“Hello, duckling. Sorry I haven’t called. My new meds are working and I’ve been able to focus enough to start a little bit of work again.” I dive at the phone as I hear my mom’s voice, even though I know the message was more than a day ago. “I got the plane tickets you sent me to come there for Christmas, but I don’t think I can…” Her voice trails off. “Call me and we can talk about it, but I think it will be too hard.”
I’m desperate to see her but there’s no way I can fly home for the holidays. My student visa is about to expire and if I leave, I’m not sure how I’ll be able to come right back. It was Stella’s idea to fly my mom here, have her meet with some high-end specialists. She purchased the first-class ticket for her and found someone who could expedite a passport. I never thought it would be possible, but I’m still disappointed. Christmas Eve is tomorrow.
The machine beeps; another message plays.
“Emma? It’s Matthew.” His voice, tentative and slightly slurred, fills the apartment. “I’ve called a few times. I guess you’re busy. I, uh…I wanted to apologize for the party. I have no idea how the night ended. I’m so embarrassed. I was in a terrible place afterwhat my father did.” He pauses, and I can hear ice clinking in a glass. “The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about you.” Another pause. “I’m not making sense. I’ll try again tomorrow when I’m sober.”
The next one’s from him too.
“Me again. Matthew. It’s morning now and I’m positively mortified about that call last night. Please delete it if you haven’t heard it yet.” He laughs nervously. “Listen, I’ve been given an assignment in Tokyo. Father’s way of getting me out of Paris after humiliating me, I suppose. I’m leaving tonight.” His voice softens. “I’d really like to see you before I go. Just coffee?”
I stare at the phone, paint-stained fingers hovering over it. Shame wells up in my throat. I used Matthew and cast him aside, much as I’m sure his father has done to him many times. But I can’t feel guilty about any of it, and I also can’t think about him right now. I’m doing what I have to do to survive, just as Stella said Claire did. It’s a weak justification for deceiving someone, but I will keep repeating it until I believe it. Matthew is better off if we don’t speak again.
I open the window to get some air, to let the breeze calm my frenetic breaths. I feel guilty about Matthew, and I miss my mom more than ever. The two emotions rip into me, leaving a jagged shame. Beneath the building, outside the front entrance, a Rolls-Royce idles. There are more than a few of these in Paris, but I swear this one looks exactly like the one I took home from the château the other night. Maybe Matthew’s flight hasn’t left yet, or more likely he’s taking a private plane and he can leave whenever he pleases. The door opens and a long, lean leg steps onto the pavement. I quickly sink to the floor, out of view of the window.
The person stepping out of the car isn’t Matthew.
30
Claire
I was stupidto believe I could have everything I ever dreamed of—safety, purpose, and a family.
When I see her sitting on my bed, the box of letters in front of her, my dread is a physical thing that threatens to overwhelm me. It’s not only the secret itself I fear, but the amount of time I’ve kept it from her. I should have burned the papers after Dr. Gachet gave them to me, but I couldn’t. She and I have come to look at the correspondence between Theo and Vincent as something almost spiritual in nature, and I couldn’t bear to incinerate any of their words, no matter how incriminating they were for me.
Jo returned to the boardinghouse from abroad in wonderful spirits after having secured new sales to prominent collectors. She came to pack up the last of her things, but now she is in my room instead of her own. There have never been boundaries between our personal spaces, which should have made me more careful.
“I thought it might be an empty box I could use for the picture frames,” she says. “And then I saw the familiar handwriting and I was curious about which of the letters you kept beneath your bed.”
“I can explain.”
Her tone is cold, but her voice wobbles like that of a child who isn’t sure which words to use. “It is very clear here, Claire. I need no explanation. You were intimate with my husband.”
“Before you were married.”
“You lied to me.”
“Never. I merely didn’t tell—”
She interrupts. “That’s the same as lying and we both know it. All these years have been a lie. You let me go on and on about my dear departed Theo and you never mentioned that the two of you had a very close relationship. Very close.”
I rush over to her, but she raises a hand to stop me in my tracks.
“When was it exactly?” I see her trying to do the math in her head. “After our engagement?”
The timeline folds in on itself. I’m confusing the stories I have been concocting in my mind for this exact occasion with the actual truth.
“Before. Shortly after you were betrothed he told me he could no longer see me. But you must believe me that our relationship was mostly a friendship.”
“Not entirely a friendship. That much is clear.”
Jo is not a prude and she knows Theo was with women before her. He wrote of some of them in his letters to his brother, and she has never batted an eye. We all understand the needs of men, even committed ones.
She closes her eyes as if she’s trying to picture the two of us together. “Why didn’t you tell me, Claire?”
“I wanted to tell you many times. I should have told you that first night.”
She cuts me off. “That first night, you knew exactly who I was in that alley. Were you following me?”
