“I did. My head is still spinning,” said Ben. “What a tale.”
“I know you’re a skeptic, but everything in those journals was true. It’s Esmé’s doing, so now we have to find her painting. I need to see what she looks like.”
“Now?”
“We’re not on a flight until tomorrow at eleven. We’ve got twelve hours. We need to find her before she finds us.”
“Lara, she’s like a hundred years old,” said Ben, puzzled. “Do you mean we need to find her grave?”
“No,” said Lara. “She is very much alive. It was Esmé who chased me in the Père Lachaise Cemetery.”
“Lara, let me repeat: She’d be a hundred years old.”
“She doesn’t look a hundred. She can run, too.” Lara had flagged the waiter and pointed to the tiramisu. “You have a choice. Either I’m crazy and you can explain everything or I’m sane and there is some really strange shit going on. I know the truth and I want answers. You’re either going with me or not, but I don’t want your help if you don’t believe me. I’ll get Barrow to go with me. It’s up to you.”
He sat back in his chair. There was a change in her since he’d last seen her on her front porch after the gala. Gone was the unsure girl who masked her grief for everyone. This Lara was confident. He’d never seen her so sure of anything, but in the year he’d known her, he’d always thought she was grounded. She deserved his trust now. Suddenly Ben became suspicious of the people around them. “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”
She smiled and spun her fork, leaning back in the chair. “You’d better order some strong coffee. You’re going to need it.”
In the morning, Lara and Audrey met Ben, Barrow, and Gaston for breakfast. When she got down to the hotel lobby, they were all waiting for her eagerly.
“Bad news,” said Gaston. “Our flight has been delayed. They rebooked us for tomorrow morning.”
“So now we have more time to hear the story,” said Barrow.
Over croissants and pains au chocolat, she recounted the story for them.
“We need to find Esmé’s painting,” said Lara, pushing her porcelain cup away.
“I’ve been looking for that painting for twenty years now,” said Barrow, ruffled.
“And Lara has discovered two of them in a matter of weeks.” Gaston sipped his espresso. “My bet is on her to find the remaining one.”
Barrow conceded.
“I figure that Émile told Cecile that he threw Esmé’s painting away out of shame, but I doubt that he actually destroyed it,” said Lara. She could feel the ache of Cecile inside her, the burden of carrying another being. There were pangs of melancholy at hearing Giroux’s name batted around among the group. Lara realized these emotions were Cecile’s, yet they were now hers as well.
“I agree,” said Barrow. “No artist destroys his work, especially if it is a great one. He had to know the three paintings were something special.”
“Fragonard said his father found Cecile Cabot Takes Flight in the trash,” said Gaston.
“Art was traded around in that neighborhood quite a bit, back then,” said Barrow. “Giroux’s apartment would be a good first place to look, but frankly, it’s a long shot.”
“This entire thing has been a long shot,” said Ben. “Lara and I will try his old apartment building.”
“I’ll check the records for other art that was bought and sold around that time in Montparnasse,” said Barrow, placing his sunglasses on his head as he rose from the table. It was another hot, humid day in Paris, yet Barrow’s white jeans and black T-shirt looked refreshingly cool. “It might have been added to a sale if they thought there was little value to it at the time.”
Lara thought her mother looked tired. “You should go back and rest. We’ve all been here longer and we’re over the jet lag.”
“I just need you to be careful,” said Audrey, touching Lara’s arm.
“Let’s actually try to do a little sightseeing.” Gaston took Audrey’s hand. “Let me show you my hometown.”
“I’ll take care of her, Audrey,” said Ben.
“You can join me,” said Lara, placing her messenger bag across her body. “I can take care of myself.”
Ben and Lara took a cab back to Émile Giroux’s old apartment in Montparnasse, just blocks away from where they’d dined last night. Lara didn’t need to consult a map for the street. Cecile knew the way to Rue Delambre. As they opened the foyer door, she could feel Cecile’s ache inside her, especially as she gazed up at the stairs to the second floor and his door. To be back in his house.
“Are you okay?” Lara was shocked to hear herself, forgetting she wasn’t alone.
“Huh?” Ben looked perplexed. “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are,” said Lara, composing herself. Cecile did not respond and Lara felt a tug of pity for her.
The building was not in great condition, and Lara thought that the rickety staircase had not been fixed since Giroux lived here. While the old wood was still beautiful, it was battered from neglect. The black-and-white-checkered floor was new but cheap. Everything about this apartment building felt just as transactional as it did from the days Giroux lived here.
Ben knocked on the door of the first-floor apartment.
After some time, an older woman answered the door. Her hair was a red, almost purple color, but her white roots were visible and she wore a black Adidas tracksuit.
“Bonjour,” said Lara. She let Cecile speak for her, in perfect French: “Are you the owner?”
“Oui,” said the lady. She folded her arms defensively. Her red nails were lacquered.
“Do you know who owned this house before you?” Lara looked beyond the woman into her apartment. It was cluttered, and Lara could see the walls were littered with artwork from all different periods and styles. The pastels of the Impressionists seemed to get their own wall above a pink velvet sofa.
“My
