“She’s not good, is she?”
Philippe shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I think she’s very weak, exhausted. Although she’s trying to keep up a front for everyone. And she certainly can’t get up for lunch, I wouldn’t really like her to do that. But I doubt that she wants anything to eat. I know Natasha’s making her lobster salad, but—” He cut himself off sharply and walked over to the window, stood gazing out at the summer garden for a moment or two. Finally, he turned around and looked directly at Laura. He said gently, “Perhaps it’s best if you both go up and see her, sit with her.”
Laura nodded. Suddenly her throat was tight and she found it hard to speak for a moment. Gripping the chair back, she steadied herself and stared at Philippe, still unable to say a word.
Philippe said again, “Go upstairs, Laura. I’ll send Natasha to you.”
Laura did as he said, hurrying up the stairs, pushing down the feeling of panic that was rising inside. Her heart felt tight in her chest, almost constricted. She went into the blue-and-white bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her. Gliding over to the bed, she sat down in the chair next to it.
Her eyes rested on Claire, her dearest friend, her sister under the skin. Laura knew it was over. Claire had put up a courageous fight, but the intense battle was finally drawing to its close. Soon she would be at peace.
There was a slight noise and Laura glanced over her shoulder, saw Natasha coming into the room. The girl’s face was as white as bleached bone, stark against her red hair, and her freckles stood out like dark blotches. She crept up to Laura’s chair, knelt down next to her.
“Mom’s dying,” she whispered, looking up at Laura, the tears spilling out of her eyes. “Dad didn’t say that, but I could tell from his face.”
Laura nodded, put her arms around Natasha, drew her closer to her knee. “Yes, she is,” she whispered. “And it’s so hard for us to bear. But her pain’s been excruciating lately. Soon … soon she’ll have relief.”
“I know,” Natasha whispered back, and wiped her fingertips across her streaming eyes.
Claire moved slightly and said, “Are you there … Laura? Nattie?” She tried to reach for them but her hand fell away, fell against the comforter.
Laura took hold of it, clasped it, and slipped down onto the floor, knelt by the side of the bed next to Natasha.
“Mom,” Natasha said, stifling a sob. “We’re here, Mom.”
“I’m glad I came back to Rhondda Fach, Laura. It’s the only place I’ve been happy,” Claire murmured, and opened her eyes.
“I know that, Claire, and I’m glad you came back too,” Laura answered softly.
“What would my life have been like without you, Laura?” Claire sighed, looked at her very intently, and then at Natasha. Her eyes were suddenly very green, greener than they’d ever been. Claire smiled at them both … it was a valedictory smile and it was full of radiance. “Take care of each other,” she said. “For me.”
“Always, darling, always,” Laura answered, tears streaming down her face.
Natasha clambered onto the bed and put her arms around her mother.
Claire lifted her face to her daughter, and smiled that radiant smile once again. “You’re the best part of me, the very best part,” she said.
“Mom, I love you,” Natasha cried, her tears falling onto Claire’s face.
There was no response.
Natasha cradled her mother in her arms, and Laura knelt by the side of the bed, clinging to Claire’s hand. Neither of them could bear to leave her, and they sat with her for a long time.
It was Laura who finally released her grip on Claire’s fingers. Letting go of her hand, she stood up and bent over her, kissed her cheek.
And then she let herself out of the room and went downstairs to tell the others that Claire was free at last.
Part Four
Spring 1998
28
Megan sat studying Natasha, thinking how lovely she looked tonight, rather grown-up in the hand-embroidered burgundy silk dress Laura had just bought for her in London. Her flowing auburn hair cascaded around her face, accentuated its delicacy, and her large golden-amber eyes seemed more soulful than ever. She’ll be sixteen this year, Megan thought, yet she seems much older in so many ways. But perhaps that’s not a bad thing.
“You’re staring at me, Grandma Megan. Don’t you like this dress after all?” Natasha asked.
“I do indeed, and the only reason I was staring is because you look very fetching tonight, really lovely, darling girl.”
Natasha beamed at her. “Thank you. I love my dress, it’s cool, sort of medieval.”
Rosa came bustling in from the kitchen at that moment, carrying a large platter, exclaiming, “I hope it’s all right, I hope I didn’t overcook this,” and set the platter down on the sideboard. Picking up a spoon and fork, she began to put pieces of meat and vegetables on a plate and then took it to Megan.
“Thank you,” Megan said, and went on. “I don’t think you can overcook pot roast, can you, Rosa? Anyway, you’re such a good cook, nothing ever spoils in your hands.”
Rosa laughed. “We can all have a bad day in the kitchen.”
“I agree with Grandma Megan,” Natasha said, glancing up at Rosa as she came to the table with her plate. “Thanks, Gran Rosa. And you’re the best cook in the world except for Mom. She was the greatest.”
“Start eating, Nattie, before it gets cold,” Rosa said, and went to serve herself.
It was the first day of May, and Megan and Natasha were having their usual Friday dinner at Rosa Lavillard’s apartment on East End Avenue.
Whenever she could, Laura joined them, but tonight she had gone to an art exhibition at Hélène Ravenel’s gallery on Madison Avenue. And she was dining with Hélène after the show. “I’ll come and pick you up at Gran Rosa’s, so wait for me there,” Laura had told Natasha that morning as the girl had been leaving for school. She had added, “And you can wear your new dress if you want.” Natasha had hugged her, said, “Have a wonderful day,” before hurrying out of the front door.
Claire had been dead for almost a year now. Everyone had made a tremendous effort to help Natasha through this difficult period of grief and mourning. And because of the sympathy, understanding, and love she had received from Laura, Megan, and Rosa, Natasha had managed to cope better than she had expected. She missed her mother and she thought of her every day, but she was mature enough to understand that she had to get on with her own life without dwelling too much on the past.
It was Laura she turned to mostly when she had a problem, and her father whether he was in New York or Atlanta. Philippe came to visit her frequently, staying with Rosa at her apartment, and they had had some wonderful weekends together. Sometimes they were alone, but often Laura was with them, and they always managed to have a lot of fun when they were all together.
Natasha thought of this now, thought of Laura and her father and their growing friendship, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “My father’s stupid, and so is Laura.”
Megan was so startled, she put down her knife and fork and looked across at Natasha, frowning. “Is that what they’re teaching you at Chapin? To be disrespectful? And about your father, no less, who bends over backward to please you. And Laura, who devotes all her free time to you?”
“Megan’s right,” Rosa clucked, shaking her head, her expression reproving. “Why do you speak like this?”
“I wasn’t being disrespectful, Grandmas,” Natasha said, looking from Rosa to Megan. “I was only trying to say what I think, which is what Laura’s always telling me to do.”
“So, tell us why they’re stupid,” Rosa said. “Don’t keep us in the dark.”
“Perhaps stupid is the wrong word to use. They’re being silly….” She let her sentence fade away, wondering if she should continue.
Megan’s faded blue eyes rested thoughtfully on Natasha, and then she glanced quickly at Rosa. The two older women exchanged
knowing looks, and Megan said, “Come along, out with it, child. What is this all about? What are you getting at?”
“Well, they’re in love with each other. I know they are,” Natasha confided, her tone suddenly conspiratorial.
“That’s wonderful!” Rosa exclaimed, beaming.
“I’m inclined to agree with that sentiment,” Megan interjected with a huge smile.
“It would be wonderful if they told each other,” Natasha exclaimed. “But they don’t. They just go bumbling along, bumbling around each other, looking sort of … glazed when we’re all together. Dazed, is a better word. Don’t you see, my father’s being—” Natasha shook her head impatiently. “There’s only one word for it, Grandmas. He’s being stupid. So is Laura. She should tell him how she feels. After all, a woman can do that today, you know.”
Rosa bit back a smile and said, “Perhaps it’s not quite the way you think, 3Nattie. Are you sure they’re in love?”
“I’m positive, and so is my friend Katie. We know.”
“I’m sure you do, in view of your vast experience in these matters of the heart,” Megan said pithily.
Natasha giggled.
“I think I would have noticed something,” Rosa said, looking suddenly thoughtful. “But I haven’t, I really haven’t.”
“Neither have I,” Megan said.
“Perhaps the situation will clarify itself once Philippe is living in New York,” Rosa murmured, thinking out loud. “I’m so glad he’s accepted the research fellowship at Columbia University. That’s going to be good for him, and for you, Natasha, having your father in New York at last.”
“And it’ll be good for Laura,” Natasha said, and began to giggle again.
“You say you know they’re in love, but how do you know? I mean, what have they actually done to make you believe this, Natasha?” Megan pressed.
“I’ve seen the looks my father gives Laura when she doesn’t know he’s looking at her. And the way she gazes at him when he’s off doing something—like helping me in the kitchen at Rhondda Fach. And they’re always laughing at the same things, and if he pays her a compliment, she goes all red and looks confused.” Again Natasha glanced from Megan to Rosa, and said firmly, “Grandmas, you’ve just got to believe me, my father is in love with Laura, and she’s in love with him.”
The two women exchanged pointed looks again, and it was Rosa who said, “You want this to happen, don’t you, Natasha?”
The girl nodded, smiling, and her eyes gleamed with happiness. “Yes, I do, I do. I want them to get married and the three of us can live together.”
Rosa said, “But maybe you’re imagining it, Nattie, because you want it to happen so badly.”
“No, no, Gran Rosa, honestly I’m not imagining anything. My friend Katie’s seen it too. I just wish he’d kiss her. I’ve thought he was going to do it when we were in the country. But he didn’t. I think Laura thought he might, too, because she looked disappointed.”
“And when was this?” Megan asked. “I’ve been at Rhondda Fach every time you’ve been up there.”
“Yes, but it was when we were outside down by the river,” Natasha explained. “They were walking ahead, and Katie and I were trailing behind. And they stood looking out across the river, and then they turned to each other, and they were staring. And Katie grabbed my arm, and she said he’s going to do it, but he didn’t.”
Megan glanced away, hiding a smile. She finally looked directly at Natasha and asked, “What are we going to do about this? Do you have any ideas?”
“No.” Natasha shook her head. “Don’t you, Grandma Megan?”
“Not exactly,” Megan answered.
“What about you, Gran Rosa?”
Rosa pursed her lips. “I can’t think of anything, not offhand. I mean what can we do … we can’t very well interfere, they’re both adults.”
Suddenly, Natasha exclaimed, “We’ve got to put them in the right situation together! That’s it. And I think I’ve got it … the perfect situation.”
“And what is that?” Rosa asked.
“It’s Laura’s birthday later this month. We can have a little dinner for her and invite Dad, and somehow it’s going to happen, I just know it is.”
Megan nodded. “Giving a birthday dinner for Laura is quite a good idea, Natasha, I wish I’d thought of it myself. So, let’s start making plans.”
29
Rosa Lavillard started to prepare the afternoon tea early. Far too early, she knew that, but she was anxious and excited, and so she couldn’t help herself.
After plugging in the electric kettle, she took the damp cloth off the metal tray of honey cakes and glanced down at them. They looked tempting; she knew Laura would enjoy them. Laura also liked macaroons, and there was a plate of these as well, freshly baked that morning.
Laura had telephoned yesterday and had invited herself to tea today, explaining that she had some exciting news for Rosa, news she preferred to impart in person. Rosa had no idea what it could be … news of her and Philippe? Was Natasha right about them? Perhaps.
Rosa sighed and began to take the best china out of the kitchen cupboard. Philippe and Laura had been thrown together a lot over the past ten months, ever since Claire’s tragic death. Their common bond had been, and was, Natasha. She herself had observed them together, and like Natasha, she had noticed them circling each other. In fact, she had often wondered if her son would make some move toward Laura. But it seemed to her that he never had. At least, that was her impression of late. And Natasha had confirmed this only the other evening.
Humming under her breath, Rosa put two rose-patterned cups and saucers and two small plates on her best silver tray. She told herself there was no use speculating. In a short while she would know why Laura had asked to see her.
When the intercom rang a few seconds later and Laura was announced from the lobby, Rosa sallied forth, a broad, welcoming smile affixed to her face as she headed for the front door. She opened it just as Laura stepped out of the elevator, raised her hand in greeting, and came down the hallway.
“Hello, Laura, hello!” Rosa exclaimed, taking her hand, embracing her warmly. “Come in, come in.”
“Hello, Rosa,” Laura answered, hugging the older woman, then closing the door behind her.
“It’s such a treat to see you,” Rosa went on, and standing away, she gave Laura an appraising glance, taking in the smart navy suit and accessories. “And you look lovely, very lovely indeed.”
“Thank you, Rosa. You’re looking well yourself.”
Rosa smiled and murmured her thanks, and the two women went into the living room. “Sit down, do, Laura,” Rosa said. “The tea is ready. I’ll go and get it, I won’t be a moment.”
Laura glanced around and sat down on one of the comfortable chairs. She smiled to herself, wondering how Rosa was going to react when she heard her news. She’ll be surprised but deliriously happy, Laura decided, and sat back, the small smile continuing to play around her mouth. She herself was pleased about the turn of events, and could hardly contain herself, so eager was she to confide in Rosa.
Hurrying back into the room with the tea tray, Rosa put it down on the coffee table and took a seat opposite Laura. “I know you like it with lemon, don’t you?”
“Yes, please, and a sweetener.”
Rosa nodded as she dropped in a slice of lemon. “I made honey cakes and macaroons,” she told her. “Your favorites.”
“You’re so nice to me,” Laura said with a light laugh. “Always spoiling me, Rosa.”
Rosa said nothing, merely smiled at Laura as she handed her the cup of tea.
“Thanks,” Laura murmured, and took a macaroon, bit into it. “Delicious. I love coconut. You’ll have to teach Natasha to make these.”
“I certainly will, and she’s a good little cook, she’ll have no problem with the recipe.” Rosa took a sip of tea, put the cup down, and sat back in the chair. Looking intently at Laura, she said, “Yesterday you told me you h
ad some exciting news for me. I can hardly wait to hear it.”
Placing her own cup on the table, Laura said, “It’s wonderful news. Thrilling.”
Rosa leaned forward expectantly, her face beaming. “Tell me.”
“I’ve found one of your paintings.”
“Oh.” Rosa pulled back slightly, gaping at Laura. “You’ve found a painting,” she repeated.
Laura, returning Rosa’s startled gaze, said swiftly, “You understand, don’t you? Understand that I’ve managed to trace a painting that belonged to your father? A painting that was looted by the Nazis. It’s a Matisse, Rosa. Imagine, a Matisse.”
Rosa cried, “Oh, my God, one of Papa’s paintings! I can’t believe it. How did you find it, Laura? What happened?”
“About five months ago, when I was in London working on Sir Maximilian West’s art collection, I came across a catalogue from a small museum in Vienna. As you well know, art seized by the Nazis hangs in museums all over the world. Anyway, in the catalogue there was a photograph of a Matisse. It caught my immediate attention because it bore the same name as one of the paintings in the record book of your father’s, which you lent me some time ago. I’m sure you’ll recognize the name too … Moroccan Girl in a Red Caftan Holding a Mandolin.”
“Oh, yes, Laura, yes!” Rosa cried, her hands flying to her mouth. Sudden emotion and memories of long ago brought a rush of tears to her eyes. Blinking them back, she said, “I remember the name very well. And the painting. It’s fabulous, extremely colorful, with a lot of red and violet, deep blue, and a brilliant yellow. A typical Matisse.”
“That’s correct. Once I had seen the photograph in the catalogue, I flew to Vienna from London. I went to the museum to view the painting and talk to the curator. I tried to convince him it was your painting. Obviously I had to present clear title to him, the provenance. And so once I got back to New York, I sent him a copy of the page in the record book, which listed the Matisse and all details about it. A week later he telephoned me and said he needed more proof. Naturally, I was stumped.”