I'll See You in Paris (31 page)

“You're finishing up?” Annie said and lifted a brow.

“I know, I know. We have a long way to go, yet.”

“Mom, did you love him?” Annie asked. “The writer?”

“Oh, Annabelle. I suppose I did.”

“I'm sorry it couldn't have been more,” she said, thinking of the last two decades and their quiet country life. Never a boyfriend in all that time. Or no boyfriend important enough for Annie to meet. “I'm sorry you and the writer didn't see things through.”

“Oh. Well.”

Laurel flushed and for a moment Annie saw Pru. Only a glimmer, the briefest of snapshots, but there she trembled beneath the stern and polish.

“That would've been nice, in theory,” Laurel said. “But then I wouldn't have you. So everything worked out as it should.”

“That's a sweet sentiment, even if it's total crap. If you'd stayed with Win, there'd be some other kid you were grateful to have.”

“Excuse me!” said a voice. The mustachioed head of the inspector popped up over the fence. “I find myself challenged in accessing the building.”

“Huh. They told me it'd be unlocked. I'll come check it out.” Laurel turned to Annie. “Do you want to go in with me? It'll be the first time I've stepped inside in almost thirty years.”

“Uh, sure,” Annie said, neglecting to mention that she'd already been, twice, and that she could get them in without a key.

“All right,” Laurel said and exhaled loudly. “Let's do it. This is going to be … this is going to be something.”

With a watery smile, and as she had so many times for so many years before, Laurel took her daughter's hand and guided her along the way.

 

Fifty

 

I'll bet you didn't expect such a fast reply.

I was at my computer when your e-mail came through. That chime was the best dang thing I've heard this year, other than that one time you said “yes.” When I got the e-mail I swear I could picture exactly where you were. It almost felt like talking.

Your poor mom. But stop worrying! Charlie Vietnam and me—two different people. Two different Americas. We're better organized now. We have our crap together. That's what they tell us anyway.

Do I think it's weird she never told you about him? I dunno, I guess. But you probably haven't told her everything about you, right? Does she know you've been slinking around town with that old man for instance? Sorry, I'll never not think of him that way.

Y'all are close but she's still your mama. Had a big ol' life before you came around. Prob a mess of secrets, too. You figure to tell our kids everything you've ever done? Every heartbreak you've ever had? I reckon not. Keep me out of it if you do.

I don't know why she won't say more about your dad. Whatever her reasons, I'll wager they have to do with love. Your mama has nothing but goodness inside. You're made the same way.

I guess you have to ask yourself why you care. Why it matters to know his name. You've managed a-okay till now without it. More than okay, as it happens.

Well, love, gotta go. I'm not supposed to be on this machine. Guess what? We're almost there! I'll send you postcards from Kandahar. Sounds like a novel. Maybe you can write it.

All my love,
ES

 

Fifty-one

 

WS: Do you care to explain why you've moved your portrait out of the dining room?

GD: I don't recall there ever being a portrait in the dining room.

WS: Come now, Mrs. Spencer. You know the one. The glorious Boldini. It was there a week ago and now, poof, disappeared with the wind.

GD: Boldini? Hmm, the name sounds familiar.

WS: Surely you're not going to lie about this! It's the most fetching portrait the old bastard ever did, as far as I know. Unless there's some other lady in some other country hiding some other portrait in her broken-down home.

GD: He was a bastard, wasn't he? Oh, I adored the man!

WS: So he did paint you.

GD: Perhaps. It's all starting to seem familiar.

WS: There's not a person alive who finds creeping dementia so convenient.

GD: You're mistaken, though. About the painting. There's never been a portrait of me on the premises.

WS: You're truly going to claim the Boldini wasn't in your dining room?

GD: It wasn't. Ever. Not for a single second.

WS: Note to manuscript. Writer's assistant looks at GD agog.

PRU: I'm not your assistant.

GD: Who's GD? Surely you're not calling me goddamned.

WS: Simply your initials. Though it's also a highly appropriate coincidence.

PRU: Mrs. Spencer, that portrait was there. I saw it with my own two eyes! Why can't you admit it? What's holding you back?

GD: Boldini painted me, it is true. And he sketched me many times besides, the renditions of which I'm happy to provide. But the portrait was never in my home. My former husband kept it, if I recall.

WS: He's been dead, quite a while now.

GD: Probably incinerated the thing. He hated Boldini. Called him a pig. To his face and behind his back. Boldini had a salacious reputation with women and my former husband worried he'd make me look like a tart.

PRU: Mrs. Spencer, I don't understand. The portrait was there. We both saw it.

GD: I don't know what you think you saw but it wasn't me. And so what if I did remove it? Why is it any concern of yours? There are things about me you don't know. Things not even a would-be biographer can weasel out of me with his incessant quizzing. Though, I am sure, that won't stop him from trying.

 

Fifty-two

 

WS: Two bobbies showed up at the door today while you were out on a very rare afternoon constitutional. Would you know anything about this?

GD: How could I?

WS: Mrs. Spencer, I noticed the front of your car is demolished.

GD: Yes. A goat ran into the fender while my car was parked in the yard.

WS: Must've been some goat. Unfortunately the coppers offered an alternate explanation.

GD: I'll bet.

WS: Frideswide's Dress Shop reported that a certain black car smashed into its front window display earlier today. Were there goats in town too?

GD: There might as well have been!

WS: Mrs. Spencer …

GD: Fine! I did it! All right? I busted through her window. And I don't regret it.

PRU: But you could've injured someone. That plus the “small fire” you set the other night …

GD: Oh please. Frideswide's was closed. No harm, no foul.

WS: The insurance broker believes it some foul.

GD: I didn't want Frideswide infecting this town.

WS: Infecting? Is the sweet clothier ill?

GD: In the brain maybe! Do you know what she had on display in that picture window of hers? Polyester! Polyester trousers! FOR WOMEN. It had to be done, Seton. It positively needed to happen, lest this town fall victim to horrible taste.

 

Fifty-three

THE BANBURY INN

BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

NOVEMBER 2001

“I'm glad I tracked you down.”

Nicola waddled out from her office and to the breakfast table where Annie was piling minicroissants onto her plate.

“Track me down?” Annie scooped up three pieces of cantaloupe. “I'm staying right upstairs.”

“Yes, but you seem to flit and flitter all over the place,” Nicola said, dancing her hands in demonstration. A passerby ducked to avoid getting socked in the face. “Like a hummingbird.”

“I'm generally not one for flitting.”

“Further, your mum said you were leaving for the States the day after tomorrow. I couldn't risk not seeing you.”

“Excuse me?” Annie said, the plate at once too heavy for her hand. “Leaving? She told you we're leaving? In two days?”

But what about the sightseeing? The promised trips to London and to Blenheim? Not to mention all of the things remaining in Banbury, the pieces of Win's puzzle—and of Laurel's—Annie still had to connect. Laurel said that she was “done” but never mentioned how fast she wanted to get out of town.

“That's what she told me,” Nicola said in a clipped tone. “You rushed out of here so briskly
on my bike
I didn't have the chance to tell you.”

“Nicola.” Annie winced. “I'm sorry. I assumed it was fine.”

“S'okay.”

Nicola went back to her desk and disappeared beneath it. She remained submerged for so long Annie worried she might've capsized.

“Nicola?” She stretched across the top of the counter. “You still down there?”

“Ope! Here it is!” Nicola popped back up, face reddened and eyes slightly crossed. “Whoa, nelly.” She shook her head. “Someone left this for you.”

She passed Annie a manila envelope.

“Someone?”

“That older gentleman from the other day? The one with the brother?”

“Oh right.” Annie took the envelope. “Gus.”

“Is that his name? Well, no matter. His brother is the important one.” She wiggled her brows. “That man, easy on the eyes. I've had a crush on him for donkey's years.”

“You know Gus's family?” Annie asked. “How well?”

It was worth a shot. Maybe if Nicola knew Gus and his brother, she'd have a string to tie some corner of the story together. Gus insisted he wasn't involved in the tale, that he was an outsider, on the periphery. But outside was still a place. It was part of something too.

“I didn't know him particularly well,” Nicola said and pulled at her blouse. “He's much older. But I had a wicked crush on him as a girl. Anyhoo, off I go. I'm leading a band of tourists to Blenheim Castle for the day. Are you familiar?”

“I've heard of it, yes.”

“You should check it out. Beyond fabulous,” Nicola said. “Did you know the Germans planned to destroy it during the war but Hitler called them off? Fancied he'd assume residence when the Krauts took over the world. It's nice to dream big, I suppose. Well, ta-ta! Enjoy your day! Cheers!”

Nicola spun around and toddled off, leaving Annie amused—another Hitler story for the duchess—as well as alone. Alone with a package from Gus.

 

Fifty-four

15/11/2001

Dear Annie,

Poor timing.

I've been called out of town to contend with a family emergency. Don't worry! Everything is jolly good. For now.

Only as I leave this derelict hamlet do I realize that I want to finish the story. All along I thought I'd tell you only as much as you had the time and tolerance for, and perhaps not even that.

But you should know how things concluded, what happened to Win and to Pru and whether Mrs. Spencer ever revealed herself as the duchess. Of course, titled folks aside, Pru is the true hero of the story, of Win's biography even, though she's not mentioned in it once.

Because I cannot enchant you with my winning personality face-to-face I've enclosed a set of recordings. These tapes, and the accompanying recorder, are provided gratis. You will not have to commit larceny in order to hear them.

Likewise, your bill has been settled at the clock shop. Ah, you'd not told me about those purloined tapes, had you? A little birdie snitched on you. He said a mysterious American girl arrived in his shop with a stash of someone else's recordings. The list of suspects was short.

When you put those recordings together with what is in the envelope you now hold, you'll have a clearer picture of
The Missing Duchess
. And by that I mean the story behind the story. A book is nothing without the backstory, the through-line holding it all together. I don't know the full tale myself of course. I'm just one person, one viewpoint, an old bachelor at that. But I've shared with you what I can.

Finally, Miss Annie, I will answer one of your more nagging questions. The writer does still live in Paris, on the Île Saint-Louis, at the address you discovered. Do with that information what you please.

Until I met you, I hadn't realized what was here. Thank you for showing me, however inadvertently, the narrative's scope. Thank you for researching and for nosing your way into the lives of Win, Pru, and the duchess. And thank you for asking an old bugger some tough questions. I hope I've been of some use to you as well.

Good-bye, for now. Please come see me on your next scholarly expedition.

Cheers and all good things,

Gus

 

Fifty-five

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

JANUARY 1973

The biography was coming along.

Win was getting what he needed, if not what he wanted. Maybe this would turn into a legitimate book yet.

“I think she's actually into it,” Pru said one night as they went through the library, matching Mrs. Spencer's stories with the books her friends wrote. “I think she likes how this is going.”

“Of course she does! Look around!” Win said, waving toward the seemingly infinite library. “This woman is an avid reader. She must gaze upon these, tickled that she will eventually star in one herself.”

“Not to mention all the most lauded writers of the day will be only meager players in her story.”