“I see. You like Renoir, do you?” Rosa murmured.
“Very much. He’s a great favorite, and I try to come here whenever I’m in Paris,” Laura replied.
“Such beauty,” Rosa remarked, looking about her. “All these Renoirs … they nourish the soul, calm the heart. And they are reassuring … these paintings tell us there is something else besides ugliness out there. Yes, such beauty … it helps to baffle the clamor of cruelty.” She waved a hand in the air almost absently, peered at Laura and asked, “Do you like van Gogh?”
“Oh, yes, and Degas and Cézanne, and Gauguin, he’s another favorite.”
“His primitives are deceptive. They appear simple, yet they are not, they are complex. Like people.” Rosa nodded her head. “It’s obvious the Impressionists appeal to you.”
“Yes, that’s my area of expertise. The Post-Impressionists as well.”
“I like them myself. If I had a lot of money that’s what I would do, how I would spend my life. I would collect paintings from the Impressionist school. But I am just a poor woman, and so I must make do with going to museums.”
“Like most other people, Mother,” Philippe pointed out gently.
“That’s true,” Rosa agreed, and turning, she began to walk away, saying over her shoulder, “Enjoy the Renoirs.”
“I will,” Laura said. “Good-bye, Mrs. Lavillard.”
Rosa made no response.
Philippe inclined his head, gave her a faint half-smile, as if he were embarrassed. “Nice to see you again, Laura. So long.”
Laura nodded but said nothing.
He stared at her for a moment. It was a sharp, penetrating stare, and then he swung on his heel and followed his mother out of the hall.
Laura stood watching the Lavillards depart, and finally went back to her contemplation of the Renoirs. But the Lavillards had ruined her mood. Their intrusion on her privacy had brought too many memories rushing back, and most of them bad memories. Suddenly she felt nervous, unsettled, unable to concentrate on the paintings. But she didn’t want to leave the museum just yet; she might not have another chance to come back during this trip to Paris.
Glancing around, Laura spotted a small bench placed against the far wall, and she went and sat down, still thinking about the Lavillards. What a strange woman Rosa Lavillard was. Suddenly she remembered a few things Claire had told her years before, mainly that Rosa was unpredictable, a sick woman who had been hospitalized for long periods. Hadn’t Claire said she had once been in a mental institution?
From what Laura now remembered hearing, Rosa had led a troubled life … there had been a painful childhood in France, growing up during the war, the loss of her family in the Allied bombing raids, later a volatile marriage to Pierre Lavillard, then emigration to the States in the 1950s, where Philippe was born. Their only child. The doctor. The prizewinning virologist whom the medical world called a genius.
Claire had once said in a moment of anger that Rosa was a crazy woman and should have been kept in the mental hospital. She had been very vehement about it at the time.
Laura closed her eyes, her thoughts settling on Claire Benson: her best friend and confidante, the elder sister she had never had, her role model. Claire had been living in Paris for a number of years, which was one of the reasons she liked to come here, to spend time with Claire.
Opening her eyes, Laura stood up. She began to stroll down the long gallery, determinedly pushing aside all thoughts of the Lavillards, mother and son. Within seconds she had forgotten them, once more enjoying the Renoirs hanging there. Soon she was lost in the paintings, soothed by their beauty.
And then once again she was no longer alone. Unexpectedly, there was Claire standing by her side, taking hold of her arm.
“What are you doing here?” Laura exclaimed, startled to see her friend, filling with a rush of anxiety. Oh, God, had Claire run into the Lavillards? She hoped not; they usually upset her. She searched Claire’s face, looking for signs.
Claire explained, “You told me you were coming to the museum after your lunch, so I thought I’d join you.” She peered at Laura. “What’s wrong? You look odd.”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” Laura answered. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.” She was relieved to see that Claire was calm; obviously she had missed the Lavillards. But probably only by a few moments. Pushing a smile onto her face, she went on. “So, come on, then, let’s walk around together.”
Claire tucked her arm through Laura’s. “I like seeing paintings through your eyes. Somehow I get much more pleasure from them when I’m with you.”
Laura nodded, and they moved on, gazing at the masterpieces on the walls, not speaking for a short while. For a moment Laura lingered in front of a painting of a mother and child, frowning slightly.
Claire, always tuned in to her best friend, said, “Why are you looking so puzzled?”
Shaking her head, Laura replied, “I’ve often wondered lately if any of these paintings are stolen—”
“Stolen! What do you mean?” Claire asked, interrupting.
“Thousands and thousands of paintings were stolen by the Nazis during the war, and that art, looted by them, hangs on museum walls all over the world. It’s from some of the world’s greatest collectors, such as the Rothschilds, the Kanns, and Paul Rosenberg, who once owned one of the most prestigious galleries in Paris, to name only a few.”
“I read something about that recently. I guess it’s hard for the heirs of the original owners to get their paintings back if they don’t have proof of ownership.”
“That’s it exactly. And so many records were lost during the war. Or were purposely destroyed by the Nazis in order to blur provenance.” Laura grimaced and said, “A lot of museums are fully aware of the real owners, because many of the paintings are coded on the back of the canvases. It all stinks. It’s morally wrong, but try and get a museum to give a painting up, give it back. They just won’t … At least, most of them won’t. Some are starting to get nervous though.”
“Can’t any of the original owners sue the museums?” Claire asked.
“I suppose they could,” Laura answered. “But only if they have proof a painting is theirs. And even then it’s dubious that they’d ever get it.”
Claire nodded. “I remember now, Hercule knows something about this. He mentioned it only recently. I believe he has a client who is the heir to art stolen by the Nazis from his family in 1938.”
“Oh, who is it?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“A great deal of the looted art is in private hands, and try and get them to give it back. They never will, hot when they’ve paid millions for it. There’s going to be a lot of trouble in the next few years now that it’s all coming to light. You’ll see.”
Claire said, “You’re repeating what Hercule was telling me not long ago. Maybe you should talk to him about it.”
“I’d like that.”
“Maybe we can get together with him this weekend. Anyway, do you represent someone with a claim to stolen art?” Claire asked curiously.
“Not at the moment, but I may well do so in the not too distant future.”
They fell silent as they continued to stroll around the museum, as at ease with each other as they had been since childhood. Laura, forever worried about Claire, stole a quick look at her. In her years of living in Paris, Claire had acquired a certain kind of chic that was uniquely French. That afternoon she wore a dark purple wool coat, calf-length and tightly belted, over matching pants and a turtleneck sweater. The purple enhanced Claire’s, large green eyes and auburn halo of curls. Big gold hoop earrings and a dark red shoulder bag were her only accessories, and she looked stylish, well put together. Laura admired Claire’s style, which seemed so natural and un-
Glancing at Laura, Claire came to a halt and said, “I’m glad you’re in Paris for a while, Laura, I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” Laura answered swiftly.
Looking at
her watch, Claire went on. “I think I’d better be getting back to the photographic studio. I’m doing a shoot for the magazine, as you know, and Hercule’s coming over later. I need his advice about one of my sets.”
“He’s turned out to be a good friend,” Laura said. “Hasn’t he?”
“Yes. But not my best friend. That’s you, Laura Valiant. Nobody could take your place.”
Laura squeezed Claire’s arm. “Or yours,” she said.
Laura heard the phone ringing above the sound of the water pouring into the bath, and she reached for the receiver on the wall.
“Hello?”
“Hi, sweetie.”
“Doug! Hello, darling.” She sat down on the small bathroom stool near the makeup table and glanced at her watch. It was six. Noon in New York.
Her husband said, “I called you earlier, but you weren’t there. I’m off to lunch with a client in a few minutes, and I wanted to catch you before you went out again.”
“It’s such a clear line, you sound as if you’re around the corner!” she exclaimed warmly, happy to hear his voice.
“I wish I were.”
“So do I. Listen, I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t you come in for the weekend? Tomorrow’s Friday, couldn’t you take it off and fly over? It would be lovely, Doug.”
“Wish I could, but I can’t,” he answered, his voice changing slightly, growing suddenly brisk, businesslike. “That’s another reason I’m calling you, I have to fly to the coast tomorrow. Meetings with the Aaronson lawyers. The merger’s on after all.”
“Oh. It’s unexpected, isn’t it?”
“It sure is. But what can you do, I’m needed out there.”
“Never mind. But it would have been nice to have you in Paris if only for a couple of days.”
“Sorry, darling, it can’t be helped. When do you think you’ll be back?”
“I have appointments set up for the early part of next week, Doug, so I’ll probably leave for New York on Thursday or Friday.”
“Great! You’ll be here next weekend, and so will I. This is probably going to be a quick trip to L.A. In and out.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Er, the Peninsula in Beverly Hills, as usual.”
“Doug?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve really missed you this week.”
“I’ve missed you too, darling. But we’ll make up for it, and you know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
She laughed. “I guess it does … the way I’m feeling right now, I wish you were here….” She laughed again, a light, infectious laugh.
He laughed with her. “Got to go, sweetie.”
“When are you leaving tomorrow?”
“My flight’s at nine in the morning, and I’m going straight into meetings once I’ve dropped my luggage off. I’ll call you.”
“Bye, darling.”
“Bye, Laura. And a big kiss,” he said before hanging up.
Laura sat soaking in the tub longer than usual. There had been no cabs on the street when she and Claire had left the museum earlier; they had walked all the way back to the hotel, where Claire had finally found a cab.
The tub was helping Laura to thaw out and to relax, and she luxuriated in the hot bubble bath for a while, thinking of Doug. She had married Douglas Casson when she was twenty-five and he was twenty-seven. They were a perfect fit, compatible, attuned to each other in the best of ways. But lately he worked too hard. She smiled inwardly at this thought. Didn’t he say the same thing about her?
To his way of thinking, they were both workaholics, and he seemed to relish announcing this. It was true, of course, but she didn’t like that particular word. It smacked of obsessiveness, and she was quite sure neither of them was that. Not exactly.
Anyway, Claire had always said that the ability to work hard for long hours was the most important thing of all, and that this was what separated the women from the girls.
But Laura thought that love was important too. Hadn’t Colette, her favorite author, once written that love and work were the only things of consequence in life? Certainly she believed this to be so. But Claire didn’t, at least, not the love part, not anymore. Claire had been burnt. “And they were third-degree burns at that,” Claire had said. Those burns had taken a long time to heal. “Now I have built a carapace around me, and I’ll never get burnt again. Or hurt in any way. My shell protects me. Nothing, no one, can ever inflict pain on me.”
Laura loved Claire. She also had enormous compassion for her because of all the bad things that had happened to her. Laura was well aware that Claire was raw inside; still, she couldn’t help wishing her friend would open herself up to love again instead of retreating into her shell the way she did. There was something oddly sterile about a woman’s life if she did not have love in it, if she didn’t have a man to cherish.
These days, whenever she broached this subject, Claire only laughed hollowly and responded swiftly, “I have Natasha, and she’s all that matters. She’s my life now, I don’t need a man around.”
But a fourteen-year-old daughter wasn’t enough, was it? Laura wondered. Surely not for a loving, passionate, intelligent woman like Claire.
Claire. The dearest friend she had ever had. And still her best friend, the one she loved the most, even though they lived so far away from each other now. She and Claire went back a long way. Almost all of their lives, really.
She had been five years old when Claire and her parents, Jack and Nancy Benson, had come to live in the apartment opposite theirs in the lovely old building on Park Avenue at Eighty-sixth Street. She had instantly fallen in love with her in the way a little girl of five falls in love with a very grown-up ten-year-old. She had worshipped Claire from the first, had emulated her. Once their two families had become acquainted, Claire had taken Laura and Dylan under her wing, had been baby-sitter, pal, and confidante.
Cissy, the Valiant nanny, had had her hands full with Dylan, who was then only two and very naughty. So Claire had been a welcome addition to the Valiant household. An only child, Claire had loved being part of this extended family, especially since Laura’s grandparents, Owen and Megan Valiant, were very much in evidence. They all helped to make Claire feel like a very special member of their family.
Because Claire attended Miss Hewitt’s School, Laura went there as well. And there came a time when the five-year difference in their ages suddenly seemed negligible. As teenagers and young women they were as inseparable as they had been as children, bonded together as sisters in soul and spirit, if not blood.
Claire had married young, at twenty-one, and her daughter Natasha had been born a year later. Two years after that she had moved to Paris with her husband and child. But nothing, not distance, husband, or child, had ever come between them or changed the nature of their friendship. Very simply, they loved each other, and as Claire was wont to say, they would always be sisters under the skin, no matter what.
The sad part was that Claire’s life had gone horribly wrong seven years before. Her marriage had foundered and she had divorced; her parents had died within a few weeks of each other, not long after this, and then Natasha had been in a car crash and had suffered serious injuries. But thanks to Claire’s nursing, the girl had made an amazing recovery.
Laura roused herself, pushing herself up in the tub. Here she was, daydreaming about the past, when she should be getting dressed.
No time to dawdle now.
2
“Don’t you like the room, Hercule?” Claire Benson asked, pausing near the grouping of Louis XV chairs and resting a hand on the back of one of them. “Is it the chairs? Do you think they’re inappropriate? Don’t they work?” She shot these questions at him as she glanced down at the silver-leafed wood frame under her hand, and then at the silver-gray upholstery. “Yes, it is the chairs, isn’t it?” she asserted. “Maybe they’re totally wrong for the setting.” Now she looked across at him questioningly, raising a perfectly
curved auburn brow.
The Frenchman chuckled. “Ah, Claire, so many questions you fire, rat-a-tat, and you make the jest, n’est-ce pas?”
“No, I’m being serious.”
“The room is superb. Formidable, oui. You have the wonderful taste. The furniture, the fabrics you have chosen, this Aubusson rug, everything is perfection. But—”
“But what?” she cut in before he could complete his sentence.
“The room is incomplete, my dear. A room is never finished until it has—”
“Art,” she supplied, and then immediately laughed when she saw the amusement in his face, the twinkle in his eye. “I need paintings on these walls, Hercule, I know that. But what kind of paintings? That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to see the setting, to help me make some decisions about art. Shall I use a Picasso? Or a Gauguin? Or go for a modern work such as Larry Rivers? A van Gogh? A Renoir maybe? On the other hand, I could look for something really old, like a pair of Canalettos.”
“A van Gogh or a Gauguin would give the room strength, but I do not think it is a strength you require here, Claire. And Canalettos would be wrong. A soft painting would be the ideal choice, something in the pastel tones. It would underscore the stillness, the sense of … quietude you have created. Also, this space has a light look. Airy. A Renoir, most definitely. Oui. Parfait.”
“Perfect, yes, I agree. But where am I going to find one? And who would lend me one for the photography? People don’t normally let their Renoirs out of their sight.”
Hercule Junot smiled. “There is a possibility that I might be able to find one for you. A few months ago I was shown a Renoir that was for sale—” He paused, shrugged lightly, raised his hands in a typical Gallic gesture. “Well, I do not know, chérie, perhaps it has been sold.”
“If it hasn’t, do you think the owner would agree to lend it to me?” she asked, her face eager.
“Mais oui. The owner is a friend, a former client … I am happy to speak with her. If she still has it, she will allow me to borrow it. For a few hours. If that is enough time for you, Claire. Because of its great value, she would not want to leave the painting here in the studio overnight.”