Precious Gifts (23 page)

And Timmie's should have been as well. Brian briefed her about what not to say and what to look out for, but Timmie had arrived with an attitude about being there and how inconvenient it was for her. She was busy at work, and had to cancel an appointment with her realtor to see the house again that she liked to make an offer on it. She had asked Brian to change the day of the deposition, and when he couldn't, she was angry at him. And she argued with him about the questions he told her to deflect.

Bertie's lawyer was much harder on her than he had been on Véronique, and not nearly as polite. And Bertie sat glaring at her evilly throughout. By an hour into it, Timmie was seething, as Bertie's lawyer goaded her. And she complained to Brian that he wasn't objecting fast enough. By the end of the deposition, Brian was livid, Timmie was enraged, and Bertie's lawyer looked pleased. And as soon as they left, Timmie gave Brian a piece of her mind about what he hadn't done, should have done, and said that the whole deposition had been a waste of her time. And he was so furious, he stormed out without saying a word, and she did the same after that.

She was back in her office, looking like she was going to kill someone, when he called. She couldn't believe he had the nerve to call her after the lousy job he'd done.

“I want to make a deal with you,” he said, when she answered her office phone. She recognized his voice immediately, and was tempted to hang up. Arnold had already called her and asked her to back down before Brian quit. They needed him for the case, he was the best in the city, and she couldn't ride roughshod over him. And now Brian was calling her himself.

“What deal?” she said tersely.

“I don't know what your issue is with me, if you don't like me personally, are taking it out on me that your half-brother is an asshole, or just hate men. Or maybe you have some issues with your father. If you do, I'm really sorry. But either we work this out, or I'm done. I would like to see if we can have dinner like two civilized adults, see if we can come to some kind of peaceful resolution here. And if you still hate me as much after dinner, I'll resign from the case. I can't do your family justice the way this is going, and I don't need the aggravation, and neither do you. So what do you say? Dinner? Restaurant of your choice. How about Twenty-one?” It was one of the best restaurants in town, and a favorite of hers.

“What do you care if I like you?” she growled into the phone, startled by his offer. She had actually been enjoying hating him. It gave her a place to vent.

“I'm a nice guy. I don't deserve this. And I don't need the case. I took it as a favor to Arnold. But it's a piss-ant case, no one's going to get decent money out of it, and your half-brother is a jerk. We all know that. As far as I'm concerned, I've already expunged the favor I owed Arnold. It's already been more of a pain in the ass than I need. But I think it's too bad that little shit is rattling sabers at you with his sleazy lawyer. I'd like to help you, but only if we're a team. No team, no case, and I'm out.” He'd been very direct with her, and in spite of herself she was impressed.

“I'm sorry. I guess I got carried away today. It's just such a waste of time, and it blew my whole day. My clients need me, and I had some other things to do.” She had a client who'd just been admitted to a mental hospital after a suicide attempt and Timmie had wanted to visit her.

“So did I. And depositions are like that. They waste everyone's time. Your mother's was even longer than yours.”

“She has nothing else to do,” she said dismissively, which he didn't think was nice. Timmie was just a very tough woman, and seemed to be mad at the world.

“So are we on for dinner?” It was a decent offer, and she couldn't imagine why he'd want to have dinner with her after what she said. She hesitated, and then figured why not.

“Okay. Twenty-one. When?” She didn't bother to say thank you.

“How about tomorrow night?”

She was free. “Fine.”

“And I quit at the end of dinner if you like. You decide.”

“That's pretty brave of you,” she said sounding a little softer.

“I'm a brave man. I've been through worse. I'm not afraid to get fired. Even after I pick up the check.” He laughed.

“I'll tell you what, if I still hate you, I'll pay for dinner,” she offered.

“That's not the deal,” he reminded her. “I pay for dinner, you tell me if you want me to quit. Easy peasy.”

“I don't hate you,” she said, embarrassed. “I just get pissed. I hate wasting my time. And I do hate Bertie.”

“He deserves it. I don't. Either way this is a win-win, and we can be friends. If you keep me on, we're a team. If you want me to quit, it'll save us the energy of a war, and we can be friends. I don't actually care if I get fired. It's a good deal.” And also a very creative suggestion. She was impressed. “Do you want me to pick you up? Where do you live?”

“Downtown. I'll take a cab.” He didn't tell her that he lived downtown, too, in Tribeca. She sounded definite about wanting to get there under her own steam.

She didn't mention his invitation to anyone. And the next day she was at Twenty-one at seven-thirty, as agreed. He was waiting at the bar, and drinking a bullshot. It looked good, and she ordered one, too. She'd had a long day, she'd visited her client in the psych ward, and had learned that morning that one of her favorite clients had killed himself the night before. They'd gotten him off the streets a dozen times, and he always bounced back. This time they had found him good housing, and he was so lonely for the streets that he hanged himself. She dealt with tragedies like it all the time. But she really liked the man who died. She thought about canceling dinner, but decided to come anyway. The bullshot helped, a little.

“Tough day?” Brian asked her. He could see it in her eyes.

“Very.” She smiled at him, and decided she'd tell him about it when they sat down to dinner.

“I don't know how you do what you do. My job is bad enough. My mother is a psychiatrist—she deals with teen suicide as her specialty. It would kill me. And she's actually a very upbeat person.”

“How did she get into that?”

“She had a twin sister who committed suicide when they were fifteen. This is her way of giving back. What about you? Why the homeless?”

“I did an internship at a homeless shelter when I was in grad school, and I got hooked.”

“Where did you go to school?” he asked, curious about her, still trying to figure out why she was such an angry person, as they went to their table and sat down.

“Princeton undergrad, and I got my MSW at Columbia. I know you went to Harvard,” she said admiringly, starting to relax a little. He was obviously a bright guy.

“God knows how. I had shit grades till law school, and then I did okay. All I wanted to do was play sports. Being at school was the price I had to pay to play football. It took me years to figure out that there were other things in life, like girls, and jobs where you don't get stomped to death and can use your brain, like the law maybe. I've always been a jock,” he confessed. He had the body for it.

“Still?” She looked surprised.

“Not really. I gave up my knees to college football. Now I ski, play tennis, fool around. No time.”

“I know that one. I used to have a life. Now I work eighty or ninety hours a week. It keeps me out of trouble.”

“That sounds a little tough,” he said sympathetically.

“So is being homeless.” And then she told him about the shelter she wanted to start, with the bequest from her father, and the house she was looking at on the West Side. “I think I want to do it for women and girls,” she said cautiously, “but I'm not sure. They just don't survive on the streets. It's too rough physically. I can keep some of the guys going, but I watch the women go down the tubes every day.” He nodded. She clearly had a heart, but there was so much barbed wire around it. He was surprised to find he liked her in spite of himself.

They had a nice dinner, and she relaxed progressively as they talked about art, music, the things they liked to do in their spare time, when they had any. It sounded like he worked as hard as she did. And after a few glasses of wine, he admitted that he had broken up with a girlfriend the year before. They had lived together for five years.

“What happened?” Timmie asked him.

“She married my best friend from college. Apparently, he's more fun than I am, and doesn't work as hard. He's a chiropractor for the New York Mets. He gave me free passes, and I kept giving them to her. So there you have it. We all have our little stories. Now I'm solo again, which is just as well. I don't have time to date.”

“Me neither,” Timmie said firmly, and then unwound a little. “I broke an engagement two years ago. He cheated on me, and the guy before him cheated with my best friend. I figured I'd quit while I was ahead. Two strikes, I'm out.”

“Nah,” he said, looking at her kindly, “you just need to fire the players and get new ones. You've got to clean up the team sometimes, not give up the game. We all make mistakes.” He smiled at her, as he realized how pretty she was when she wasn't angry. She was a beautiful woman, although he'd been blown away by her mother, whom he thought was a knockout, and incredibly nice. It was hard to believe they were related, but he didn't say that to Timmie.

“I haven't had a date in two years,” Timmie admitted, “and I don't want one.”

“That doesn't make sense, at your age,” he said, looking at her, but it explained her anger. She was wounded, and hadn't healed. “You've got to get back in the game.” He paid the check and smiled at her. “So what'll it be? Do I quit?” She smiled back at him.

“I had a nice time,” she said, looking softer than she had all night.

“Me, too. That's beside the point. Am I fired?”

“Maybe not,” she said sheepishly.

“Good, because either way I'd like to ask you out to dinner again. We can bitch about how hard we work, and whine about our nonexistent love lives because of the cheaters in our past.” He made a face then. “Come to think of it, that sounds awful. Let's just have a good time and find something else to talk about.”

“Thank you for dinner,” she said as they left the table and walked outside.

“Thank you for not firing me. Do you want a lift? I live in Tribeca.” She nodded, and in the taxi they talked about the Mets and their prospects for next year. He was good company and easy to be with. And he was right. He was a nice guy. Timmie thought so, too. He dropped her off in the West Village, and kept the cab waiting for a few minutes so he could talk to her. “Do you have a dog?” he asked, and she looked puzzled and shook her head.

“No. Why?”

“Neither do I. That's too bad. We could walk our dogs together.” She laughed at what he'd said. She had really enjoyed the evening with him.

She smiled at him. “I had fun.”

“So did I. I was sure you'd fire me after dinner.” He grinned at her and walked her to her door, and then he got back in the cab and waved. It was the nicest evening she'd had in years. She was still smiling to herself as she walked upstairs, and so was he when the cab dropped him off in Tribeca. The evening had been a home run for them both.

W
hen Juliette landed at the Nice airport, she rented a car and drove to St. Paul de Vence. She had booked a room at the hotel there and wanted to look for a small house, where she could live until the château was habitable, which wouldn't be for a while. The realtor who had appraised the château for her was already looking for her, and she stopped at Elisabeth's office on the way to the hotel. Sophie was just getting out of the car with groceries and looked pleased to see her.

“You're back!” She acted as if they were old friends, and Juliette hugged her warmly. She felt a strange bond to her, as though she were another link to their father, a legacy he had left her.

“I'm glad you're home for the weekend. I wanted to see you.”

“I try to come home when I can to see my mother.”

They walked into the small house, and Elisabeth was pleased to see Juliette, and convinced her to stay for dinner. She was making pot au feu, which Juliette loved. And Sophie said her mother made the best
hachis Parmentier
and
confit de canard
in the village.
Hachis Parmentier
was mashed potatoes with leftover ground meat, or duck, and was great on winter nights.

They chatted over dinner, and Juliette finally left them and drove to the hotel. She was so tired by then, from the flight and the excitement, that she fell into bed and was asleep instantly. But the three women had had a lovely evening. And Sophie had proudly said that she had a new wardrobe for school with some of the money Juliette had paid for her share of the château. And Juliette noticed they had new curtains. It gave them a few niceties they didn't have before and security they hadn't had.

And the next morning Juliette called Jean-Pierre and went to his office to look at the plans he'd been working on. He had designed a whole new kitchen for her, that he swore wouldn't be expensive to install. They were going to get the cabinets from IKEA and use old barn wood for the floor. He sat back and smiled at her, after she'd looked everything over and approved.

“I was afraid you'd change your mind,” he admitted.

“Of course not.” She was surprised that he'd think that. “I just had to get organized and sell my bakery. I got a decent price for it,” she said, relieved. “And I sold some old equipment I had in storage.” She had gathered every penny she could for the work on the château.

They had lunch together, and ate
socca
again, and then drove to the château to go over their plans. He said he could get started in a week. And two days later the realtor called her about a little cottage he had found her in Biot that she could rent for very little until she moved into the château. She and Jean-Pierre looked at it together, and he approved. It was only a few miles from where he lived, and he said it was a good area where she would be safe.

And on Sunday night, before Sophie left for Grenoble, she took him to dinner at the Marniers, and Elisabeth made her famous
hachis Parmentier.
Jean-Pierre had three helpings and Juliette had two, and she gave Sophie a hug when they left, and told her to stay in touch. They promised to text and e-mail.

“I like your friends,” Jean-Pierre said as he drove her home.

She hesitated for a moment and then looked at him shyly. “They're not friends. She's my sister, or half-sister. Her mother and my father were…” She hesitated, and he nodded that he understood. “I didn't find out until after he died. I like them, too.”

“It's nice that you can visit with them like that.” Juliette nodded. She thought so, too. “It happens a lot here,” he commented. “It always has. The king's court was full of love children, and people who were really the son or daughter of someone else. French people are complicated,” he said with a smile. “But your father wasn't French.”

“My mother is half French. Her mother was French. And her grandparents.”

“Then you're French,” he said with a warm look. “We have strong genes.” And she had certainly felt the pull to come and live in France, she wasn't sure why. But he was glad she had. He dropped her off at the cottage and told her he would see her the next day. He was excited to work on the château and help her turn it into a hotel, and he could tell how much it meant to her. It still felt like destiny to him that she had come to St. Paul de Vence.

Joy had her audition with the ad agency for the cosmetics company the day Juliette left for France, and Joy called her mother afterward to tell her it had gone well. She was hoping to get the campaign, and Ron thought she would. She had looked gorgeous at the interview. She sounded very excited about it, and they were leaving for L.A. that night.

“Well, let me know what happens,” Véronique told her. She could see that Ron was helping her with her career and how supportive he was. Joy seemed much more confident than before, and he wouldn't let her waste her time on things he thought wouldn't bear fruit. Her agent was much more willing to have her try out for everything. Ron wanted her to pick and choose. And if she got the national ad campaign, it would be a turning point in her career and fantastic publicity. Véronique couldn't help thinking that Paul had given each of them a way of achieving their dreams, even those they didn't know they had, like Juliette turning the château into a hotel.

She still felt sorry for Bertie and how angry he was, and she hoped he'd get over it and make something of his life. The girls all seemed to be headed in the right direction, in ways that were meaningful to them.

She was sad knowing that both Joy and Juliette had left New York, but she didn't say anything to Aidan about it. She knew he already thought she was too attached to her kids, given how old they were. And they were visibly less attached to her, which was normal at their ages. She was still somewhat hurt that they didn't think she should bother painting anymore, after all these years. And that they didn't think she deserved to have a man in her life. But she had Aidan, whether they knew it or not, so it didn't matter.

And the next morning Nikolai called her. He was in New York and said he wanted to see her.

“When do we start?” he asked her, in his deep voice and heavy accent.

“Start what?” She knew he couldn't have romance in mind. She was way too old for him, given who he went out with, and the girl she'd seen banished to the bedroom in Rome.

“Your commission. My portrait.”

“You're serious?” She was shocked.

“Of course. I commissioned you on the boat, when you and your daughters came for dinner.”

“Nikolai, I haven't painted in years. You might hate it.”

“I trust you. When do we start?” he repeated. She didn't even have art supplies anymore. “I have time tomorrow. I'm in New York for four days.” She was thinking frantically while he talked.

“We can get started. I'll take some photographs and videos, and I can finish it afterward.” Four days might be enough to lay in the groundwork, and then she could work on it in her own time. “Okay. I'll get organized. Tomorrow at ten?”

“Perfect. And then we have lunch. Yes?”

“Yes.” She sounded breathless. She couldn't believe she had actually said yes to doing a portrait of Nikolai. What if she had lost her touch?

She raced out to the art store, bought the oil paints she needed, a canvas she thought might be the right size, and an easel, turpentine, and brushes, all the tools of a trade she had abandoned years before. She felt rusty and nervous, and foolish as she got it all together, took it home, and set it up in her kitchen, where she thought there was the best light, and then dragged a comfortable chair in for him to sit in.

She didn't say a word about it to Aidan that night, because it was Nikolai, although she was excited to do it, and Aidan could hear it in her voice.

“You're up to mischief. I can tell,” he accused her good-humoredly, but he was relieved that she wasn't down about her daughters leaving town. She had no plans to see either for a long time, and he knew that Timmie wasn't particularly attentive or warm. He didn't like how solitary Véronique was when she wasn't with him.

“I'm just playing around with some art supplies,” she said vaguely. “I got them this morning.”

“It's about time. Well, get started.” He was busy working on his next show, so he was occupied, too.

She followed his advice, feeling slightly guilty about not telling Aidan the whole truth, and Nikolai arrived at ten o'clock sharp the next morning. She gave him coffee and settled him in the chair in her kitchen after he gave her a bear hug. And she was surprised by how well it went as she sketched, and took some photographs and a video of him, and told him to move around freely as they talked so she could see all the angles of his face and find the one she liked best. And they had agreed that it would be a three-quarter portrait, and he liked the size. He said it was just what he wanted. And she was astounded at how quickly her nervousness dispelled and she got absorbed in the work. She was sketching the underlay, and made some rough sketches on a pad, which she showed him when they stopped.

“Very good,” he said, nodding his approval, and then he told her he had made a reservation at La Grenouille for lunch, which was one of the most elegant restaurants in New York.

She scrubbed her hands and changed quickly into a chic black Chanel suit when she finished sketching. His car was waiting downstairs. They sped down Fifth Avenue to Fifty-second Street between Fifth and Madison, and she had a delightful lunch with him, while chatting and talking about art, and his portrait and his remarkable boat. He was flying to another of his boats shortly, which he kept in the South Pacific. But he said it was smaller than the one she'd been on. He was remarkably easy company and fun to talk to, and after lunch, she went home and worked on the sketches again, and refined what she'd done that morning. They were off to a good start.

He came back the next morning, and she still hadn't told Aidan about it, only that she was painting and enjoying it, but she didn't want to upset him and tell him it was a portrait of Nikolai. They worked for three hours that day, two hours on the third day, and on the last day he only had an hour to spend with her, but she took another video and more photographs, and she was satisfied that she had all she needed. She didn't need more of his time.

“You tell me when you're finished, and I'll tell you where to send it. Hundred thousand dollars?” he asked her, pulling out his checkbook, and she objected immediately.

“No, no. Ten. Five. Don't be silly. And don't pay me anything now. See if you like it first. I'll send you photographs of it when I'm finished.”

“Ten thousand is not enough,” he said sternly. “You are a fine artist, not street artist,” he said, and she laughed.

“We'll figure it out later,” she said kindly. “You may hate it.”

“I don't think so,” he said, looking at her sketches before he left. “I like very much.”

“Thank you, Nikolai.” He hugged her again and was gone, and for the next three days, she worked furiously on it, while the memory of the portrait sittings was fresh in her mind, and then she found that she didn't have an ochre color she needed for the base. She had forgotten it because it had been so long since she'd painted.

She went back to the art supply store a little while later and bought that and another color she had always liked to warm skin tones, and she added a few more brushes. She was thinking about his portrait as she stepped off the curb to hail a cab to go home. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something whiz toward her at full speed, and before she knew what had happened, a bicycle messenger had hit her, and she went flying and crashed to the sidewalk, as her package sailed through the air. Someone screamed when they saw her get hit. The cab she had hailed screeched to a stop, and the driver jumped out to help her. Someone else picked up her handbag and her package and set them down next to her, as Véronique lay on the ground and looked at the messenger and cabdriver in confusion. She was aware of tremendous pain in her left shoulder, but she didn't know where it was coming from, and she couldn't move when she tried to sit up. The cabdriver could see that she was hurt and told someone in the gathering crowd of onlookers to call 911. The messenger looked panicked.

“I didn't see you step off the curb,” he said, but her head was spinning, and she couldn't focus on him, as the cabdriver told her not to try to get up. She couldn't have anyway. Her whole left side felt like it was broken in a million pieces, and then she heard sirens, and felt herself being lifted onto a stretcher, and the sirens were even louder as they sped through the streets, and a paramedic took her blood pressure and put an oxygen mask on her face.

“You're going to be okay,” he said gently, but he had already noticed her arm at an odd angle, and her foot, and he knew there were broken bones. Véronique was mortally embarrassed when she threw up.

They took her to Lenox Hill Hospital, and checked her into the emergency room. The paramedics stayed to fill out the paperwork, and a nurse asked her a long list of questions about her insurance, her age, if she wore dentures or glasses, her religious preference, if she had any allergies, and was she on medication.

“I think I hurt my hand,” she said with a groan, “or my neck. Everything hurts.” They put a warm blanket on her and told her a doctor would see her very soon. They didn't want to give her anything for the pain until he did, and she just lay there in agony, wondering how it had happened. She hadn't seen the boy who hit her until he did. She felt stupid and sick and was in terrible pain.

“Is there anyone you'd like us to call?” the nurse asked her, and she would have liked to call Aidan, but she didn't want to scare him. She thought of Timmie, but she didn't want to upset her at work, and how bad could it be? She wasn't dying, she was just hurting. She thought maybe she'd sprained her wrist.