The Doll Brokers (13 page)

“Okay,” he said in a hush. “Now open.”

When she did, she drew in her breath. The Mona Lisa was so small it took her a moment to realize that this truly was the real thing and not an imitation. Even Jonathan's exultations about the colors, the brush strokes, the genius of the piece, did little to assuage her temporary disappointment. But the longer she examined it the more she came to appreciate it.

“Da Vinci painted this around 1504,” Jonathan said. “He'd probably turn over in his grave if he knew of all of the fuss caused by the book,
The Da Vinci Code
.”

One of the security guards approached and reminded them that the museum was closing. Ann reluctantly lowered her gaze from the painting. She was tempted to salute or at least wave, wanting to somehow advise the lady that she would not be soon forgotten.

Nightfall was upon them, and while Ann would have been satisfied to return to their hotel, she quickly realized that Jonathan had further plans. Into a taxi this time, not the Metro, and back to the heart of
St-Germain-des-Prés
.

Le Fermette Marbeuf
was established in 1895, Ann read in the menu. The stain-glass mural for which restaurant was famous for was commissioned at the time of its opening. Every table, although small, was adorned with embroidered rose tablecloths and matching linen napkins. The ambience, helped by the glowing candlelight and mostly mixed couples speaking in hushed tones, was seductive in its intimacy.

Jonathan looked at Ann and broke into a grin, reminding her of how much he resembled a little boy. “What?” she asked.

“You,” he said.

“What about me?”

“Do you realize you haven't cursed or complained once today?”

“Haven't I?”

“Not once.”

“And this means?”

“That you had a good time.”

She shrugged. “Well, maybe I did.”

“This is the kind of Ann I think I'd like to get to know.”

“And you,” she countered. “No more Mr. Belligerent. Tell me, Jonathan, which is the real you?

“Which do you prefer?”

Despite her intentions, she blushed. She would never admit it, but the Jonathan of today was someone she could really like.

“Ann?”

She forced her smile and changed the subject. “I'll tell you what I'm curious about. The Jonathan who speaks French like a trouper but won't admit to dating anyone here, in Paris.”

“That's what's on your mind?”

“You betcha,
Mon-sewer!
”

The waiter interrupted with the wine—a
Chateauneuf du Pape
dating back fifteen years. Once it was poured, Jonathan recounted for Ann how his stay in Paris was so hectic he seldom had time to socialize.

“You mean, painting is all you ever did?” Ann asked. “No dating?”

“Well, I did go out from time to time,” he finally confessed.

“Uh-huh. Tell me more.”

Their appetizers arrived:
fois gras
for her,
escargots
for him. The waiter no sooner left when Jonathan burst into laughter.

“What's so funny?” Ann asked.

He pointed at the sizzling plate in front of him. “A friend of mine used to call these tiny pieces of Michelin tires in butter sauce.”

She smiled. “Did it ever get serious with one of your dates, by the way?”

“Eat your appetizer, Ann,” Jonathan said, which was enough of an answer for her.

They tended to their food, both finding it delicious. The waiter cleared their plates and poured more wine. Further conversation was interrupted by the serving of their main course, which was
entrecôte de boeuf
. Ann was halfway through her meal when a couple near to them caught her eye. The man seemed in his early forties, the woman in her mid to late thirties. She wasn't particularly pretty, but she was smartly dressed, and the glittering diamond necklace was definitely not fake. Ann suddenly felt self-conscious in the plain sweater and skirt she wore. There had been no discussion of dining out, and she wasn't the only patron simply
attired, yet she felt out of place. She glanced back at the couple, caught them in a kiss, and turned away.

She took in Jonathan seated across from her, and for a fleeting moment imagined his lips on hers. Relishing the sensation, she let down her guard, and the warning voice she experienced earlier in the day came back, this time with force. She knew at once why this day had not been such a good idea. Yes, it had been wonderful, one of the best of her life. But it was only a tease, forbidden fruit that would be imprudent to savor.

The wine suddenly tasted bitter. Her appetite of only a minute ago disappeared, and her stomach grew sour.

Jonathan began to talk about their trip and some of his observations. After watching Sidney Greenspan and Seve Marques with her, he had come to understand how difficult it could be for an attractive woman in her position.

“You're absolutely right,” she said. “Some things have changed for women in business, but not many.” She forced herself to carry on their conversation, yet to her ear, every word she uttered was stilted.

“I can just see you and my mother traveling together. An unbeatable duo.”

“It wasn't always easy.” She paused at the memory, recalling their numerous trips, especially to Japan and China, where men looked down upon them simply for being women, making it impossible for them to be treated as equals.

“Yet, you thrived.” Jonathan said.

She nodded, feeling like a fake. While the subject was one she usually could warm to, now she could only respond with silence, too aware of how she was spoiling the mood for both of them.

Jonathan seemed to notice the change in her, but was too sensitive to comment any further. Ann pushed her plate aside. Jonathan paid the check, then pulled back her chair and waited for her to stand. He did not try to take her hand. The taxi ride took
less than ten minutes. They said goodnight in the narrow third-floor hallway of their hotel. Ann washed her face and brushed her teeth, then went to bed. A melancholy settled upon her that she couldn't shake loose. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. It was sheer exhaustion that brought sleep, but it lasted less than two hours.

It was her own scream that woke her. She shot upright in the narrow bed, found a cold sweat creeping down her shoulder blades. Her neck was stiff; she tried to loosen it by stretching it from side to side. Then she lay down again.

Mad Dog was back with a vengeance. He was not the first of her mother's so-called boyfriends, but he was the one who frightened her the most. She was a kid really, barely into her teens, when they would come to her bed and observe her in silence as she pretended to sleep. Sensing them standing above scared the daylights out of her.

Too often she would hear her mother's screams, not from passion but from the beatings she took, as evidenced by the bruises Ann saw the next morning. She did not want to end up the same way, to be beaten, maybe killed.

Mad Dog was close to twenty years Ann's senior, and unlike anyone she had ever known. Her mother had a nickname for all of her gentlemen ‘friends' and this one was called Mad Dog because of his violent temper that bordered on insanity. That and his cold, dark looks, with deep brown—almost black—eyes that were so menacing they could cut to the bone. He too would approach her bed when he was finished with her mother. But unlike the others, he'd always move in close, so close that she could practically taste his liquored-up breath. So close that she was afraid he could see her heart beating through her skin.

When he caught Ann around her mother, he would stare at her in a way that would make her feel dirty and ashamed. At night that shame turned to the worst fear imaginable.

Inevitably, the time Ann always dreaded came, and Mad Dog not only approached her bed, but slowly lowered himself onto her, turned her towards him, and placed a hand to her breast…

Ann shivered at the memory. “I'm okay,” she repeated aloud. “I'm in Paris and I'm fine.”

As if to test her own words, she bounced up and snapped on the bedside light.

The room was void of ghosts.

She glanced towards the phone sitting on the bureau opposite her bed. She quickly got to her feet, approached and lifted the receiver.

Coward
, a voice teased.

She was about to ask the operator to connect her to Jonathan's room.

What good will he do you?
the inner voice taunted.

But Jonathan had proven himself today. Why shouldn't she lean on a friend?

Coward!

She looked at the phone a moment longer, then hung up.

She was alone; she would always be alone. As much as she might want to fight against it, it was her destiny.

She lay back down but kept the light on. She let the tears fall without making an effort to brush them away. Hours passed before she fell back asleep.

T
he flight home from Paris seemed to take forever. Jonathan was filled with thoughts of Ann and the change that had come over her yesterday. He racked his brain to find the trigger point, the one thing he might have said or done. Finally, he concluded he was blameless, that Ann's mood swing was more a reflection of her than it was of himself.

Still, earlier this morning, he had tried to do his best to cheer her up, ignoring the dark circles under her eyes, making every attempt to get her to smile. When they hit turbulence two-thirds of the way through their flight, he not only allowed her to grip his arm, he put his free one around her shoulders and held her.

They said their goodbyes at JFK, with Ann refusing his offer to share a cab. An hour after he left the airport, Jonathan unlocked the door to his loft and nudged his suitcase inside with his foot. He stood in the entrance for a moment, taking in the 2500 square feet of mostly open space before him. It was all his and he was proud of it. He had spent months toiling, scraping layers of paint, laying bricks, converting it into a home and studio—a place he could both work and live in. The splay of light from the floor to ceiling windows brightened his mood. He stepped inside, closed the door and made his way to the kitchen for his welcome-home beer.

The kitchen was in a corner behind a diagonal brick divider that rose some five feet. The opposite end—where most of the windows were—was taken up by his work. The walls were dotted with it, various pieces of art he was living with before deciding if he wanted to sell them, keep them, or ditch them entirely.

The loft had a vaulted ceiling which gave a soaring sense of height—almost cathedral-like—that complimented the floating staircase that sat left of center in the room. It was all polished oak with gold copper trim that had taken him weeks to complete. It rose boldly to reveal the master bedroom, small den and bathroom.

He got the Sierra from the fridge, opened it and drank deeply. He felt tired but he had an idea that Ann was feeling worse. Unless Jonathan badly missed his guess, she'd dropped three or four pounds on the trip.

“Hey, I'm an artist,” he muttered at his reflection in the black gloss of a window. He knew the human form. He caught it almost subliminally when curves started to turn to angles. She'd lost four pounds, he thought, drinking again. Easy.

The phone rang. Jonathan veered around the divider, back into the main living area, and made a grab for the receiver.

“Cut me a break. I just walked in the door.”

Felicia sighed. “Manners, dear. Have I taught you nothing?”

He grinned at her voice. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“If your tone is any indication, I believe you're about to part ways with her.”

She knew him too well. “Carmen is smart, savvy”—
great in bed
, he added silently—“and developing a possessive streak.”

“Perhaps it's enough then, dear. Time for a change. Life's too short. So tell me, how did the trip go?”

Shit.
He wouldn't be able to keep a whole week's absence from her. A quick trip to Toronto was one thing; Europe was something else entirely. “Good, I guess,” he said vaguely. “But what do I know?”

“That raises another interesting question,” Felicia replied. “If you know nothing about the business, why
did
you go to Europe?”

“Can you hold on a minute while I grab another beer?” He needed a few seconds to figure out how he would respond to the question.

“Of course.”

He placed the phone on the table while he returned to the kitchen. She'd still be on the line when he got back, but he could hope.

“Okay. What were we talking about?” Jonathan asked when he returned to the phone.

“Why you went to Europe.”

“This doll is a big deal, right?” Jonathan said.

“She is. And I have the utmost confidence in Ann to handle her. As opposed to a man who has not set foot in our offices in six years, and then only to take me to lunch.”

“I remember that. It was your birthday, right?”

“Stop trying to change the subject.”

“I hadn't been to Europe in a while. I just thought, you know, what the hell. I'll go.”

“Jonathan, you're behaving strangely these days, to say the least.”

“I'm an eccentric. You know that. An
artiste
…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.” He was over-tired.

“Well, at least tell me how the trip went?”

He stalled. “Have you spoken to Ann?”

“She wasn't answering her phone. Probably soaking in the tub.”

“That sounds about right,” Jonathan said. “We parted at JFK a little over an hour ago.”

“Didn't you see her home?”

His mother was tough to slip around, Jonathan thought. In thirty-five years, he'd never quite gotten the knack. “She wouldn't hear of it. Look, Mom, I'm bushed—”

“I'll let you go then. But first, please tell me how it went in Spain. I'm dying to know. They're always the hardest sell.”