I'll See You in Paris (40 page)

“Honestly? I'm more confused than ever. About you. About me. Why did you keep this part of your life hidden? I feel like it has to do with my dad, but I just can't get the math to pencil out. What happened in those years? Between when you left Paris and I was born?

“Mom, I'm not going back to Virginia until you come here first. You say I was an easy toddler, that I never threw a tantrum. Well, I'm doing it now. This is my tantrum. I'm planting my feet in Paris until you arrive.

“Okay, that's it. Sorry for the long message. And sorry for doing it like this but there's no other choice. So. You know where to find me … on Quai de B
é
thune. Good-bye, Mom. Miss Valentine. I'll see you in Paris.”

 

Seventy-four

ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS

PARIS

NOVEMBER 2001

“To be clear,” Jamie said as he dumped a handful of diced shallots into the snapping skillet. “When I claimed to love cooking I did not promise to be especially talented.”

“Well, it smells great,” Annie said.

“Those are the shallots talking.”

She nodded absently, her mind on Gus's tape, likewise the needless description of her mother's underwear and naked breasts.

“Is it drafty in here?” Jamie asked, mistaking her shudder for a shiver. “I can crank up the heat.”

He opened a can of tomato paste, and then spooned it into the pan.

“The temperature's perfect,” she said and sipped her Bordeaux. “Listen, Jamie, I have a confession to make.”

“A confession?” He glanced over his shoulder and waggled his eyebrows. “One of my favorite things to hear.”

“Don't get too excited. It's nothing steamy.”

Gus's erection. Laurel nude. Annie was just about maxed out on “steamy.”

“It's about your brother,” she said. “Gus. He's been telling me the story behind the book, the story of Win and Pru.”

“Of your mum.”

“Yes, my mum,” Annie said, thinking of Laurel who was probably right then stepping into an empty hotel room and also into a cold panic. “I had no idea who Win was until about twenty minutes ago. I never realized Win and Gus were the same person. For a second there I thought Win was you.”

“Really?” Jamie turned to face her, his back pressed against the counter, a curious smile playing at his lips. “Me?”

“Only for a second.”

“The name didn't tip you off?”

“J. Casper Augustine Seton?” Annie said. “I assumed the
J
was for James.”

“It's for Jerome. Also, there's a ‘Gus' in there.”

Annie repeated the name in her head.

“Augustine?”
she said. “That's, like, barely a Gus.”

“Didn't he tell you that he was the Earl of Winton?”

“Yes, but…”

Gus
had
told her that early on, but Annie thought it was a joke.

“It goes without saying Win refers to that,” Jamie said.

“Our nicknames are more straightforward in the States, I guess.”

She pictured Gus, sitting across the table, or beside her at the bar. Gus with his wavy, white hair, his pressed trousers, that slippery smile. She recalled how he'd tip his head toward her when getting to the good stuff, taking on and off his glasses as he spoke.

The glasses. He wore them to read the newspaper, or a transcript, or the bar tab from Ned. But he never needed glasses to read the book. He didn't have to. The words were his.

“Damn,” she said. “I like to think of myself as pretty perceptive. But I honestly never figured it out.”

“No worries. The bloke's a roguish sort.”

“In my defense,” Annie said. “Gus … Win … whatever his name is, he told me that the writer lives in Paris. Plus he was always so disdainful of the guy.”

“My brother is his own worst enemy.”

Annie reached deep into her pocket.

“Here,” she said and tossed the luggage tag onto the table. “I found this at the Grange. It appears to have your name on it.”

“No!” Jamie picked up the tag. He held it to the light. “Well, I'll be. Those two bastards used my very nice set of matching baggage for their return trip to the Grange. Brought it back worse for the wear, as you can see.”

Jamie kissed the tag and then dropped it into his own pocket. Annie bristled. That was supposed to be
her
good-luck charm, even if his name was on it.

“So they went back?” she asked. “Win and Pru? To the Grange?”

Jamie nodded.

“They did,” he said.

“Because of Tom.”

“Criminy, I forgot about that old Pole.” Jamie chuckled. “That's what old age will do to a person. But, yes, his call precipitated their return.”

“When they arrived,” Annie said, “were the Marlboroughs there, too?”

“Those are the events as I know 'em.”

Jamie moved to a larger pot and examined the potatoes boiling inside. This dinner was starting to look more Virginia and less Paris.

“So that was it, then?” Annie said and took another sip of wine. “They went to the Grange, end of story.”

“End of story?” Jamie said. “What makes you think that?”

“The Marlboroughs were at the Grange.”

“They were.”

“They—and Edith—wanted to have the duchess hospitalized.”

“They did.”

“If Mrs. Spencer ended up in a hospital, there was no reason for my mom to stick around. And we both know that she ended up back in the States, alone.”

“Your mum did return to the States,” Jamie said. “But not right away. Their story went a little longer. You see, Win and Pru managed to find their way back to Paris. Thanks to a little help from a bloke named Gads.”

 

Seventy-five

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

MARCH 1973

The duchess was at sixes and sevens when she saw their two faces show up in her parlor-turned-veterinary-clinic.

“Get out! Scram!” she howled, chasing after Win and Pru with some ungodly combination of pitchfork, broom, and backhoe. “Get off my land!”

“Mrs. Spencer,” Pru pleaded. “It's only us.”

“I know it's you! What in Sam Hill are you doing in England? You think I dragged you to Paris for my own good health? You were supposed to stay there. ALONE. Jesus. How come people can't accept a goddamned gift when they're given one?”

The cleaning and yard implements were one thing, but the collection of guests was no less threatening. For one, there was Tom. And Gads. And a butler named Murray, there at the behest of the duchess's niece. Pru recognized him from her initial trip to the Grange.

All that and Gads had with him his brother, the eleventh Duke of Marlborough, and the duke in turn had his crew of solicitors and physicians. Wife number two was also present due to some vagary of their prenuptial agreement. She herself brought her own legal battalion.

“Greetings, comrades!” Win said, grinning like a dope. “Holy hell. There are a lot of you.”

“Why are you here?” Mrs. Spencer demanded.

“We were worried about you,” Pru said. Her eyes scanned the room. “For good reason, it seems.”

“You should be worried about yourself! I can take care of these buffoons. You need to leave immediately. You're so close to screwing everything up, you have no idea!”

“But, Mrs. Spencer, your niece hired me to look after you,” Pru said. “She expects me to be here. I apologize for my misstep but I'm sticking with you from here on out.”

“Jesus, don't do me any favors,” Mrs. Spencer grumbled.

“Hello there,” a man said and stepped forward. “Pleased to meet you, Laurel. The name's Gads.”

Pru smiled wide and shook his hand. Gads was short and raggy-haired, every bit the aging scamp she pictured. She adored him on sight.

“George,” his brother warned. The man was a duke but looked like an ordinary bloke, including the “terminally weak chin” Mrs. Spencer described. “I've asked you seven times not to get involved.”

“As Lady Marlborough's solicitor,” Gads said. “It's my very duty to get involved. Now, dear brother, I have to ask you to leave the premises.”

“If she is the Duchess of Marlborough, then I am the duke, and that makes all of this mine.”

“And mine as well,” said the ex-wife.

“Sorry to report, but you're wrong, both of you. This property belongs to Gladys Deacon alone. I have the paperwork right here.”

Gads tapped his briefcase.

“You two,” Mrs. Spencer said, pointing one craggy finger first at Win and then at Pru. “Are supposed to be in Paris.”

“Yes, you mentioned that when you stabbed me in the rear with a pitchfork,” Win said.

“If you're here about your stupid book…”

“What book?” the duke said.

“Don't worry, my darling grandson,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Merely a thorough detailing of my past. You are featured prominently and in bad light. Seton.” She punched at the ground with her cane. “I'll help you finish your precious life's work, but you and Miss Valentine must leave. Now. Go back to Paris. And don't tarry. Time is of the essence.”

“While we're at it,” Gads said. “The rest of you should likewise decamp.”

“I'm not leaving until I get what's owed to me,” said the ex-wife, sniffling up to the duke. “And you know exactly what that is.”

“Stop it!” Mrs. Spencer yelled, clonking the cane again, this time right beside the ex-wife's foot, which caused her to pop a half meter off the ground.

The duke's former wife was already besieged by a nervous disorder and all that pounding and shrieking only compounded the problem.

“Stop it right now!” Mrs. Spencer said. “Everybody stop grabbing at the people and things in this house!”

She reached for her holster. Like a receding tide, everyone in the room stepped back in chorus. Everyone, that is, except for Win and Pru. They were used to this show and knew Mrs. Spencer was, for the most part, all mouth and no trousers. And sometimes the no-trouser situation was literal to boot. Also, they recognized that of the people in that room they had the least chance of getting shot.

“You.” Mrs. Spencer pointed at Pru with the gun. “You, you, and you.” Win, Gads, and Murray. “You stay here.”

“I thought you wanted us to go to Paris?” Win said.

“To you remaining cretins,” she went on, ignoring Win as she loved to do. “Find a place to stay. The Banbury Inn. The Chacombe Motor Hotel. In the bushes, for all I care. Return at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. We'll sort out everything then. My attorney Gads will supervise the proceedings.”

“I'm not leaving,” the ex-wife said again. “I'm not setting foot off this property until I take possession of my rightful assets.”

“Which are a subset of my rightful assets,” the duke reminded her.

“What assets are you people talking about!” Pru said with uncharacteristic gusto.

Usually, with folks like these, she was content to remain in the background, especially if possible deportation was in the offing.

“Do you people have eyeballs?” Pru asked. “Look around! This place is a dump! No offense, Mrs. Spencer.”

“I'm very offended but am rather enjoying this, so carry on.”

“Don't you people live in Blenheim? With fountains and grottos?”

“As if anyone cares about this crap house,” the ex-wife said. “We're here for the art.”

“Art?” Pru said. “What art?”

“You tell her, Peter,” she said to a solicitor. “The art Gladys acquired after she became the duchess is ours. In other words, everything collected in the last forty years.”

“Yes. Well. That's an argument to make,” this Peter said and then, remembering his audience, added, “and it shan't be too challenging to prove!”

“These people have the ridiculous notion that I'm sequestering priceless art,” Mrs. Spencer said.

“Don't let them search your home,” Pru said, at once thinking of the Boldini as well as the Monets and everything else Win saw when he first came through the property. “They have no right. Gads, tell her. She's not obligated…”

“Sweet girl, it's fine,” Mrs. Spencer said, smiling prettily. This action was somehow more threatening than if she'd drawn a gun. “They are free to snoop about until their snaky hearts are content. They won't find a thing.”

Mrs. Spencer gave a wink and that's when Pru remembered the crates in Paris, piled up in the spare bedroom. No wonder she needed the cane. The old broad was no doubt quite sore from moving things about. Pru smiled in admiration. Mrs. Spencer knew what she was doing. She almost always did.

“Tom will be pleased to show you out,” Mrs. Spencer said, brandishing her weapon once more. “Don't stall! Unless you want to be shot in the knees!”

After much squalling, the assemblage of nimrods and mutton heads collected itself. Win and Pru watched as Tom frog-marched the crew outside. Gads waved farewell and slammed the door behind them.

“Well, old buddy,” he said and turned toward his friend. “You're looking positively adequate, which is an upgrade from the last time I saw you.”

“Thanks, ya bastard,” Win said, eyes sparking. “You always make a guy feel like a million quid. Which is funny since you wouldn't know a thousand quid if it bit you in the arse.”

“Wait until you see my bill for these shenanigans. We'll keep the tourists out of Blenheim yet. Laurel,” Gads said and gave her a quick hug. “Or Pru. Or whatever my half-witted friend calls you. I'm chuffed to meet you, despite your wretched taste in men. Shall I take your luggage upstairs?”

“They need to get out of here!” Mrs. Spencer said. “Posthaste!”