and wrap my hands on the bars right below his. I’m still on the outside, but I want him to let me in. “I get it. I do feel protective of Leila, but I guess I also feel protective of me. Honestly, I’m not sure how to trust you.”
Alexandre recoils when I say this. I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t hide the truth anymore, and I can’t pretend his deception didn’t matter. He casts his eyes downward.
I take a quick breath and continue. “It’s hard to know what the right thing to do is. Leila didn’t want her story to be told, but if we find the painting—if it is her—we can’t keep her hidden. Her whole life was about being hurt and used and discarded. I don’t want that to happen to her again.”
Alexandre moves his fingers down so they almost touch mine. “We won’t let that happen,” he says softly. “I know asking you to trust me—to forgive me—might be too much. But I promise I’m not going to lie to you again. If there is a Delacroix that we can sell to save this place, I want to find it. But if the only treasure is Leila’s story, like you say, then I want to find that, too. Her story is enough.”
We stare at each other through the gate, exchanging small, stiff grins like strangers forced to share a small space that each of them wants for themselves. But it’s a start. A modification. A do-over.
I clear my throat and step back. “Are you going to let me in? Or do I have to pole-vault over the gate?”
Alexandre shakes his head. “Sorry. One minute.” He disappears behind the high stone wall that borders the property and reemerges on the street, walking toward me. This way, he gestures. I walk up to him, and we give each other the required, slightly detached bise. We’re silent. Waiting. Anticipating the other. Trying to figure out if there is anything else to say.
We hurry to an olive-green, splintered wooden door carved into the stone wall. Boughs from the small grove inside the wall partially obscure the door from the street; I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if I’d casually passed by. Alexandre pushes it open, and we emerge in a green wood, the fresh smell of moss and dirt infusing the air. We take a narrow path, Alexandre in the lead. I imagine Dumas walking through here. Perhaps with Leila? It’s quiet in Dumas’s park—lush and romantic—and if I wrote love stories, this is exactly where I would want to write them.
Alexandre breaks the silence, the back of his hand brushing against mine. I’m not sure if it’s an accident or on purpose. “Dumas had this built by a pretty famous architect in 1846. It was supposed to be his dream home. He called it the Chateau de Monte-Cristo, because the money he made from that book paid for this place. He also had a separate smaller place built, beyond the main home. The Chateau d’If—named for the island fortress Dantès was imprisoned in. It’s actually a real place on a small island off Marseille.”
I know all this information, but I don’t tell him because his voice lifts as he’s talking—as he’s sharing a part of his family’s story.
Instead, I chuckle. “He named his writing studio after a prison? Ouch. That’s a rough metaphor.”
Alexandre turns to me and smiles. I almost reach out to squeeze his hand but stop myself.
From the woods, we arrive onto a verdant, gently sloping lawn. Gobsmacked is the only word that comes to mind. I walk ahead, passing Alexandre until I reach the gravel path finally facing Dumas’s Chateau de Monte-Cristo. It’s not massive, basically a three-story house with two round-domed turrets. But it is stunning. The honey-colored stone fa?ade is detailed with intricate carvings—flowers, angels, musical instruments, mythical beasts, a crest.
Alexandre appears at my elbow. “Is that Dumas?” I ask, pointing to a large medallion above the door. “Would he have his own face sculpted on his home?” Then I notice the windows in the domes. “And the grill over the windows, those are his initials?”
Alexandre nods. “He also had his personal motto engraved up there by the family crest: