“What?” I ask him.
“Just us.” He kisses me. “Just family. Just a ridiculous foam finger and a damn good night.”
* Exceptional (French)
CHAPTER 32
Gustave
Three months!
That’s how long it’s been since I traded my apartment for a suite at the Ritz, foie gras for tamales, bespoke suits for aprons—and the safety of scandal-proof walls for something dangerously close to peace.
Life in Los Angeles has settled into an unexpected rhythm.
I work during the day while Tara is at the Getty. Then she works at the restaurant, and I help her when I can or end up taking conference calls from Juan’s small office slash filing cabinet in the restaurant, while my colleagues around the world wonder where the fuck I am.
But peace, it appears, is a temporary luxury.
The call comes after closing. Tara is behind thecounter, pouring coffee, her father humming softly as he stirs tomorrow’s stock.
On the phone, Laurent, my second-in-command’s voice is low and grim.
“Gustave, we’ve got a situation in Hong Kong. The investment partners are threatening to pull out of the heritage project deal unless you’re there in person. They want assurances from the de Valois name, not just the management team.”
“Merde!” I rub my temple, shaking my head. “What they want is a count to shake hands with and smile for the cameras.”
Laurent hesitates. “Oui. But so what? It takes only a little effort on your part, and remember, this deal is worth more than a quarter of our next year’s projected revenue.”
I exhale, already feeling a forgotten weight returning to my shoulders, that familiar mix of duty and frustration that once defined my life. “I’ll talk to Juliette.” Maybe I can fly straight to Hong Kong from LA, and then….
“And you must be here for the de Valois Foundation board’s meeting,” he hurriedly informs me.
“Non.” That will require me to be away from Tara for nearly two weeks. That’s far too long. “I can do it by video.”
“Gustave…you know how these things are; you have to behere.” I can hear the plea in Laurent’s voice. “And you must attendLe Bal des Beaux-Arts.”
The Fine Arts Ball is tied to the École des Beaux-Arts and Parisian art patrons like the de Valois family. It’s a long-running society tradition, glamorous, old-world, and utterly dull.
When I hang up, Tara is watching me from across the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. She doesn’t need to ask. She already knows. “You have to go,” she says quietly.
I nod. “The Hong Kong partners are panicking. They want me there to put out fires.” I’ve been discussing with her the intricacies of my work, including what it takes to make these deals happen. She knows what the Hong Kong deal means to my company.
She looks miserable, but her voice stays even. “Then you should go.”
“Come with me.” I reach for her hand, holding on tightly. “You’ll love Hong Kong.” I know she’s never been. “The art scene there is extraordinary. We could go to the galleries, walk along Victoria Harbor?—”
She shakes her head, though her fingers curl around mine. “You know I can’t. I just started the Liotard restoration. I can’t walk out after the Getty took a chance on me. I won’t screw this up.”
There’s pride in her voice, and it makes me love her more.
“Come to Paris then, forLe Bal des Beaux-Arts.”
She frowns. “What’s that?”
I tell her, and add, “It’s your usual mix of aristocrats, artists, and donors?—”
“Thecre`me de la cre`meof Paris?” she finishes glumly.
