Precious Gifts (18 page)

They had dinner that night in a little Italian restaurant in Old Antibes. Véronique had walked past it several times with Aidan, it looked casual and friendly, and they wandered around for a while after dinner, and then went back to the Eden Roc.

Juliette could hardly wait for her meeting with the architect the next morning. She lay in bed that night for hours, unable to sleep. All she could think of was what she wanted to do with it. She already had most of it mapped out in her head. She could visualize the Château de Brize on the list of Relais and Châteaux. She was guessing it would take a year to do the repairs. And she fell asleep calculating how much the work might cost. She was nervous about what the architect would say. And that night, she dreamed about the château. There were horses in the stables, flowers in the gardens. They would grow their own vegetables, and she knew exactly how she wanted the kitchen. She would make all their baked goods and do the cooking. She woke up several times, afraid to miss the meeting. And finally, she fell into a heavy sleep, imagining that she was in her own room at the château.

J
ean-Pierre Flarion was waiting for her when she got to the château ten minutes late the next morning. She had overslept after tossing and turning for most of the night, worried she'd be late, and she had raced to get ready.

He was a tall, pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties, and he had brought everything he needed with him, notepads, measuring tape, camera, computer. Juliette apologized profusely for being late when she got there, with her hair in a wild haze of blond curls, which she hadn't had time to brush properly. She'd worn blue jeans and running shoes, so she could explore everywhere with him, and didn't care if she got dirty. He had worn a blazer and jeans, and he looked startled when he saw her.

“I imagined someone much older,” he said as they walked into the château. He seemed more interested in Juliette than in the building or the repairs. He spoke perfect English, which made it easy for her.

“I just inherited it from my father,” she explained. “I own it with my sisters. I'm going to buy them out, and turn it into a hotel.”

“That's an interesting idea,” he said with a look of approval, as he took out an iPad and started making entries. “You'll have to hire someone to run it,” he said practically.

“I can run it myself, and do the cooking,” she said, and he nodded, impressed by her enthusiasm, which seemed boundless.

They went through each room methodically, while he measured and made notes. They discussed the leaks with the caretaker, and the condition of the roof.

“I don't know if I need an architect or a contractor,” she said seriously.

“I do both. And you're right. You shouldn't change anything in the structure. You should keep it in its natural original state, but you have a lot of restoration work to do.”

“I know,” she said bravely, wondering if he'd be expensive. But at least he was local. She didn't want to bring down a fancy architect from Paris. Or even Nice. He was right there.

They examined every structure until lunchtime, and she was filthy by then, from the dust and dirt of many years. And they agreed that they had to do major work in the kitchen. But the furniture looked good to her. She'd have to have it all reupholstered and have new curtains made. But the rugs her mother had bought were still beautiful and of the period.

“You can get some wonderful things at local auctions,” he told her.

And finally they had done as much as they could, and he said he needed to go back to his office to do some calculations to give her a rough estimate.

“I can have it for you by late afternoon.”

“That's fine.” She hated to tell him she was at the Eden Roc, so she gave him her cell number, and he said he'd call her on that. And then he startled her and asked her if she'd like to have lunch. She hesitated for a moment and then accepted. They had lunch at the restaurant in the square of St. Paul de Vence, and he had her try something called
socca,
which was local, very much like pizza, but made with chickpeas instead of tomato, cheese, and dough, and it smelled delicious as they took it out of a hot oven.

“Why would you want to burden yourself with a crumbling old château?” he asked her as they shared the
socca.
“Why not just sell it?”

“I fell in love with it when I saw it again two days ago. I feel like it's my destiny to have it. The minute I saw it, I knew I wanted to turn it into a hotel.” She told him about her sandwich shop then, and how she had given up a career in art history to go to the Cordon Bleu, and how much she loved baking.

He told her that his family were all attorneys, and his father had wanted him to go to work for the family law firm in Draguignan, and he had refused, gone to school and become an architect, and moved to St. Paul de Vence, which he had always loved, and now he had his own firm. He seemed very proud of what he'd accomplished, and they spent two hours talking nonstop over lunch. He promised to call her later that afternoon, with his estimate, and she thanked him for lunch and left.

He was smiling when he went back to his office. He had never met anyone like her. She was full of energy and good ideas, and excitement about what she was doing. She seemed like the ultimate nurturer, and everything about her was womanly, from her face to her sensuous lips to her body. He had had to fight himself every moment to concentrate on what she was saying, he just wanted to look at her.

He felt like a schoolboy when he called her on her cell phone late that afternoon. She was sitting at the pool with her mother at the Eden Roc, talking about her meeting with him that morning. Juliette said that he seemed like he knew what he was doing.

The number he gave her as an estimate for the repair work sounded low to her.

“Are you sure?” She sounded suspicious. She didn't want him to draw her in and double it later.

“Is that too much?” He was worried.

“No, too low. I don't want bad surprises later.”

“There's always a bit of flex once you start doing things. But I calculated it carefully, based on what we saw today. Would you feel better if I doubled it?” he asked, teasing her, and she laughed.

“No, I wouldn't. Okay, that sounds good to me.”

“How soon do you want to start?” he asked her, and she thought about it.

“Yesterday. But it will probably take me a month or two to get squared away in New York. Or longer.” She had to buy out her sisters, and sell her sandwich shop in Brooklyn, and she didn't know how long that would take. And it was mid-August now. “Let's say sometime in September, or the beginning of October. Will you have time for me then, or do you have a lot of other projects?”

“I'll have time for you,” he said. “Just let me know when you're ready to start.” Just as she had felt when she saw the château again, that it was her destiny, he felt the same way about her.

“Thank you,” she said with a sigh of relief. She turned to her mother after she hung up. “I have an architect. I'm all set. Now all I have to do is buy out the girls, sell my shop, and I'll be on my way.” Véronique smiled at the look in her daughter's eyes. She had never seen her this happy and alive. Juliette knew exactly what she wanted to do.

“When are you going back?” Véronique asked her.

Juliette thought about it for a minute before she answered. She had wanted to see Sophie again, but she didn't want to waste another day. “Tomorrow,” she said firmly. “I'll ask the concierge to get me a flight out of Nice. What about you, Mom? Will you stay here for a while?” She knew her mother had nothing else to do and was in no hurry to go back to Paris or New York.

“No, I think I'll leave tomorrow, too,” she said quietly. “It won't be fun here without you.” She didn't tell her that she wasn't going to Paris but would go to Berlin instead. She was just as excited about seeing Aidan as Juliette was about the château, but she didn't say anything. She couldn't wait to see him and help him set up his show. She texted him as soon as Juliette dove into the pool. And he was thrilled to hear that she'd be in Berlin soon.

V
éronique flew straight to Berlin, without stopping in Paris, five hours after Juliette left. At the airport, Aidan was just outside security, waiting for her, with a big grin on his face. They had been apart for only a few days, but it felt like an eternity to both of them. They held hands leaving the airport, and walked to the Austin-Healey in the garage. Just seeing it felt like coming home to her. And Aidan looked as if he'd been working hard. He was wearing a faded T-shirt and torn jeans. He'd been framing photographs himself and hanging the show.

She brought him up to date on everything as they drove toward Berlin on the new motorway that had been built for the airport. She told him that Juliette had met with an architect the day before, and was going home to sell her shop in Brooklyn.

“And you're helping her?” he confirmed. Véronique nodded with a smile. It was sweet of him to defend her daughter's interests, without even knowing her.

“I'm sure her sisters won't mind, and they'll be happy to get the money out of it quickly, especially Joy and Sophie.” She knew they could all use the money for their projects, Timmie for her shelter, Joy for her life and career in L.A., and Sophie for her studies and to help with her support. From what she could see, encouraging her daughters to make it on their own had worked, and she was proud of them.

They left the motorway as they reached the city, and Aidan drove into the Mitte district. He pointed out landmarks to her, and showed her where the Berlin Wall and Checkpoint Charlie had been. She'd never been to Berlin, and was looking forward to discovering it with him. They were staying at a small bed and breakfast near Brunnenstrasse, where his gallery was and other avant garde locations, like Curators Without Borders, started by Sarah Belden, an art dealer from New York. There was graffiti everywhere, and the buildings were gray and spare. Aidan had already warned her that their hotel was barely more than a hole in the wall, but it was close to the gallery and easy for him. A glimpse of the Cipriani and Hôtel du Cap had given him a strong indication that her lifestyle was far grander than his, but he had guessed that anyway, from her manners, her demeanor, and the way she dressed. Even when she wore simple clothes, he could see that they were expensive, and she always looked chic. He was sure that she lived well in Paris and New York, he just didn't know to what degree. But he wasn't going to show off for her. He wanted to share his real life with Véronique, and this was it.

They stopped at the small hotel to drop off her things, and she laughed when she saw that it was even worse than he had said. There was a student with pierces and tattoos and a shaved head behind the desk—he had to search for Aidan's key, and finally found it in a drawer. The place looked disheveled, as did the guests, but when they got to the simple room, it was clean. There were only the bare basics, and a tiny bathroom, and she said she didn't care. They left her bag and went out, and walked the short distance to the gallery arm in arm. There were shops, restaurants, and galleries all along the street, edgy-looking people, and a mixture of old and new.

“I'm so glad you came.” Aidan beamed at her, proud to be with her. She was a beautiful woman, and all he could see was her. He had eyes for no one else. And when she saw the gallery, she was far more impressed than she'd been with the hotel. It was big, and spare, the floors were concrete, the ceilings were high with painted beams, and the walls were smooth and bare, with excellent lighting to show off the work. There was a girl at the desk, and three young people hanging photographs where he had told them to. Two walls were already covered with his impressive, troubling photographs. As he had said when he met her, he photographed the tragedies and ills of the world. His work was haunting and a sad view of life: A man who had been severely beaten. Prostitutes and drug addicts, derelicts and heartbreaking children. Troubled people who had the sorrows of the world in their eyes.

“We all turn away from scenes like that,” he explained as she looked at the images. “I want people to see it. You can't run away from life because it's ugly or sad.” It was a harsh view of the world, and was far more disturbing than the work of Diane Arbus or Nan Goldin, who had photographed freaks and drug addicts as well. Aidan's view of life was far more raw and even more upsetting. There was an aching beauty to it, as Véronique stood gazing at what was on the walls. She wondered how much of it would sell. It wasn't the kind of work she would have wanted to wake up to and see in the morning, and yet socially the statement had to be made, and he was brave about expressing it. He didn't shrink away from the ugliness of a gutter scene, or a ghetto, and his photograph of a crying child in India standing beside its dead mother brought tears to her eyes. It was powerful, and a reflection of who he was as a person. He was the champion of the poor and downtrodden, the voice of people who had none. It was easy to see, looking at his photographs, why he was so contemptuous of people with money or who had an easy life. Véronique felt there was room for both in the world. Aidan was more politically and socially extreme, which was loudly expressed in his work.

“They're beautiful,” Véronique said with admiration, and he was thrilled.

“Sometimes I worry that they're a little too harsh. I don't want to scare people away, but most of the time that's how I feel.”

He introduced her to Karl, the gallery owner, a young man in his early thirties, covered in tattoos with bolts in his ears. He shook her hand very politely, and she noticed that he had a “von” in his name, so he was an aristocrat, in a very modern world. From his appearance, no one would have guessed it. The people working in the gallery looked as extreme as she'd been told the Berlin art scene had become. It was far more intense and aggressive than the art world in Paris, which had remained more bohemian in a familiar way, and less avant-garde. But this was exciting and felt different and new to her. It was also energizing being there with him, and a whole new universe for Véronique, who had a passion for art, but of a different kind. But Aidan liked other forms of art, too, and had been as thrilled to be at the Uffizi in Florence as she was. And at the time, historically, he had pointed out to her what they were doing during the Renaissance was considered “avant-garde,” too. It was an interesting way to think about it, and had amused her when he said it, but there was truth to it.

Anyone who created was ahead of their time, whenever it was, and often shocking in the moment, whether it was the first nudes, the concept that the earth was round, or what Aidan was doing today. She loved how open his mind was artistically, and how innovative and daring he was. Looking at his work inspired her, to get back to work again herself, with her painting. It made her think of Nikolai, and the portrait he wanted to commission. She wondered if he'd actually call her. She thought he would be fun to paint. He had such a strong personality reflected in his looks and expressions.

Aidan took her to lunch at a beer garden, where they ate sausages and drank tall glasses of dark beer. And after lunch, they visited several other galleries, to give her an idea of what was happening in the local art scene. It was all very avant-garde, and although it wasn't her usual sphere of interest, she liked seeing it and what other artists were doing. It gave them much to talk about, the direction of art today, the motivations of the artists, their vision as compared to hers, how one generation of artists led to another, with sometimes shocking differences. It was exciting for him to be with someone as passionate about art as she was, in whatever form. And she was very open to new ideas, which Aidan liked, although her own painting style was far more traditional and took no risks. His was all about sticking his neck out and daring to be real, as he perceived it.

Finally, they went back to his gallery. Johnny Gardner, his rep, was there. He was younger than Aidan with spiked black hair and talked about Aidan's work to Véronique with great seriousness. She liked meeting him, and he left a few minutes later to meet an artist who had a studio up the street. And then Aidan got to work framing, and she helped him in minor ways, and they watched the preparators hang his show. Aidan stopped them every five minutes to change something, switch two pieces, or move one by a few inches. He was a perfectionist about his work and how it was shown. And Véronique loved being part of it. The excitement about the show was tangible in the gallery.

They stayed until eleven o'clock that night, then sent out for dinner, Cajun food from Zagreus Projekt, and the food was very good, as they hung two more walls while they ate. And then they went back to his hotel and fell into bed, exhausted. Even if he was intense about his work and the show, he loved having Véronique there.

When she woke up the next morning, he began caressing her. They were lying in bed naked, and she was still half asleep as they started to make love.

“What a nice way to wake up,” she said sleepily afterward, rolling over to look at him, and he kissed her.

“Thank you for helping me last night. You have a good eye,” he complimented her.

“So do you, and you do great work.”

They showered together and went back to the gallery a little while later. It took them two more days to hang the show. There were several nooks and clever spaces that gave them additional walls and expanded the show. And then he was ready, as ready as he would ever be. He changed three pieces before leaving to go to the hotel to dress for the opening. There was a huge amount of his work in the show, and he was hoping for great reviews.

Aidan wore a black shirt and black jeans for the opening, and Véronique was wearing black leather pants and a black sweater she had bought when she took a few hours to go shopping on Oranienburger Strasse.

“You are gorgeous,” he said admiringly, and kissed her as they left the hotel, and walked back to the gallery. He was excited about the show, and so was she, for him. The most important art critic in Berlin had promised to be there, and as soon as they walked in, Karl, the gallery owner, told him he'd had a call from a museum in Spain that wanted to acquire some of his work, and there was another one in Hamburg that was inquiring, too. It was an important show for him, and he was happy to share it with her.

People began arriving very quickly, there were hors d'oeuvres and music, and an interesting crowd, many art lovers. Other artists and collectors had come from Italy, Spain, and England, and the critic Aidan hoped would come did, and loved the show. Aidan was the star of the evening, and his work was much discussed and praised. And at one point, as Véronique looked around, she realized that most of the people in the room were in their twenties and thirties, nowhere close to her age. It suddenly made her feel very old, and she wondered if she looked ridiculous in her black leather jeans. She had worn her hair down at Aidan's request. It reminded her of the British expression “mutton dressed as lamb,” referring to old people trying to appear too young, and she hoped she wasn't.

She was very different from the people surrounding Aidan. She wasn't edgy, she just loved him and was excited to be there, but the evening was a sharp reminder that their two worlds were extremely different. She was having a good time, but this wasn't her scene, and she wondered how he would fare in hers. He could fit in if he wanted to, but he had lots of sharp edges and strong opinions and wasn't likely to change any of that for someone else. And she respected that about him. She wondered if he could even be happy in her world, with his distrust of people with money, and contempt for traditions that made no sense to him. Everything had to be honest and stark and seem real to him, or he wouldn't tolerate it. As he said, he was hated bullshit and couldn't stand it.

And no question, there were times when her world was less than honest, and pretense and artifice ruled the day. Few people could afford to be as direct as he was. He had nothing to lose and no one to please except himself. Véronique had been adapting to other people and situations all her life, often at her own expense, which Aidan didn't like. He thought she should be harsher with people, and more blunt, which she insisted to him wasn't her style. In his opinion, the right message for people who offended you in some way, or were rude, dishonest, or inconsiderate, or used you, was “Sod off.” He had already suggested more than once that she say that to one of her daughters, when appropriate. The idea had made her laugh. They would have keeled over in a dead faint if she did.

Véronique was always unfailingly polite, and her good manners and breeding showed in everything she did, which Aidan accused of being a lie, and he hated liars. To Aidan, if someone did you wrong, you kicked their ass and stomped off. Even his work had that feeling to it. It got right in your face and grabbed you by the throat. He had a gentle heart, but there was an element of porcupine to him, too. He bristled whenever he was upset. Véronique was softer and smoother, and together, in an odd way, they complemented each other. She softened him, and he gave her courage to be stronger, something she had wanted to do for a long time, but in a nice way, and more gently than Aidan suggested. “You can't be gentle with assholes,” he had told her in one of their late-night discussions. “They don't get it. You have to be as tough as they are, or they'll walk all over you forever.” In some ways, Paul had. And even her children did at times. They took her for granted, and it bothered Aidan sometimes when he listened to her on the phone with them; and he would scold her for being too meek with them when she got off.

Juliette called her while they were at the gallery that night to tell her that she had put the sandwich shop on the market. She had discussed it with Arnold, and come up with what seemed like a fair price for her business, and she wanted to tell her mother about it, and was surprised by all the noise in the background. It made it hard to talk to her mother, and she sounded busy.