I took the paper from her hand, feeling protective over it for some reason. “She was a ballet dancer, but much older than me.”
She nodded, a serious look coming over her face. She went to tap her lip but hit the beauty mark above it instead. “I know one of your kind. She comes into the caféevery Wednesday. She is much older.”
“Can you ask her if she knew Àstrid Nemours?” It was a long shot, but I’d take it.
The ballet is an art that is passed down from one dancer to another. There are even dancers whose sole purpose is to remember the dances being taught. The survival of the most classical performances depended on memory, since the ballet is a living art form. I hoped Colette’s connection remembered Àstrid at the very least.
“Oui.”
A month or two went by and it seemed like my schedule and my pace had picked up, leaving me no spare time. Then on a Thursday I found a note taped to my door.
The old ballerina knew of this Àstrid Nemours. She was good, but not as good as you, apparently. She did not obtain the coveted title of Étoile, but she also died before her time, or so the old ballerina says. Heart failure. If you would like more details, she still has family in Paris. Address below.
Two more weeks had passed and I still hadn’t mustered up the courage to approach the Nemours residence. Or mansion. It was a lush and rich place, probably dating back to the 1800s with its numerous vintage French touches. While I stood outside of the place, debating on what to do, the door swung open and a man strode out.
He reflected the riches of the house. His clothes were tailored to fit his well-defined form. He wasn’t especially tall, perhaps around 5’9”, but every inch of him was hard and wide, including the bones of his face. Black hair, grey eyes, and a nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two. His lips were plump, balancing the hollowness of his cheekbones.
He stopped when he saw me.
“Bonjour,” I said, taking a step back.
His eyes were intense on mine, like he was trying to stare into my soul.
“I am looking for…Emory…” I took a stab at the truth.
“What is your name?” he said with great French flair.
“Why?”
He cocked a grin. “I have seen your face before. You are a dancer, no?”
“Oui.”
He held out his hand and I took it. His hands were strong and warm. His deodorant smelled like expensive cologne. “Olivier Nemours.”
“Scarlett Rose Poésy.”
“Ah, Ms. Poésy, the most beautiful dancer. You are more beautiful this close.”
I pulled my hand away from his, but not before he held on just long enough that our skin rubbed in a slow manner.
“You have business with my nephew, Ms. Poésy?”
“You have a nephew named Emory?”
He watched me for a beat, curious eyes steady. “Are you interested in Àstrid’s life?”
I couldn’t answer him right away. I found her.Found them.
“Since you are a dancer,” he continued, egging me on to speak further.
“That’s right,” I nodded, still in dumb shock. “She had a child?”
He nodded, not adding anything else.
“Do you mind telling me…was the child…”
“Aconnard?Oui. She died not long after his birth. Her heart failed her.”
