“Mhmm.” I steeple my hands, fingertip to fingertip. “So, which field will you take us to?”
“Lyon.”
I didn’t expect that. “My hometown?”
“Listen to me, Lucie. It’s important. Tomorrow morning, we’ll take the TGV to Lyon where we’ll go straight to your mother’s shop.”
My hands drop to my sides. “To do what?”
He delves into the inside pocket of his impeccable suit and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. “To look for a fan.”
I scoot closer as he unfolds it. It’s a well-executed drawing of an open handheld fan with a mount and a pleated leaf. From the top of my head, I’d say it’s French. Might be English or Dutch, though. Judging by its size, style, colors and the romantic pastoral scene painted on it, it’s from the second half of the eighteenth century. Those fans are valued by collectors, but they aren’t particularly rare. We have a few of them in the shop.
He throws me a hopeful look. “Recognize it?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Have a photo?”
“This sketch is all I have.”
“Who drew it? Based on whose description?” I have so many questions that I keep going, “Why does MINDFUCH need that fan? Is it more valuable than others from the same period? Who did it belong to?”
“No one of note,” he says.
I wait for more answers, but he just looks at me, smiling.
“What about my other questions?” I finally ask.
“I am not at liberty to answer them.”
“Huh? How valuable is that fan exactly? Will you be making my mom an offer on behalf of MINDFUCH?” Even as I utter those words, I realize something. “Wait, is that why you hired me? To get closer to that fan?”
That conflicted expression again!
I show my palms. “Why didn’t you just walk into the shop and ask my mom about it?”
“That is not why we hired you.” He looks away momentarily and then back at me. “To be more exact, that is not the only reason we hired you.”
I clap a hand to my forehead theatrically. “Silly me, I forget! The other reason is my juggling skills. That unique combo is what makes me such a good fit for MINDFUCH.” My sarcasm is obvious and rather rude, given that he’s my boss, but I don’t care.
“No,” he says.
“What’s the other reason, then?”
He folds up the drawing and slips it back into his pocket. “I am not at liberty to discuss it.”
9
LUCIE
It’s a little weird to be back in my hometown only a few days after packing up to start a new gig in Paris.
Max and I didn’t talk much on the train. He checked his emails and texted. I read my book. Now he’s parking the Citroën C5 he rented upon our arrival at Lyon’s Part-Dieu station, while I’m rehearsing in my mind the pitch we’re going to give Mom.
He removes the key from the ignition. “Ready?”
I unbuckle my seat belt.
When we enter the shop, I make my way between shelves with stacked boxes and rolls of fabric. Max follows me to the corner in the back where Mom is usually making or repairing a fan when there are no customers in the shop.
