouraged her to become an art adviser. And so three years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, she and Alison Maynard, a colleague at the Metropolitan, started their own company. The two of them made a great success of this venture, which they named Art Acquisitions. She and Alison bought art for a number of wealthy clients and helped them to create collections of some significance. Laura loved her career; it was the most important thing in her life, except for her husband, Doug, and the Valiants.
A few days earlier she had flown to Paris from New York, hoping to find paintings for one of their important clients, a Canadian newspaper magnate. Unfortunately, she had not found anything of importance so far, and she and Alison had agreed on the phone that she would stay on a bit longer to continue her search. She had a number of appointments, and she was hopeful she would find something of interest and value in the coming week.
Increasing her pace, Laura soon found herself turning onto the rue de Bellechasse, where the Musée d’Orsay was located not far from the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides. She had made it from the hotel faster than she had expected, and as she went into the museum she experienced a little spurt of excitement. Inside were some of her favorite works of art.
The museum was deserted, and this pleased Laura; she disliked crowds when she was looking at paintings. It was really dead this afternoon, so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the click of her heels on the floor; her footsteps echoed loudly as she walked toward the hall where the Renoirs hung.
She stood for a long time in front of Nude in Sunlight. Renoir had painted it in 1875, and yet it looked so fresh, as if he had created it only yesterday. How beautiful it was; she never tired of looking at it. The pearly tints and pink-blush tones of the model’s skin were incomparable, set off by the pale, faintly blue shadows on her shoulders that seemed to emanate from the foliage surrounding her.
What a true master Renoir had been. The painting was suffused with light—shimmering light. But then, to her Renoir’s canvases always looked as though his brush had been dipped in sunlight. Lover of life, lover of women, Renoir had been the most sensual of painters, and his paintings reflected this, were full of vivid, pulsating life.
Laura moved on, stopped to gaze at a much larger painting, Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette. It represented gaiety and young love, and there was so much to see in it—the faces of the dancers, merry, sparkling with happiness, the handsome young men, their arms encircling the beautiful girls; how perfectly Renoir had captured their joie de vivre. His use of color was superb, the blues and greens in the trees, the blues and creams and pinks in the girls’ dresses, the soft, clear yellow of the men’s straw boaters, and the—
“Hello, Laura.”
Believing herself to be alone with the Renoirs, Laura jumped when she heard her name. Startled, she swung around. Surprise registered on her face, and she froze.
The man, who stood a few feet away from her, went on. “It’s Philippe, Laura. Philippe Lavillard.” He smiled, took a step toward her.
Laura recoiled imperceptibly. Dislike and a flick of anger curdled inside her.
The man was thrusting out his hand, still smiling warmly.
Reluctantly, Laura took it, touching her fingers quickly to his and then pulling them away. This man had always spelled disaster and trouble. She could hardly believe he had run into her like this.
“I thought you were in Zaire,” she managed to say at last, wondering how to get rid of him. There was a slight pause before she added, “Claire told me you were … living in Africa.”
“I am. I arrived in Paris a couple of days ago. Actually, I’m en route to the States. I’m going to see the head of the CDC.”
“The CDC?” she repeated, sounding puzzled.
“The Centers for Disease Control. In Atlanta. I have some meetings there.”
“Claire mentioned you were working on Ebola Zaire.”
“And other hot viruses.”
Laura nodded, tried to edge away.
He said, “Are you staying in Paris long, Laura?”
“No.”
“How’s the famous Doug?”
“He’s well, thanks.??
?
“This is one of my favorites,” Philippe Lavillard began, looking intently at Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette, then gesturing toward it. “I think I favor it because it’s so positive. There’s so much life in it, such happiness, don’t you think, such hope and expectation in their faces, and a sort of quiet exuberance, even innocence—” Abruptly he cut himself off and glanced to his right.
Laura followed his gaze and saw a woman approaching. As she drew closer, Laura realized with a sudden flash of recognition that it was Philippe’s mother: a dumpy, middle-aged woman in a maroon wool dress, with a black coat flung over her shoulders. She was carrying a pocketbook on one arm and holding a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag in her hand. She moved at a measured pace.
A second later, Rosa Lavillard was standing next to her son, staring at Laura with undisguised curiosity.
Philippe said, “You remember Laura Valiant, don’t you, Mother?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Rosa Lavillard responded in a cool tone. “Good afternoon.” Rosa’s lined face was impassive, impenetrable; her pale eyes were frosty, and there was a degree of hostility in her manner.
“Hello, Mrs. Lavillard, it’s been a long while,” Laura answered, recalling the last time she had seen her. At the wedding. Endeavoring to be polite, she added, “I hope you’re well.”
“I am, thanks. Are you here on vacation?” Rosa asked.
“No, this is a business trip.”
“Laura’s an art adviser, Mother,” Philippe explained, glancing down at Rosa and then across at Laura. “She helps people to select and buy paintings.”