The Secrets She Carried (35 page)

Jay was the first to speak. “It would be helpful if you could tell us when your grandfather sold his collection, and if at all possible, who the buyers were. We know it’s a long shot, but we were hoping maybe there were some old records.”

“As a matter of fact, my grandfather was rather particular when it came to his records. Every piece he ever bought or sold was catalogued in a series of ledgers.”

Leslie set her tea aside and scooted to the edge of her chair. “And you have these books?”

“I do.”

“I don’t suppose you’d let us see them?”

“No. But I may be able to tell you what you want to know. After you called, I did a little digging.” Opening the desk drawer, she took out a sheet of paper and held it at arm’s length as she read aloud. “Five oils by Jeremiah Tanner, sold in March of 1941 to Henry Gavin of Peak Plantation, North Carolina. It seems at one time your great-grandfather owned more than just the Rebecca, Ms. Nichols.”

“And did the ledger say how much he might have paid?”

Emilie nodded coolly.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Suffice it to say that for the time, it was a considerable amount of money.”

Leslie counted to ten. She was quickly losing patience. “Was there any information about how your grandfather happened to connect with the buyer? I ask because my great-grandfather was a tobacco famer who didn’t know the first thing about art.”

Emilie’s lips pursed. “That would explain his taste.”

Jay threw Leslie a sharp look of warning. “You’re not a fan of Tanner’s work, Emilie?”

“Let’s just say he’s not my cup of tea.”

Leslie’s eyes shifted briefly to the painting on the easel. “I don’t understand. The way he captured her expression…it’s so alive, so…sensual. That takes talent.”

Emilie Fornier gave a delicate sniff. “Hardly fitting praise for what was supposed to be a religious study. But then, that was always Tanner’s fatal flaw. He never approached his work with anything like reverence, choosing to exploit the corporeal instead.”

Leslie spied the glint of metal at Emilie’s throat and realized she was toying with a small crucifix. She blinked at it. Was it really as simple as that? Could this credentialed woman with her tidy hair and no-nonsense manner be so offended by the sensuality of Tanner’s work that she refused to see his talent?

Suddenly, she couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. “Your grandfather must have appreciated Tanner’s work to go to the trouble of collecting every piece.”

Emilie smiled, a mix of irritation and indulgence. “My grandfather may have been a connoisseur of fine art, Ms. Nichols, but he was also a man.”

“You’re saying his interest had more to do with the appreciation of women than with the merits of the artist?”

“Not women, Ms. Nichols—woman. The same woman. The same face over and over again, in every one of Tanner’s paintings. I’m afraid she was something of an obsession for my grandfather.”

Leslie found the idea vaguely unsettling. “That’s odd, isn’t it?
To be obsessed with an image Tanner might have conjured out of thin air.”

“Ah, but he didn’t. She’s real—or was. She was Tanner’s common-law wife. They met in the U.S. and she followed him to Paris. She returned alone several years later. He died in Montmartre, like so many French artists, an opium addict, I believe, heavily in debt, and rumored to have contracted syphilis.”

Leslie said nothing, recalling similar words in the magazine articles.

Jay’s eyes were still on the Rebecca. “How is that even possible when a man has this kind of talent?”

“You assume success in the art world is always about talent, Mr. Davenport. It’s isn’t. Tanner had two strikes against him. He was black, for one, which made finding a wealthy patron all but impossible. More damning, though, was his subject matter. A country famed for the cathedral at Notre Dame wasn’t quite comfortable seeing history’s most sacred women portrayed as sex objects. It’s a conflict for a lot of people, myself included. It can be difficult to remain objective about art that offends your personal beliefs. My family never understood.” Her eyes were bent on the carpet now, fingers working the crucifix. She glanced up with a wavering smile. “I don’t know why I told you that. Forgive me.”

“Ms. Fornier,” Leslie said with newfound patience. “Emilie—I didn’t come to dredge up old wounds. I just want to know more about my family. I’ve got all these questions, but there’s no one left to ask. There are gaps, things I may never know, about my mother, and…other people. That’s why I hoped you could help. But if this is uncomfortable we’ll leave right now.”

Emilie’s expression softened. “That isn’t necessary. I’ll help however I can, though I can’t imagine why anything I could tell you would be of any use. I believe you asked if I knew how the sale came about.”

“Yes, I did. Aside from Tanner’s work, there isn’t another piece of
art in the house of any consequence, and I can’t imagine a tobacco farmer traveling in the same circles as an art dealer.”

“It’s my understanding that Mr. Gavin made the initial contact. It wasn’t until things started coming apart that my grandfather finally agreed to the sale. When he lost most of his money, he had little choice. He liquidated nearly all of his personal collection, keeping only the things he couldn’t bear to part with. Everything else went to keeping the gallery afloat.”

“It had to be terrible parting with so many beautiful things, losing everything he’d worked for and loved.”

“Come with me, Ms. Nichols. There’s something I want to show you.”

Leslie followed, jerking her head for Jay to come along. They stepped across the hall to the closed door opposite Emilie’s office. The room was dark and masculine, not so very different from Henry’s study with its requisite desk, leather chairs, and massive fireplace. An enormous portrait filled the space above the mantel.

Leslie’s mouth sagged open.

“It’s called
Eve and the Serpent
,” Emilie said without fanfare. “Tanner’s sixth and last known work.”

It was magnificent, a life-size depiction of Claude Fornier’s obsession, nude but for the snake writhing sinuously about the model’s torso, poised to strike one ripe breast. Her dark head was thrown back, lips parted, as ripe as the fruit she had just plucked from the Tree of Knowledge.

“He kept one,” Leslie breathed.

“Yes,” Emilie said. “To my grandmother’s everlasting shame.”

“I take it she didn’t approve?” Jay asked, craning his neck.

“According to family legend, the day my grandfather bought it, my grandmother threatened to move out of their bedroom. When he refused to sell it with the others, she finally did. ’Til the day she died, she refused to enter this room.”

Jay had yet to look away from the painting. “Do we know the model’s name?”

“It was Vivienne. I can’t give you a last name. She usually went by Tanner, though they were never married. At one time my grandmother was convinced my grandfather had hired someone to find her when he learned she was back in the States.”

Leslie dragged her eyes from the portrait. “Did he?”

Emilie shrugged. “I have no idea. For all the damage she did, he may as well have kept her in an apartment across town.”

Jay finally dropped his eyes to Emilie. “I can’t help wondering why, with such negative associations, you keep it. Why not sell it, or at least take it down?”

Emilie actually grinned. “Was that an offer?”

“No, I only meant—”

“I know what you meant. I was teasing. The truth is, I can’t. Nothing in this house actually belongs to me. It’s mine to enjoy as long as I live, but I can’t sell it or move a single stick of furniture. When I die everything goes to the Charleston Historical Society. I’m an only child and never married, so there’s no one left. And now, before I air any more family laundry, let’s go fetch your painting from my office and get you two back on the road. It’s a long drive back to North Carolina.”

Jay

J
ay said nothing on the short drive to the restaurant. Leslie seemed not to notice, too busy, he suspected, trying to forge some kind of link between Tanner’s paintings and Adele Laveau to bother with small talk. Not that they’d heard anything that tied back to Adele. Maybe, when she realized she couldn’t make it fit, she’d finally leave the whole subject alone.

Maybe.

Not that he was off the hook. Back at the Battery, before his cell phone had saved him, he’d been about to spill the whole thing, everything he knew or thought he knew—the journal full of notes, the fledgling manuscript in his desk, his meddling in her father’s health issues—but by the time he hung up, there hadn’t been time. Now he wasn’t sure he had the nerve.

High Cotton sat at the corner of East Bay and Faber, its green canvas awning fluttering gently in the balmy breeze. Jay held the door, then followed Leslie into the dimly lit foyer. It was early, quiet except for a jazz trio tuning up in the lounge. Maybe they should start there, have a drink to take the edge off. But that would just prolong the inevitable. The hostess arrived, showing them to a cozy corner table, which she proudly informed them had been dubbed the most
romantic table in Charleston by
Southern Living
magazine. Jay eyed the framed article mounted to the windowsill as he took his seat. Under other circumstances, perhaps, but he had the distinct feeling that tonight was going to end up being about as romantic as the siege on Fort Sumter.

Their waiter arrived, delivering an impeccable recitation of the evening’s specials, then suggested they might like to start with a bottle of wine.

Jay waved away the wine list. “The lady’s the expert. I’ll leave the choice to her.”

Leslie shot him daggers as she accepted the heavy leather folder. After a moment she closed it and handed it back. “I don’t see Peak Cellars listed. I don’t suppose you have a bottle of their Chardonnay by any chance?”

Jay stifled a laugh in his water glass.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that label, ma’am.”

Leslie feigned surprise, then cool disappointment. “That’s too bad. I thought it might pair nicely with the scallops. Well, if you don’t have Peak, the Sonoma-Cutrer will do.”

“The Sonoma, then,” he said, nodding crisply. “A very nice choice.”

Jay waited until he was sure the waiter was out of earshot, then leaned close. “That was laying it on a bit, don’t you think?”

“Twenty bucks says he’s in the back right now, asking the wine steward if he’s ever heard of us.”

Jay shook his head, chuckling. “I’ve created a monster.”

The Chardonnay wasn’t long in coming. After placing their orders, they sipped their wine and nibbled warm bread, chatting easily about the weeks he’d spent in Charleston doing research. His thoughts never stopped churning, though. He never should have waited so long to come clean. He didn’t know where to begin or how to explain why keeping the truth from her had seemed like the right thing to do.

“I can see why you like this place,” Leslie said, interrupting his
thoughts. “It’s charming, very Charleston. But then, you know Charleston. You and Conroy, that is.”

She was taunting him with Emilie Fornier’s remarks and clearly enjoying herself in the process. “You can wipe that smirk off your face. Our hostess was merely expressing pride in her birthplace. They take it very seriously.”

“She liked you.”

“She liked my book.”

“No, she called the book mushy. It was you she liked.” She tore off another hunk of bread and began to butter it. “So…does that smile come natural?”

“What smile?”

“The one you turned on Emilie at precisely the right moment. I was just wondering if you had to work to perfect it.”

Jay did his best to look wounded. “I don’t think I like what I’ve just been accused of. Besides, what was I supposed to do? We were five minutes from getting tossed out on our ear. She really got under your skin.”

“In the beginning,” Leslie admitted. “Then I saw what an act it all was, to keep people from seeing how unhappy she is. I get that. You think being prickly will keep you safe, but all it ends up doing is keeping you alone.”

She set down her glass then and laid a hand on his sleeve. “I wasn’t very nice when I came back to Peak. I’m sorry for that, sorry for not seeing what Maggie meant to you, for suspecting you of—well, a lot of awful things. Growing up the way I did made me believe everyone had an angle, so you couldn’t just be this nice guy who cared about my grandmother.” She shrugged. “Life with Jimmy, I guess, but you didn’t deserve it.”

Jay squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he could bolt from the table or at least ask Leslie to stop talking. Maybe he hadn’t come to Peak with an angle, but he sure as hell couldn’t claim anything
like innocence. Not when he was sitting on two hundred pages of unfinished Gavin family history and purposely keeping it from her. And now he’d added Jimmy to his list of transgressions.

He’d rather not contemplate the fallout when she learned he’d been meddling in the man’s medical affairs, or that after six long years he’d picked up the phone and instructed his agent to pitch the manuscript so he could foot Jimmy’s medical bills, and all to help a man Leslie despised. In retrospect, it seemed like a pretty bad idea, and one Leslie wasn’t likely to forgive anytime soon. But it was too late for regrets, and much, much too late to examine his motives. The wheels were in motion. Maybe there was nothing to be done for the old bastard, but if there was, well then, he’d just have to let the pieces fall. It was time to face the music.