“Do you think he might not know it’s happening? Is this possible?”
“Anything is possible.” Ines handed me the sealed box of tuiles aux amandes in a paper bag and another envelope from Marc.
“I guess I should ask him.”
Forty-Three
My aunt was cleaning a teapot when I walked in. Her wardrobe was, again, dark gray. Gone were the romantic and cheery pastels she had been known for all my life. A severe, high-necked dress was paired with a charcoal shawl. With her upswept hair, she appeared like a character in a gothic novel, the stern heroine standing against an isolated rain-soaked English country house.
“Good morning, Auntie. I brought almond wafer cookies that look like potato chips.” I set the bag on the counter. “How are you?”
“Fine, I’m fine.” Her reply convinced no one. The weariness in her voice implied another night of restless sleep. “What are you up to today?”
“Oh, seeing more of the city. There’s still so much I haven’t explored or eaten. I intend to come home with enough memories to sustain me until I visit you again.”
She nodded her head, but I doubted that she heard me. Her dark eyes gazed into the distance as if she were lost in a waking dream. The haunting melody returned, settling in as a low hum from her lips.
“Call me if you need anything,” I said. “I’ll be back later this afternoon.” Hopefully, with good news.
“Have a good time, dearest,” she replied as I walked out the door.
I walked to the courtyard doors, punched in the code, and climbed the stairs. My aunt’s unhappiness had encroached upon mine, such that I decided to leave Marc’s envelope sealed. He wasn’t going anywhere, and I needed to focus on the task before me.
* * *
* * *
As I made my way toward Le Papillon Bleu, I rehearsed what I needed to say to Monsieur Renaud. While I didn’t fear being flustered, I was concerned with the structure of my argument, that reminding Girard of his past love for my aunt might not be enough. I had no other avenues or angles. If I was unable to convince him of my aunt’s affections, she would be worse off. Her feelings would be exposed to the man who could do the most damage.
Personal history was a tricky, mercurial narrative. Two people might be present at the same event, but their recollection differed based on emotions, biases, and attention to specific details. Family gatherings were often a forum to demonstrate and debate how past events had unfolded. There was never an impartial judge or a shortage of opinions.
I tapped the cardboard sleeve with the photo inside. If only I could speak with the man from the picture. That man’s love for my aunt was unquestionable.
Le Papillon Bleu was empty when I arrived, ten minutes before the designated time. Punctuality was a dominant Yu trait that even my bad-boy cousin Johnny couldn’t escape. No one in the family was ever late—except for Cynthia.
The hostess, a pretty redhead, greeted and escorted me to the bar to wait. The art nouveau decor spilled into the space in its gilt and flowing plant-influenced sculptural details. Liquor bottles glowed like jewels against a glittering, golden mosaic backsplash. The vibrancy of the color palette brought a smile to my face.
Ten minutes later, she returned and said in heavily accented English, “Monsieur Renaud will you see you in his office now, Miss Chu.”
I picked up my structured navy vegan-leather tote from the stool beside me and followed.
The path to his office was through a series of hallways, none of which passed the kitchen. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of Marc. My guide led me to a door with a gold plaque bearing the proprietor’s name. She gave me a tight smile and left.
I took a series of deep breaths and opened the door.
Oil paintings and framed watercolors of Montmartre graced the far wall while the others had photographs with noteworthy people, press events, and newspaper clippings. With a round stained glass window depicting peonies behind him, Girard Renaud sat at his desk in a high-backed, tufted leather chair. A small stack of folders lay in a rectangular, wooden tray in the top left corner. The rest of the desk surface remained free of clutter.
Two Queen Anne–style chairs were stationed for guests. I recognized the style as the same as one of the beautiful, comfortable chairs Aunt Evelyn had kept in the parlor of her Victorian.