A Sudden Change of Heart (3 page)

Claire had once said in a moment of anger that Rosa was a crazy woman and should have been kept in the mental hospital. She had been very vehement about it at the time.

Laura closed her eyes, her thoughts settling on Claire Benson: her best friend and confidante, the elder sister she had never had, her role model. Claire had been living in
Paris for a number of years, which was one of the reasons she liked to come here, to spend time with Claire.

Opening her eyes, Laura stood up. She began to stroll down the long gallery, determinedly pushing aside all thoughts of the Lavillards, mother and son. Within seconds she had forgotten them, once more enjoying the Renoirs hanging there. Soon she was lost in the paintings, soothed by their beauty.

And then once again she was no longer alone. Unexpectedly, there was Claire standing by her side, taking hold of her arm.

“What are you doing here?” Laura exclaimed, startled to see her friend, filling with a rush of anxiety. Oh, God, had Claire run into the Lavillards? She hoped not; they usually upset her. She searched Claire’s face, looking for signs.

Claire explained, “You told me you were coming to the museum after your lunch, so I thought I’d join you.” She peered at Laura. “What’s wrong? You look odd.”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Laura answered. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.” She was relieved to see that Claire was calm; obviously she
had
missed the Lavillards. But probably only by a few moments. Pushing a smile onto her face, she went on. “So, come on, then, let’s walk around together.”

Claire tucked her arm through Laura’s. “I like seeing paintings through your eyes. Somehow I get much more pleasure from them when I’m with you.”

Laura nodded, and they moved on, gazing at the masterpieces on the walls, not speaking for a short while. For a moment Laura lingered in front of a painting of a mother and child, frowning slightly.

Claire, always tuned in to her best friend, said, “Why are you looking so puzzled?”

Shaking her head, Laura replied, “I’ve often wondered lately if any of these paintings are stolen—”

“Stolen! What do you mean?” Claire asked, interrupting.

“Thousands and thousands of paintings were stolen by the Nazis during the war, and that art, looted by them, hangs on museum walls all over the world. It’s from some of the world’s greatest collectors, such as the Rothschilds, the Kanns, and Paul Rosenberg, who once owned one of the most prestigious galleries in Paris, to name only a few.”

“I read something about that recently. I guess it’s hard for the heirs of the original owners to get their paintings back if they don’t have proof of ownership.”

“That’s it exactly. And so many records were lost during the war. Or were purposely destroyed by the Nazis in order to blur provenance.” Laura grimaced and said, “A lot of museums are fully aware of the real owners, because many of the paintings are coded on the back of the canvases. It all stinks. It’s morally wrong, but try and get a museum to give a painting up, give it back. They just won’t … At least, most of them won’t. Some are starting to get nervous though.”

“Can’t any of the original owners sue the museums?” Claire asked.

“I suppose they could,” Laura answered. “But only if they have proof a painting is theirs. And even then it’s dubious that they’d ever get it.”

Claire nodded. “I remember now, Hercule knows
something about this. He mentioned it only recently. I believe he has a client who is the heir to art stolen by the Nazis from his family in 1938.”

“Oh, who is it?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“A great deal of the looted art is in private hands, and try and get
them
to give it back. They never will, hot when they’ve paid millions for it. There’s going to be a lot of trouble in the next few years now that it’s all coming to light. You’ll see.”

Claire said, “You’re repeating what Hercule was telling me not long ago. Maybe you should talk to him about it.”

“I’d like that.”

“Maybe we can get together with him this weekend. Anyway, do you represent someone with a claim to stolen art?” Claire asked curiously.

“Not at the moment, but I may well do so in the not too distant future.”

They fell silent as they continued to stroll around the museum, as at ease with each other as they had been since childhood. Laura, forever worried about Claire, stole a quick look at her. In her years of living in Paris, Claire had acquired a certain kind of chic that was uniquely French. That afternoon she wore a dark purple wool coat, calf-length and tightly belted, over matching pants and a turtleneck sweater. The purple enhanced Claire’s, large green eyes and auburn halo of curls. Big gold hoop earrings and a dark red shoulder bag were her only accessories, and she looked stylish, well put together. Laura admired Claire’s style, which seemed so natural and un-

Glancing at Laura, Claire came to a halt and said, “I’m glad you’re in Paris for a while, Laura, I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Laura answered swiftly.

Looking at her watch, Claire went on. “I think I’d better be getting back to the photographic studio. I’m doing a shoot for the magazine, as you know, and Hercule’s coming over later. I need his advice about one of my sets.”

“He’s turned out to be a good friend,” Laura said. “Hasn’t he?”

“Yes. But not my
best
friend. That’s you, Laura Valiant. Nobody could take your place.”

Laura squeezed Claire’s arm. “Or yours,” she said.

L
aura heard the phone ringing above the sound of the water pouring into the bath, and she reached for the receiver on the wall.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Doug! Hello, darling.” She sat down on the small bathroom stool near the makeup table and glanced at her watch. It was six. Noon in New York.

Her husband said, “I called you earlier, but you weren’t there. I’m off to lunch with a client in a few minutes, and I wanted to catch you before you went out again.”

“It’s such a clear line, you sound as if you’re around the corner!” she exclaimed warmly, happy to hear his voice.

“I wish I were.”

“So do I. Listen, I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t you
come in for the weekend? Tomorrow’s Friday, couldn’t you take it off and fly over? It
would
be lovely, Doug.”

“Wish I could, but I can’t,” he answered, his voice changing slightly, growing suddenly brisk, businesslike. “That’s another reason I’m calling you, I have to fly to the coast tomorrow. Meetings with the Aaronson lawyers. The merger’s on after all.”

“Oh.
It’s unexpected, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. But what can you do, I’m needed out there.”

“Never mind. But it would have been nice to have you in Paris if only for a couple of days.”

“Sorry, darling, it can’t be helped. When do you think you’ll be back?”

“I have appointments set up for the early part of next week, Doug, so I’ll probably leave for New York on Thursday or Friday.”

“Great! You’ll be here next weekend, and so will I. This is probably going to be a quick trip to L.A. In and out.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Er, the Peninsula in Beverly Hills, as usual.”

“Doug?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve really missed you this week.”

“I’ve missed you too, darling. But we’ll make up for it, and you know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

She laughed. “I guess it does … the way I’m feeling right now, I wish you were here….” She laughed again, a light, infectious laugh.

He laughed with her. “Got to go, sweetie.”

“When are you leaving tomorrow?”

“My flight’s at nine in the morning, and I’m going straight into meetings once I’ve dropped my luggage off. I’ll call you.”

“Bye, darling.”

“Bye, Laura. And a big kiss,” he said before hanging up.

L
aura sat soaking in the tub longer than usual. There had been no cabs on the street when she and Claire had left the museum earlier; they had walked all the way back to the hotel, where Claire had finally found a cab.

The tub was helping Laura to thaw out and to relax, and she luxuriated in the hot bubble bath for a while, thinking of Doug. She had married Douglas Casson when she was twenty-five and he was twenty-seven. They were a perfect fit, compatible, attuned to each other in the best of ways. But lately he worked too hard. She smiled inwardly at this thought. Didn’t he say the same thing about her?

To his way of thinking, they were both workaholics, and he seemed to relish announcing this. It was true, of course, but she didn’t like that particular word. It smacked of obsessiveness, and she was quite sure neither of them was that. Not exactly.

Anyway, Claire had always said that the ability to work hard for long hours was the most important thing of all, and that this was what separated the women from the girls.

But Laura thought that love was important too. Hadn’t Colette, her favorite author, once written that love and work were the only things of consequence in life? Certainly
she believed this to be so. But Claire didn’t, at least, not the love part, not anymore. Claire had been burnt. “And they were third-degree burns at that,” Claire had said. Those burns had taken a long time to heal. “Now I have built a carapace around me, and I’ll never get burnt again. Or hurt in any way. My shell protects me. Nothing, no one, can ever inflict pain on me.”

Laura loved Claire. She also had enormous compassion for her because of all the bad things that had happened to her. Laura was well aware that Claire was raw inside; still, she couldn’t help wishing her friend would open herself up to love again instead of retreating into her shell the way she did. There was something oddly sterile about a woman’s life if she did not have love in it, if she didn’t have a man to cherish.

These days, whenever she broached this subject, Claire only laughed hollowly and responded swiftly, “I have Natasha, and she’s all that matters. She’s my life now, I don’t need a man around.”

But a fourteen-year-old daughter wasn’t enough, was it? Laura wondered. Surely not for a loving, passionate, intelligent woman like Claire.

Claire.
The dearest friend she had ever had. And still her
best
friend, the one she loved the most, even though they lived so far away from each other now. She and Claire went back a long way. Almost all of their lives, really.

She had been five years old when Claire and her parents, Jack and Nancy Benson, had come to live in the apartment opposite theirs in the lovely old building on Park Avenue at Eighty-sixth Street. She had instantly fallen in love with her in the way a little girl of five falls in
love with a very grown-up ten-year-old. She had worshipped Claire from the first, had emulated her. Once their two families had become acquainted, Claire had taken Laura and Dylan under her wing, had been baby-sitter, pal, and confidante.

Cissy, the Valiant nanny, had had her hands full with Dylan, who was then only two and very naughty. So Claire had been a welcome addition to the Valiant household. An only child, Claire had loved being part of this extended family, especially since Laura’s grandparents, Owen and Megan Valiant, were very much in evidence. They all helped to make Claire feel like a very special member of their family.

Because Claire attended Miss Hewitt’s School, Laura went there as well. And there came a time when the five-year difference in their ages suddenly seemed negligible. As teenagers and young women they were as inseparable as they had been as children, bonded together as sisters in soul and spirit, if not blood.

Claire had married young, at twenty-one, and her daughter Natasha had been born a year later. Two years after that she had moved to Paris with her husband and child. But nothing, not distance, husband, or child, had ever come between them or changed the nature of their friendship. Very simply, they loved each other, and as Claire was wont to say, they would always be sisters under the skin, no matter what.

The sad part was that Claire’s life had gone horribly wrong seven years before. Her marriage had foundered and she had divorced; her parents had died within a few weeks of each other, not long after this, and then Natasha had been in a car crash and had suffered serious injuries.
But thanks to Claire’s nursing, the girl had made an amazing recovery.

Laura roused herself, pushing herself up in the tub. Here she was, daydreaming about the past, when she should be getting dressed.

No time to dawdle now.

2
     

“D
on’t you like the room, Hercule?” Claire Benson asked, pausing near the grouping of Louis XV chairs and resting a hand on the back of one of them. “Is it the chairs? Do you think they’re inappropriate? Don’t they work?” She shot these questions at him as she glanced down at the silver-leafed wood frame under her hand, and then at the silver-gray upholstery. “Yes, it
is
the chairs, isn’t it?” she asserted. “Maybe they’re totally wrong for the setting.” Now she looked across at him questioningly, raising a perfectly curved auburn brow.

The Frenchman chuckled. “Ah, Claire, so many questions you fire, rat-a-tat, and you make the jest,
n’est-ce pas?”

“No, I’m being serious.”

“The room is superb.
Formidable, oui.
You have the wonderful taste. The furniture, the fabrics you have chosen, this Aubusson rug, everything is perfection. But—”

“But what?” she cut in before he could complete his sentence.

“The room is incomplete, my dear. A room is never finished until it has—”

“Art,” she supplied, and then immediately laughed when she saw the amusement in his face, the twinkle in his
eye. “I need paintings on these walls, Hercule, I know
that.
But what kind of paintings? That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to see the setting, to help me make some decisions about art. Shall I use a Picasso? Or a Gauguin? Or go for a modern work such as Larry Rivers? A van Gogh? A Renoir maybe? On the other hand, I could look for something really old, like a pair of Canalettos.”

“A van Gogh or a Gauguin would give the room strength, but I do not think it is a strength you require here, Claire. And Canalettos would be wrong. A soft painting would be the ideal choice, something in the pastel tones. It would underscore the stillness, the sense of … quietude you have created. Also, this space has a light look. Airy. A Renoir, most definitely.
Oui. Parfait.”

“Perfect, yes, I agree. But where am I going to find one? And who would lend me one for the photography? People don’t normally let their Renoirs out of their sight.”

Hercule Junot smiled. “There is a possibility that I might be able to find one for you. A few months ago I was shown a Renoir that was for sale—” He paused, shrugged lightly, raised his hands in a typical Gallic gesture. “Well, I do not know,
chérie,
perhaps it has been sold.”

“If it hasn’t, do you think the owner would agree to lend it to me?” she asked, her face eager.

“Mais oui.
The owner is a friend, a former client … I am happy to speak with her. If she still has it, she will allow me to borrow it. For a few hours. If that is enough time for you, Claire. Because of its great value, she would not want to leave the painting here in the studio overnight.”

“And
I
wouldn’t want it to be here overnight! Not unless I slept here with it. I wouldn’t want the responsibility,
although we will insure it, of course, even if it’s here for only a few hours. Too risky not to.” Claire stepped out of the set and went to join Hercule Junot, who was standing on the studio floor. “When can you speak to your friend?”

“I shall be happy to telephone her this evening.”

Claire said, “My lead time is three to four months, as you know, and I’m shooting this for the March issue. It’s going to be the cover shot.”

“If she has not sold it, that might be an inducement for her to lend the Renoir. Having the exposure in the magazine could serve a purpose.”

Claire nodded. “Good thought. What’s the painting like?” She grinned. “Although who needs to know that? A Renoir’s a Renoir.”

Hercule’s face had lit up at the thought of the painting, and he beamed at her. “It is beautiful,
bien sûr,
a seminude, a bather sitting on a rock. But this is not a large painting, Claire. It would only be suitable to hang over the fireplace or above the console. You will need a larger one … for the wall where the sofa is placed.”

“I’m pretty sure I have one already. My assistant found a Seurat at one of the galleries, and they’re prepared to lend it to us.”

“That is good. A Seurat will be compatible. It will sit well with the Renoir. I shall telephone you tomorrow, after I’ve spoken with my friend.” He picked up his dark overcoat, which was thrown over the back of at wooden chair. “I must return to my
bureau,
Claire. Will you come with me? Can I take you to the magazine? Or are you staying here at the studio?”

“No, I’m not, Hercule. I’ve finished for today. I’ll just
have a word with my staff, who are still working on another set, and then I’ll come with you. I’d love a lift to the Plaza-Athénée, if that’s not out of your way.”

“Ce n’est pas un problème,
Claire.”

C
laire had known Hercule Junot for twelve years, having met him when she first came to live in Paris as a young bride. They had been seated next to one another at a fancy dinner party, and the renowned older man and the unimportant young woman had taken to each other at once. He had found her irreverent, saucy, provocative, and challenging, and her knowledge of art and antiques, coupled with her journalistic flair for telling a good story, had been impressive. She had been the most interesting and entertaining dinner companion he had had in many a year, a sheer delight to be with.

Hercule Junot, who was now seventy-six years old, was one of the most famous interior designers in the world, on a par with his peers Stéphane Boudin, a fellow Parisian, and the Italian Renzo Mongiardino. Renowned for his elegant and glamorous formal interiors, he had great taste, immense flair, a discerning and critical eye, and was considered to be one of the foremost experts on fine French furniture. Another area of his formidable expertise was Impressionism, most especially the paintings of van Gogh and Gauguin, the latter a great personal favorite.

Rather than lessening as he grew older, his business seemed to be flourishing even more than ever, and he was in constant demand by those who appreciated his extraordinary gift for creating tasteful but eye-catching interiors full of style, wit, and comfort, those who had the vast
amounts of money required to pay for the antiques and art of the highest pedigree and quality that he favored in his designs.

Claire had been at a crossroads in her career when they had met. She wanted to continue working as a journalist, but she felt more drawn than ever to the world of visual and decorative arts.

At that first meeting over dinner she found herself confiding her concerns about her career and the route it should take, and Hercule made up his mind that he must somehow help her.

The following morning he talked to a number of influential people, pulled a few of the right strings, and in the process contrived to get her a job on
Decorative Arts and Design,
a glossy magazine devoted to art, antiques, and interior design, which was popular with the French and with the international public. It was owned by a friend of his who had long owed him a favor.

Claire had started out in a most lowly position, that of caption writer, but such was her creative talent and energy that within eight years she had risen to the top of the hierarchy of the magazine.

Four years earlier she had been named publisher and editor in chief, answerable to no one but the owner. Hercule Junot, not unnaturally, was proud of her success and the name she had made for herself.

In the ensuing years since that first meeting, most propitious for her, these two had remained staunch friends, and Hercule had become her mentor. Claire trusted his judgment about everything in the world of design, and whenever she was doubtful about a project she ran to him for his opinion and advice.

Such had been the case today; a sudden lack of confidence about the set, an unprecedented occurrence for her, had induced her to invite him to the photographic studio to give his opinion.

The set had been painstakingly designed and skillfully installed with the utmost care; nonetheless, she had been unusually critical of her own work when she saw the finished result. She was also suddenly hesitant and indecisive about the art she should choose to complete the room.

Hercule was impressed by the beauty and quality of the formal salon and the splendid choices she had made, and more so than he actually said. Now he wondered if this had been an error on his part. Perhaps he should have expressed himself more volubly. She was certainly quiet, preoccupied, a silent companion in the Mercedes, and this was most unlike her.

Hercule sighed under his breath, leaned back against the leather upholstery, and glanced out of the window. It had snowed earlier, but the light flakes had melted, leaving the dark streets wet and glistening. Under the bright lights of the Boulevard du Montparnasse the road looked slick as a mirror, and his chauffeur maneuvered the car carefully through the busy traffic of the Left Bank.

If he had any regrets about Claire professionally, it was only that he had not brought her to work for him as his assistant all those years ago. She would have been a godsend to him today, the perfect right hand. She had flair and taste, and her skills as a designer were wasted at the magazine; they came into play only when she created a room to shoot for one of the magazine’s covers. The rest of the time she was plying her trade as a journalist.
C’est dommage,
he thought. My mistake.

Hercule had one other regret about her, and this was intensely personal. He never ceased to wish he had courted Claire when she and her husband had separated seven years before. He had wanted to do so, but he had been … afraid. Yes, afraid of looking foolish … of being rejected … of spoiling the friendship. Better to have her in his life as a friend than not there at all.

There was his age to consider, he was forty years older than Claire. What could she possibly want from him? he had asked himself innumerable times. His late wife, Veronica, had always said he did not look his age, and he had believed her. He was fit and trim, mercifully not as lined and ancient-looking as some of the men he knew who were his age. Admittedly, his hair was white, but it was a full head of hair. And sex was not a problem, not at all.

Initially, he had not pursued Claire or pressed his suit because she had been so distraught at the time of the divorce, a state he had found most odd since she purported to detest her husband. And so time had slipped by, other things had intervened, and the opportunity had been missed. They had fallen into a pattern of loving friendship, and he did not know how to change this without upsetting her unduly.

Veronica had been dead for fifteen years. There was not a day he did not miss his wife; yet he had known when Claire had separated that this young American woman could so easily fill the void created by his wife’s death. Veronica had been an American too; they had that in common. There any resemblance between them stopped. Veronica had been tall, long-legged, an all-American beauty, blond, blue-eyed, and wafer thin, one of the great postwar models in Paris, on Christian Dior’s runway showing his
New Look and on the cover of every fashion magazine in the world. When he had met her, it had been love at first sight, a
coup de foudre
in fact, and a most happy union until the day she died.

Hercule stole a look at Claire, surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye, and for the second time he thought she did not look well. She had faintly bluish smudges under her eyes, and the short, curly auburn hair, the bright burnished halo he found so attractive, did not have its usual glossy luster.

What struck him with such force when he had arrived at the studio that afternoon was her weight, or, rather, loss of it. Always slender, she appeared thinner than ever.
Maigre.
A waif, that was how she appeared to him. An appealing gamine in looks and style, somehow she had become bony. Had she looked like this last week when he had lunched with her at Taillevent? No, she could not have; he would have noticed. He wondered if she was ill? But no, he did not think this was so; she had been full of her usual energy at the studio.

Worries of another nature?
Money?
If this were the problem, then there was no problem. He would readily give her as much as she needed. Instantly, Hercule dismissed the thought that Claire lacked money. The mere idea of it was ludicrous. Her husband provided for Natasha, and she was well paid by the magazine. Could it be that Natasha was causing problems for her? No, no, he, did not think this possible either. The girl was unusual, Very steady and practical, older than her age in a number of ways. Whenever she had been concerned about her daughter in the past, Claire had discussed it with him and he had given the best advice he could. Since he had never
been a father, he felt somewhat inadequate in doing so, and yet how kind she had been, always so appreciative of his interest in Natasha.

He began to formulate an opening sentence in his mind. He wanted to pose certain questions. How he longed to make whatever it was that ailed her go away. He knew he could do that. If she would let him. He loved her. He had loved her for a long time now. He would always love her, and because of this he had the need to ease the burdens of her life if he could. And if she would permit him to do so. Women, ah, they were so contrary. He was a Frenchman, and he knew about their natures only too well.