My flight home to Savannah isn’t for a few hours, so I nod and sit on the cushy velvet bench. I’m suddenly exhausted, the stress of this trip catching up to me, and am glad to get off my feet. We sit next to each other, facingThe Child, which Claude has told me remains his favorite of the four.
Marisol, who handled her first flight like a champ, sleeping most of the way, is in her umbrella stroller beside me. She’s gumming a frozen teething ring with gusto. Her second tooth is about to pop through her inflamed, swollen gums, and this toy that came in last week’s NourishBox has proven a lifesaver for her fussiness.
“C’est magnifique,” Claude says, in a hushed tone, eyes onThe Child. “You were right, Mathilde. I like this spot for her. Parfait.”
“Hmm. I’m glad. And I agree,” I say, keeping my voice low as well. I let my gaze drift around the room, and the gold moldings catch my eye again. “Those moldings are beautiful.”
“Merci. But they require much maintenance. We have so many earthquakes here,” he says with a deep sigh. “Ils sont toujours petits, but even the small ones cause cracks. C’est dommage.”
I nod and smile, remaining politely detached, as Cecil told me Claude is an intensely private man and not one for many questions.
Yet, I have so many questions. Like, why is he a Leclerc collector? What is it about her art that has made him build this room specifically for these paintings?Does he feel it too, the disconcerting chill in this room?
“You’ve done beautiful work. And have come a long way today, so thank you, Mathilde,” Claude says.
“Marisol and I were happy to get a few days away. A mini adventure, right, sweet pea?”
The baby gives me a gummy smile as I tickle the tip of her nose. I’m glad for the pack of cotton bibs Margie gifted me—each with a day of the week embroidered on it—for she’s drooling a lot. I would hate for some of it to land on the spotless parquet wood floor under our feet.
I notice Claude observing Marisol. Truly, that’s the best word for it.Observing.Taking in her face, her pudgy hands holding the teething ring, but with little expression except maybe mild curiosity.Perhaps he’s not a fan of children, I think. Looking around at his home, which is straight out of the architectural digest e-zines Wyatt subscribes to, itcertainly seems that way. Far too much white for messy little fingers, far too serene for the inevitable wails of a hungry or tired baby.
“Is there anything…you would like to ask? About the art, perhaps?” Claude says, turning his attention back to me.
“Actually, there is,” I start. “How did you first learn about Charlotte Leclerc? She’s somewhat obscure, even in the art world.”
“Well, Mathilde, in order to explain that, I do have to confess something to you,” he says, eyes back onThe Child.
“Oh?” I keep my tone mild, watching his profile. There’s a twitch in his jaw that makes me wonder exactly what this confession is about.
“Margot was a dear friend of mine, long ago,” he replies. “Before you were born.”
Claude pauses for a beat, begins to say something, then seems to change his mind.
“I didn’t realize that,” I say, my voice steady even as my heart rate goes up, and up, and up. There’s a buzz against my wrist. My watch wants me to relax.Time for breath work, Tilly?But I can ignore it now that I’m not pregnant, the most limiting MotherWise restrictions lifted.
“I learned about Charlotte Leclerc from your mother. We stayed in touch over the years, and I remember how…takenMargot was by her conservation ofThe Child.”
Now I look to the painting my mother restored. The pink gum bubble is vibrant against the black background, the child so obviously joyful. Another shiver moves through me, seeing the bubblegum.“You shouldn’t have come here, Mathilde.”
It’s my mother’s voice. It’smyvoice.
“Margot told me Leclerc’s art isn’t like other paintings. ‘The pieces aren’t meant to be alone,’ she said.” Claude pauses again, a thoughtful look coming across his face. “But how did she put it, exactly? It was odd, her wording…‘They don’t like to be apart, Bernie,’ I think she said…Oui, c’était ça.”
Bernie?I’m finding it hard to take a full breath.
“After her tragic passing, I wanted to own a piece your mother worked on. Something tangible to remember her by. I learnedThe Childwas in a private collection at that point. The owner was happy—almost relieved—to sell it to me. Money problems, perhaps,” Claude says with a shrug.
He knew my mother.Well enough that he was compelled to build this room and fill it with Leclerc’s macabre art after my mother died.A collector reached out…asked for you by name, Cecil said.
“I bought the other two Leclerc paintings not long after, from other galleries, wanting the complete set,” Claude continues. “I know it would have made Margot happy, to see the pieces together like this.”
They don’t like to be apart.
There’s a strange sense of déjà vu, as though I already know this story. I’m about to ask him if we ever met—when I came to France with my mother, maybe—but the door suddenly opens, Claude’s house manager appearing.
“Monsieur Bernard, vous avez un appel,” he says.
My throat gets tight. A wisp of something tucked away long ago drifts to the surface.
