“I don’t... I mean... I really don’t know...”
“Cady, the universe is handing you a huge gift. Accept your landlord’s offer to take over the lease, sell off Maxine’s inventory, store your stuff in my garage, and go to Paris.”
“Speaking of gifts from the universe, listen to this: Gus fell over—to be honest, I kicked him—and broke open, and—”
“Youkickedhim? Poor Gus.”
“Yes, but listen: There was a box hidden inside.”
“What was in it? Gold coins? Diamonds? Scads of old-fashioned currency?”
“No, unfortunately. Just a photograph and a lock of hair. And a love note, and a wooden rose.”
“How cool! Are there any clues about where Gus came from?”
“Not right off the bat, but I did find the name of a château. I have no idea where it is, though. It doesn’t come up on the Internet.”
“Well, the book offer specifies photos of Parisian carousels, but there’s no reason you can’t wander a little farther afield once you’re in the country,” said Olivia. “You could track down that château. You and I both know you’re going to become obsessed with your mystery box, anyway. It’s what you do.”
It was true: Cady was already reading and rereading the note, gazing at the photo, stroking the plait of hair, wondering about the significance of the rose. Maxine used to say that once something had caught Cady’s interest, she was like a dog with a bone. On the one hand, her single-mindedness had helped her in her photography; on the other, her obsessions sometimes drove a further wedge between her and others.
“Seriously, Cady,” Olivia continued. “Take the leap. You know what they say: The world’s your oyster.”
“I don’t like oysters.”
“Have you evertriedoysters?”
“No.” Cady liked things to be predictable. Running off to Paris for a photography assignment felt... reckless. Just the prospect gave her a dizzying sensation, like the first time she had seen the ocean, standing on the edge of a very steep cliff.
“The pay’s not great, but you’re not a big spender, so it’ll be enough. Honestly, Cady, what do you have to lose?”
Cady gripped the telephone so tightly that her knuckles hurt. Even she had to admit: It felt like the universe was giving her a big old shove in the direction of La Belle France.
“You don’t have any room in your garage,” Cady said. “Everyone else’s stuff is jammed in there already.”
“I’llmakeroom,” Olivia answered, a triumphant tone to her voice. “So, is that a yes?”
“Mais oui,”Cady said, surprising them both.
CHAPTER SIX
1900
ANGERS, FRANCE
THE CAROUSEL FACTORY OF GUSTAVE BAYOL
Maëlle Tanguy
A scrap of paper, crumpled and damp from being clutched in her hand for hours, holds the precious address of the factory: 215 bis, rue de Paris, in Angers. Maëlle Tanguy is weary from the train ride, and her muscles ache from carrying her bag all the way from the station... but still, the moment she walks in she knows the master’s atelier is where she belongs.
She knows from the scents of the freshly sawn wood, the sharp tang of turpentine, and the mellow aroma of linseed oil. Orange afternoon light streams in through huge windows, hazy with caked-on sawdust. Half-built animals pepper the work platforms like so many carcasses, but rather than being butchered they are waiting for their final straps of wood to be cut and laminated, joined and carved. They lack wood filler and putty, sanding and priming with gesso. Most of all, they are in need of the bright paints of brown and yellow, turquoise and scarlet; the gold and silver and copper gilt; the carved tassels, bells, jewels, and rosettes that will transform them into miraculous carousel figures.
Maëlle knows.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. May I help you?”
Maëlle’s reverie is broken by the most beautiful man she has ever seen. His face reminds her of an angel painted by an old master. His brawny, muscular arms are like those of the butcher’s son, who could carry an entire boar carcass over his shoulder without breathing hard; but the intelligence gleaming in his gray-green, sea-colored eyes is something else entirely. The sheen of sweat on his broad brow—and on the intriguing triangle of skin revealed by his open collar—only serves to make him more attractive.
