Chapter 8

8

C harles sat at a broad table that filled the conference room in the Town Hall—the Mairie . He was following the committee members’ discussion, while simultaneously reviewing some research he had brought home for the weekend.

He looked up from his papers and unscrewed the cap from the water bottle before filling the crystal glass in front of him. He drank and didn’t look up again until they began talking about the art collection in the local museum.

“We haven’t found anything suitable for the main gallery starting in March,” the director said, tackling the subject frankly. “This is not the end of the world because we have the possibility of keeping Lenny Malinski’s work up until April.” The gallery director stopped speaking and tapped her notepad with a pen.

The assistant director, sitting to her right, had been overlooked for the title of director and had to content herself with replacing Anne Meurier, whom the board had decided to let go for unknown reasons. She tossed her silvery blond hair over her shoulder and turned to Charles coquettishly. “We usually have everything in place, and I’m not sure how it happened this time. We’ve always known what our next exhibit would be months in advance. That way we can plan a harmonious transition from one artist to the next.”

The director was too old to flirt with the viscount, and she put her colleague back in her place. “You know, as well as I do, that this wouldn’t have happened if our scheduled artist hadn’t pulled out.”

The silvery-haired Venus dropped her carefully controlled fa?ade and snapped back. “Yes but if you had taken my advice and booked someone more dependable…”

Charles had no patience for internal squabbles. “I think I may have a solution for your next exhibit, and that’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out some glossy photos. “I’ve discovered an artist, some of whose work I’ve already purchased for myself. His name is Randall Mooers, and he lives in New York. I’ve asked him if he’s willing to lend us additional paintings for an exhibition here, and he’s agreed to it. There’ll be plenty of time to get them sent over before March.”

He caught the director’s eye. “He’s good. I like his work a lot—it’s reminiscent of Cézanne. In addition to what we borrow, I’d be willing to lend the ones I’ve purchased from him for the exhibit. And I can also lend three Cézannes for the smaller room, adjacent to the main gallery.”

He waited for their reaction but was not worried about their refusal. His family had stood on the committee for two generations, and without their financial support, the museum would not be able to afford an exhibit at all. He was also confident about his ability to judge art.

“That’s excellent news.” The director smiled smugly at her assistant. “I knew we’d be able to come up with a solution to our dilemma.” She turned towards Charles. “When shall we begin the paperwork?”

“You’ll have to speak with my business manager to arrange all that, I’m afraid.” He stood and collected his papers and notepad, sliding them into a soft briefcase. “I need to get to the hospital.”

“Of course,” the director replied in a placating voice. “I have his number, and I’ll give him a call.”

As Charles headed towards the main entrance, he had a moment’s appreciation for how lucky he was to be able to orchestrate the parts of the museum committee he enjoyed—namely the art selection—but not get mired down in paperwork. He was the one, however, who had had to fire Anne. Given the circumstances, he couldn’t delegate that responsibility to anyone else. Between the school and the museum, they’d had a warm working relationship. In fact, with time and under different circumstances, it might have grown into something else.

He remembered the day it had come to his attention that she was not who she said she was. The information had come to him anonymously, but there was too much proof of its veracity to ignore. He asked his manager to check into a few details, and sure enough, she had none of the degrees her resumé claimed she did.

She’d come into the conference room that day, wreathed in smiles, ignorant of the hard blow her life was about to receive. Charles couldn’t hide the strain in his greeting, and she sensed it immediately.

“What’s wrong?” She had seemed concerned, as if he were the one who was suffering.

“Anne…” When he couldn’t think of anything else to say, he silently handed her the letter he had received. As soon as she read the first couple of lines, she reached for the table with a trembling hand, before her feet gave way and she fell into the chair. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“How did it happen?” Charles asked her. “How did you get mixed up in all this?” When she didn’t answer, he pressed her. “How did you even pull it off?”

Anne began to weep silently, and he was grateful for the lack of windows in the conference room that would keep her humiliation private. She dug through her purse and pulled out a Kleenex, and when she had a reasonable control over her voice, said, “I was young when I needed that first job, and they didn’t seem to have their act together so I took a risk and applied. I lied about the schooling. They took me in on a temporary basis and were pleased with my work, so they kept me. One thing led to another and I got the job at the school, and this one at the museum. And—it was too late to go and get the degree my CV claimed I had. It would’ve gotten out somehow. All these years, and I’ve been waiting for the ball to drop.”

Her lips trembled, and she held the Kleenex up to them as more tears fell on to her splotched face. Charles took a breath and dealt the unpleasant blow. “We have to let you go. You know that. I’ll talk to Elizabeth at the school and spare you from having to deal with her directly if you wish.” She nodded.

“I’ve appreciated working with you.” He allowed a moment for that to sink in. “As I’m sure you know, there’re a couple of universities in the South of France that offer art degrees. Why not try to get a degree now? You already have the experience, and I’m willing to give you a recommendation.” She shot her head up in surprise, which made him smile.

“I don’t deserve—” she began.

“It’s nothing.” He cut her off before she could show her gratitude. “I’ll ask Elizabeth to keep this between the three of us so you’ll have a chance at a fresh beginning.” He reached out to shake her hand, but she showed him the mangled tissue by way of protest and gave that wry smile he had come to appreciate. He hadn’t had news from her since.

When the meeting with the art committee was over, he pushed open the heavy iron doors, and the bright, cold sunlight shook his thoughts back to the present. As he jogged down the stairs, he heard his phone ring. It was the school.

“ Oui, all? ?”

“Charles, this is Elizabeth Mercer. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to work. What can I help you with?” He walked towards his car and pressed the alarm. His tan Mini Cooper chirped.

“I’m here with Louis’s English teacher, Chastity Whitmore,” she began. Charles inwardly groaned. What does she want now? “I’m afraid we need to talk to you as soon as possible about Louis. When might you be able to come in?”

Charles glanced at his watch, and thought for a second before replying. “If we can have a short meeting now, I can come in right away. I won’t be able to stay longer than fifteen minutes. Is that possible?”

“That sounds fine.”

Charles climbed into his car and slammed the door shut. He put his car in reverse and pulled out of the parking spot, going in the opposite direction from where he had intended, and in a dark mood.

The doorbell to the front gate rang, and Elizabeth peeked out the window before ringing Charles in. She went to the front door to meet him and shook his hand.

Students bustled past them in the passageway, as the principal led him to her office. When he entered, the English teacher fixed her light green eyes on him then stood to grasp his hand before motioning towards the other seat. He couldn’t shake the ridiculous feeling he was in trouble.

“I think Louis was on drugs during Tuesday’s class,” she said, getting right to the point. “In fact, I’m almost sure of it.” She frowned, waiting for his response.

Good grief, woman. Lighten up a little. Or do you just have it out for me in particular? He couldn’t explain to himself why he reacted so irrationally when he was around her or why she irritated him so much.

Charles knew he should have postponed this discussion. Now he was sure he’d be late for the staff meeting. Maybe she’s attracted to me and that’s why she puts in all these parent-teacher requests . He checked himself. I’m too old for that. I’m losing it. He inhaled deeply and caught the scent of lavender.

After what seemed to him an interminable amount of time, he found his words. “What makes you think so?”

Chastity seemed to consider before speaking. “At times I suspect he’s on marijuana because his clothes sometimes smell like that. Although it’s subtle, and that makes me wonder whether I’ve imagined it. He’s often laid back to the point of being almost. . .comatose.” She laughed self-consciously, and without humor. “Again, I’m not sure because that could be his personality. I don’t know him well enough.” Frowning, she added, “I’ve told you this already in our last meeting.”

“Some of it,” he acquiesced, remembering how he had practically stormed out because it was more than he wanted to hear. A curl from her chignon fell onto her collarbone and his eyes gravitated towards it.

“Well, this last class was different,” she said. “He came in late and was so talkative. He actually had some good ideas, and it seemed as if he’d read the book, which was different from any other class discussion he’s participated in.”

She shook her head. “I can’t put my finger on it. I might be wrong. There were no outward signs, like red eyes or the smell of drugs. Something was. . .off. It was like he was a different person.”

Charles’s muscles twitched, but his face and posture remained impassive from years of breeding. He stared at the teacher, unseeing. What am I going to do about this? He couldn’t bear to think of his son going down such a path, and at the same time, he couldn’t believe it. His son was an awkward teenager. That was all. He never saw any signs of this at home. After meditating speedily, he decided it couldn’t hurt to be open to seeking advice. It didn’t mean he had to follow it.

“What course of action do you recommend?”

The English teacher relaxed, as if she had been expecting a fight. She shrugged imperceptibly and turned her attention to the principal.

Elizabeth answered. “I think he should speak to the counselor who’s associated with the school, unless you have someone else you’re connected to.” Charles shook his head.

“And then—Mr. de Brase, do you talk to your son? Spend time together?”

“Of course,” he answered in irritation. “We went away together during the Toussaint. ”

Chastity broke in. “I think what she means is, do you talk about the things he’s worried about, or how he’s feeling?”

Charles tried not to glare at her as he searched for the best way to answer. Sweat pooled under his shirt. “I don’t believe this is the place to discuss how I parent my son. I give you my consent to let him meet with the counselor, and I’ll make sure his private life is well taken care of.”

This time he didn’t rush out, but looked at each of them to make sure they all understood each other. Finally Elizabeth stood and gave him her hand. “Thank you for your time.” The teacher stayed seated, and he gave an infinitesimal pause as he wondered if he should offer his hand. In the end, he just left.

Charles strode from the school. He could see Mademoiselle Whitmore staring at him critically, as if he were a terrible father. Just like my mother , he shuddered, gritting his teeth.

There’s no way he takes drugs . He can’t even muster enough energy to rebel in that way . He tried to recall the last time he had kissed his son in greeting, and whether or not he had noticed the smell of smoke. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had been that close to his son, even in Deauville where they spent three days together.

As a boy, Louis was different. A vision flashed before Charles—the memory of chubby little legs running ahead to the man who sold pinwheels near the port for the Seine River Cruises. He smiled as he remembered his son at this age, back when he still laughed with enthusiasm. It was not just his son who had changed, Charles had to admit. He didn’t delight in spending time with his son like he had when Louis was little. I don’t even know what to talk about.

There was no specific reason to pinpoint for this metamorphosis—no trauma occurring in the last couple years between his son’s boyhood and his adolescence. No, the trauma happened much earlier at the time of Louis’s birth.

His wife, Miriam, had died two days after the birth of their son from complications resulting from placenta accreta. They had made it through the birth successfully, and he was sure she would recover, but the scheduled operation to discover the source of bleeding resulted in her losing her life.

He remembered holding her hand and looking at her tiny smile as she was in the gurney ready to be wheeled in. She had been a frail thing with cropped blond hair and the large brown eyes she bequeathed to her son. He brushed the locks off her forehead and allowed the nurse to slip a cap over her hair. Leaning down, he whispered, “Don’t be too long in there. Your son and I will be waiting.”

“Use the waiting time to get some diaper-changing lessons while I’m under. I won’t be able to pick Louis up for a while, and I don’t want him to be soggy.”

“I’ll have him swaddled like a pro.” Charles had forced down the lump in his throat and grinned.

“I’ll see you after.” They began to wheel her away, but her gaze didn’t leave his until the swinging doors hid her from his sight.

He couldn’t go to the nursery, not while he was waiting. Instead, he went to the waiting room and sat on one of the hard plastic chairs to begin those long hours that would eventually end in anguish. “There were just too much blood loss,” the doctor had said. “There was nothing we could do.” Charles hadn’t thought about that moment in a long time. He frowned.

In those early years, Louis was the only connection Charles had to his young bride. As his son began to grow and lose some of that innocence that causes a child to blurt out the first thing on his mind—that causes a child to reach out for his father without any fear of rejection—Charles began finding excuses for why his son didn’t need him much anymore.

As Charles pulled off the exit on the highway, his thoughts turned again to the English teacher. The viper , he thought with quickened breath, as he remembered her green eyes and the way she slammed the file on the desk at their first meeting. He thought about her ugly American clothing and aggression. Her accusations.

He was annoyed. He was also bothered. For the first time in many years, he began to wonder if he had done well to leave his son to his own devices as much as he had. I’m not going to browbeat my kid the way I was raised . He would not meddle in even the smallest affair the way his mother had done to him. At the same time, he couldn’t be easy.

And he reflected on how unusual it was for him to question himself in this way.