Chapter 17
Seventeen
ISABELLE
Well, that went worse than expected, and Isabelle hadn’t hoped for it to go well at all. Even as she stood at the boulangerie the next morning and paid for her croissants, she could still see the hurt in Camille’s eyes, and she knew that she had only herself to blame this time. Not Papa.
She walked toward the apartment, and then, with her hand on the large brass door handle of the building, hesitated. Maybe Sophie or Camille were awake by now, and maybe they needed space. They’d all stayed in their bedrooms last night; it had been too soon to try to explain herself, even though she had longed to do just that. Maybe it was still too soon.
Sophie would probably hear her out, maybe even forgive her. But Camille… Isabelle’s hand tensed against the metal.
Camille might never forgive her for this. She wasn’t the type to turn the other cheek when someone hurt her.
Isabelle was still contemplating her next course of action when the door opened, forcing her to drop her hand and step back. It was Antoine, looking pleased to see her, and Isabelle quickly arranged her expression to look anything but how she felt, which was…miserable. And she couldn’t even blame Hugh for the reason why.
“ Bonjour! ” Antoine stood outside on the sidewalk, smiling at her. “Are you coming in?”
“I…” Isabelle couldn’t think straight. Her mind was buzzing and she felt at a loss for words. It was a foreign feeling and not a good one. She liked her days planned out and took comfort in her routine.
Once, she’d taken pleasure in never knowing where she and Hugh would travel, or how long they would stay. But that was before Paris.
And now, her life was as wide open as it had been all those days early into her relationship, only this time she was flying solo. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or who would be by her side. She didn’t know if she was married or not, or if she would stay married, if she and Hugh would work it out. How could she ever forgive him? She didn’t know if there would ever be a baby, or if the years would pass by her, closing the door on that opportunity. She didn’t know what Papa was so eager to tell them all, and if she’d have to hear the news alone.
And she didn’t know what to say to her sisters to make things right again.
“I’m going to the gallery, actually,” she said, thinking of the one place she had that was hers alone. The little storefront on ?le Saint-Louis was filled with art that she’d personally chosen and hung with care. The business gave her days not just purpose but fulfillment, even if neither Hugh nor Camille could ever understand that.
It’s what made it hers, though, wasn’t it? That only she loved it so?
“Your gallery?” Antoine looked interested. “On a Sunday?”
She gave a guilty smile. It wasn’t very common in France to work on weekends. “I have that big show coming up and I still have a lot of work to do.”
Yes, work would keep her away from the apartment until she knew what to do. And it would keep her from calling Hugh, too.
She wondered, idly, if he’d noticed that she hadn’t been reaching out as much, but then she figured that he’d just assume it was because her sisters were visiting.
If he bothered to think about her all.
“Actually, that’s not the real reason I’m heading into work today,” she confided, unsure of why the moment the words slipped from her lips. But looking into Antoine’s kind eyes, she did know. He was easy to talk to. Understanding.
Maybe it was because he was close to her grandmother, a link to her past. Or maybe it was because he always seemed to be around when she needed a helping hand. One that she hadn’t noticed until now.
Or maybe hadn’t needed until now.
“Oh?” He didn’t look overly curious, but more concerned.
“I told my sisters about our father’s visit.” The words felt heavy.
“Ah.” He winced. “It didn’t go well?”
“It was a disaster,” she said. “If we hadn’t been in public, I imagine you might have heard us through the walls.”
He laughed, and despite the ache in her chest, she did, too.
“So work it is then,” he said, giving a firm nod.
“I do have a lot to do for the gallery,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“Do you want some company?” he surprised her by asking.
She looked up at him, and without needing to pause or think about it, she said only what she was feeling. “I’d love some.”
Two hours later, with the catering menu finalized, and invitations read and sorted, Antoine stood and stretched his legs. Isabelle watched him from the desk where she still sat, entering the last of the wine orders, allowing for extra in case people decided to bring a date.
“This will be a big event,” Antoine commented, taking in the guest list, which was long and impressive and made Isabelle nervous every time she looked at it. It was a show that would certainly put her little gallery on the map.
“You should come,” Isabelle said. “I mean, I’d like you to come.”
Please come , she thought, looking into his kind eyes. She didn’t know if her sisters would even come after her big announcement, and she could use a friendly face in an otherwise intimidating crowd.
And Antoine was certainly a very friendly one.
“Really?” He looked flattered. “I don’t know much about art.”
“Just nod along and comment on the perspective,” she whispered, giving him a wink.
He jutted his lip. “I think I can handle that.”
“So you will?” she asked hopefully.
He nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Isabelle pulled in a breath and released it slowly, feeling instantly better about, well, everything. Still, she felt a little shaky when she stood up, bracing herself for her return to the apartment.
“I love this one.” Antoine stood in front of an oil painting. It was an abstract landscape, but it was the colors and brushstrokes that had caught Isabelle’s attention. “The artist has a very unique…perspective.”
He turned to grin at her.
“That’s one of my favorites,” she replied after she’d finished laughing. “The artist isn’t very prolific, unfortunately, but I think that’s what makes this piece so special.”
“Is it for sale?” Antoine asked, sounding genuinely interested.
Isabelle nodded. “It can be yours for fifteen.”
“Euros?” Antoine looked both confused and delighted.
“Thousand,” she replied with a knowing smile.
“Ah.” Antoine stepped away with his hands in the air.
Isabelle laughed again. She’d laughed a lot today, thanks to Antoine. He was easy company, quiet, thoughtful, and quick with a joke or a comment that made her smile.
For a while, she’d almost been able to forget her troubles.
“Do you get many buyers?” he asked, moving on to a small modern sculpture of a couple embracing.
“It depends what you call many,” Isabelle said, moving away from the piece. She’d acquired it from an artist she and Hugh had met on a trip to Madrid and now she was eager to send it back to its owner. “Mostly, I have browsers. Tourists who love to pop in and out. I have a list of clients, of course. Collectors. I know their taste and call them when I see something that I know they would like.”
“How did you come to meet these people?” Antoine asked, seeming genuinely curious.
“Oh, Hugh and I traveled a lot over the years for his business. You get to meet a lot of people that way, at parties, or work events…” She trailed off, not wanting to talk about Hugh any more than she wanted to think about him, or what he was doing. Or what she was going to do about him. She had come to this gallery to escape her problems, and so far she’d managed to do just that. “I suppose I’m fortunate to have inherited my grandmother’s apartment, but I can cover the rent here. I’m proud of this gallery. It’s my baby, you could say.”
And it might be her only one, she thought with a pang.
“You have a good eye,” Antoine told her as he moved slowly around the room, careful to keep a distance from the canvases.
“It’s in my blood,” Isabelle said, dismissing the compliment. “My father isn’t the only one, you know. My mother is a successful interior designer in London. Camille is a book illustrator, and Sophie is a writer. Or she will be. Once she believes in herself.”
“That’s an impressive family,” Antoine said, lifting an eyebrow.
“It is,” Isabelle agreed. “Though I’m not sure anyone is all that impressed with what I do.” Seeing his frown, she explained, “They’re creators. And I’m, well, a businesswoman, to hear Camille tell it, even though I don’t agree.”
“But you’re happy?” Antoine asked.
Isabelle paused. There was so much that caused her unhappiness these days that she didn’t know how to answer his question. But this gallery, these four walls, these paintings and sculptures that she hand-selected, they brought her joy.
“I love this gallery,” she replied. “But Hugh would have preferred that I travel with him.”
And if she had? Would their marriage have survived? But at what cost?
“My sister is the real artist, or she could be,” Isabelle said. “I’d love to give her a show but she’s holding herself back. It’s as if she’d afraid…”
“Of failure?” Antoine asked.
Isabelle regarded him for a moment. “Of turning into our father.”
She felt her expression drop as the heaviness in her chest returned, and this time, she knew she couldn’t hide her true emotions. “As you can probably sense, there’s always been some tension between me and my middle sister.”
“Since you were little?” Antoine asked.
Isabelle shook her head and walked over to the cocktail cart to pour them each a glass of well-deserved wine. She usually saved the bottles for the evenings when she stayed open late and there was a buzz on the sidewalks, tourists coming in and out of storefronts, potential customers strolling her gallery, but today called for some libations, and besides, she didn’t see much foot traffic through the window.
She handed him a glass of red wine. “When we were little, we were very close, but as we got older, we drifted apart. Camille had a baby right after college, and she became busy, too busy to spend much time with me.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve lost many friends to their children,” Antoine said, giving a knowing chuckle. “It always had a way of making me feel…left behind. Especially after the breakup.”
“You wanted children then?” Isabelle hoped she wasn’t being rude, but she longed to connect with someone who shared her plight, who had a hole in their heart that might never be filled. Had he learned to live with it, and if so, how? She needed to know. She needed…hope, she supposed.
“I still do,” he replied. “Of course, that requires meeting the right woman.”
Isabelle took a sip of her wine, ruefully thinking how much easier it was for men, who didn’t have a clock ticking away their childbearing years.
“Hugh never wanted children,” she said, finding it a relief to be able to be so open. “I’d hoped that settling down in Paris would change his mind.”
“But?” Antoine raised an eyebrow.
“But I’m not sure what he ever wanted, I suppose,” she replied. “He…isn’t a man of his word, you could say. He’s been lying to me. For quite some time. And now all I can think about is how much more he’s been lying about. If anything he ever said was true.”
Antoine frowned deeply and set a hand on her shoulder, leaving it there like a comfortable weight for a moment, a reminder that she wasn’t completely alone.
“You know, when Marie broke off our engagement, I felt like a part of me had died,” Antoine said, giving her a sheepish look. “I cried. Like a baby. For like…a month.”
Isabelle wiped away a tear and laughed out loud, then clamped a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I mean, that isn’t funny.”
“But it is,” Antoine said with a shrug. “Sort of.”
They shared a smile.
“Only in hindsight,” Isabelle said.
Antoine nodded. “Only because I see now how wrong she was for me. At the time I was caught up in my feelings, in all the good I saw in her. But it wasn’t reality. It wasn’t even who she was. It was…who I wanted her to be.”
Isabelle fell quiet as she thought about Hugh, about who he was compared to the man she always thought him to be. The Hugh she knew was not a man who would lie to her, repeatedly, about his whereabouts, and who knew what else.
“I just feel like maybe I don’t know my husband at all,” Isabelle whispered. “Maybe I only saw what I wanted to see. And maybe I didn’t see what I didn’t want…”
Like her mother. For so long her mother would make excuses for Papa’s absences, airily claiming that he was staying out all night working in cafés, that he couldn’t sleep when he was working on a new painting, that he found his best inspiration at night.
Was this what Papa told her or was it just what she told herself?
And how was it any different from what Isabelle had told herself about Hugh’s feelings about Paris? About starting a family?
“What do your sisters say?” Antoine asked. “They must know him pretty well?”
Isabelle shook her head. “Sophie doesn’t know Hugh at all. She only met him at the wedding. And Camille…Camille doesn’t believe in love. Not the lasting kind, anyway. If she knew about Hugh’s betrayal, she’d just say she warned me.”
“So you haven’t told them?” Antoine looked at her in shock, then, with a teasing wag of his finger, he said, “You have been keeping a lot from these sisters of yours.”
“This is my business. It doesn’t concern them,” Isabelle replied, feeling a little defensive. There was no way she could share Hugh’s betrayal with either of her sisters. Sophie didn’t deserve to have her trip tainted and Camille— Isabelle shuddered at the mere thought of what her sister would say.
But then it hit her. Hard.
Camille would tell her the truth.
What she didn’t want to hear.
Or see.
What she was afraid to admit to herself.
Antoine dropped his hand, but his eyes were still kind when they looked at her. “ You concern them, though. They’re your sisters. They’re here in town to visit you.”
Isabelle gave a begrudging nod. It was true. They had come to town for her—not Papa. Even Camille, who hated Paris and all it represented, had crossed the English Channel.
For her.
“What’s the worst that could happen if you tell them?” Antoine asked with a casual shrug, as if it were just that easy to open up, to share. To trust.
“I suppose I’m just bracing myself for what Camille would say. That she’d confirm that I’ve been a fool. That Hugh never loved me. That there’s no such thing as love, at least not the lasting kind. That I was naive to think I’d found it.” She looked up at him shyly. “Or that I could ever find it again.”
That was the part she feared the most, she realized.
His gaze was soft but intense as he studied her. Finally, his lips curved into a little smile. “Sometimes people can surprise you.”
Isabelle took another sip of her wine, struggling to tear her gaze from that dark stare.
Yes, she thought. Sometimes people could surprise you.
In a good way.
Camille and Sophie were both in the living room when Isabelle returned that afternoon after a leisurely walk back to the apartment with Antoine, who took her down a different route than her usual path—perhaps even a better one.
She paused in the entranceway, relieved that they hadn’t fled to their respective countries but anxious about what they planned to say to her.
“I owe you both a huge apology,” she said before they could say anything. “I was wrong. So wrong. I should have told you why I was inviting you to Paris.”
Camille studied her for a long moment from her seat near the window. Finally, she sighed and then patted the cushion next to her.
Releasing a breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding, Isabelle toed off her shoes and hurried across the room to join her sisters, earning a little smile of camaraderie from Sophie, who was curled up in an armchair near the crackling fireplace.
A bottle of white wine was already uncorked and poured, and cheese and bread were on the glass coffee table. Isabelle realized that her sisters must have been bonding, just the two of them, and even though the circumstance that had brought them together was one she wanted to take back, now she wondered if she really would if she could.
“You knew if you told us the truth that I wouldn’t have come,” Camille said. “So I understand. It doesn’t mean that what you did was right, but…I understand.”
Isabelle nodded, knowing it was the closest she was going to get to forgiveness.
Camille stood up and went to the kitchen, returning promptly with an empty wineglass.
Isabelle grinned. Strike her earlier thought, she thought as she accepted the olive branch. This was the true sign of forgiveness. She was being included, brought back into the fold, and oh, had she missed it.
“The past twenty-four hours have been rough,” she admitted, pouring herself a glass of wine and taking a sip.
“For all of us,” Camille agreed, reaching for a piece of Emmental. “At least there’s cheese in France, or I might have hopped on the train by now.”
“You wouldn’t have, though?” Isabelle asked. “Without saying goodbye?”
Camille chewed thoughtfully. “Not without saying goodbye, no. Besides, we’re sisters. We’re sort of stuck with each other whether we like it or not.” Here she slid a glance to Sophie, who grinned into her wineglass.
Isabelle felt a warmth wash over her skin that had nothing to do with the fire glowing in the hearth.
And as much as she hated to think of ruining this cozy moment, she knew that they had to talk about tomorrow—and what to do about it.
“We are sisters, and we do stick together, and that’s why we won’t have this dinner unless we all decide we should,” Isabelle said, meaning it.
“Papa really didn’t hint at what it was about?” Camille pressed.
“You know Papa.” Isabelle felt the need to reassure her. “For all we know, he was looking through old photos, found one of us at the beach one summer, and thought, let’s have a family dinner like old times!”
A whisper of a smile passed over Sophie’s face. “I always loved those days, not just because you two were visiting, but because Papa was always so happy when you came.”
Camille seemed surprised by this, but then her expression folded into one of confusion, and, if Isabelle didn’t know better, sadness.
“That’s the thing about Papa,” she said. “When he was there, he was so…present. It just made losing him so much worse.”
“Present, yes,” Isabelle said slowly. But she was older, and she had a slightly different memory. “But he was also so preoccupied by his art. So consumed by it. I often wonder what might have happened if he’d just stuck with his portraits. They were his signature work.”
A collective nod went up in the room. Everyone in Paris knew Paul Laurent’s portraits at one point in time. Everyone in Europe, and even New York.
“But you know Papa,” Camille said, giving Isabelle a look.
“Yes,” Isabelle said with a sigh. “He was restless. He was always in search of…more.”
“Something better,” Camille said.
“Maybe not something better,” Sophie said gently. “Maybe just…something else.”
She and Camille locked eyes for a moment, exchanging a look of understanding.
“Do you remember the ant people?” Camille asked, and all the women nodded knowingly.
The life-size metal forms had been Papa’s obsession in the months leading up to his divorce from Isabelle and Camille’s mother. They were meant to express Paul’s belief that the human ego had become out of control and needed to be put in check, that one must be reminded that we were all living creatures, sharing this earth, that an ant people so carelessly and thoughtlessly stepped on and squished was, on some level, of equal importance to the human experience.
His ant people could be found playing musical instruments, dancing the tango, or sweeping a city street.
“The ant people were the beginning of the end,” Isabelle said. They required too much explanation, their size was too cumbersome, and they didn’t hold the same beauty and depth that his portraits did, those haunting paintings that looked deep inside the human soul, capturing the plight in a way that so few could.
“Well, you weren’t there for the miniature ant people,” Sophie said, her eyebrows shooting up. “When he finally gave up on the big ones, he scaled things down in an attempt underscore the humanity of the ants by domesticating their colonies.”
“Oh, my,” Camille said with a gulp of wine. “That sounds like Papa.”
“I had to explain to all of my friends why my dollhouse was made up of an ant family instead of proper dolls.” Sophie frowned.
Camille snorted and then laughed so hard that she sprayed wine from her mouth. She clasped a hand to her face, muttering an apology, but there was no reason, because Isabelle was laughing, too, and Sophie, looking a little bewildered, started to join in.
“It was actually sort of upsetting,” she cried. “I tried to put little clothes on them, but nothing helped.”
“Oh, my God, the clothes!” Camille screamed and pointed a finger at Isabelle.
“The clothes!” Isabelle’s eyes watered from laughter. “I forgot about that.”
“Forgot what?” Sophie looked from Isabelle to Camille, who was now laughing so hard that she had set down her wineglass to clutch her sides.
Isabelle calmed down enough to explain the story. “Papa went through a period of dressing the ant people. He upcycled clothing. It was all very avant-garde, actually. He was quite ahead of the times.”
Camille stopped laughing to nail her with a hard look. “Isabelle, he was dumpster diving.”
Isabelle licked her lip to stifle her laughter. “He was collecting materials,” she explained to Sophie.
But Sophie just shrugged, completely unfazed. “Oh, he was always digging through trash. It was, like, a Saturday morning activity after bagels and lox.”
The room fell silent for a split second before the women erupted into laughter again.
“Oh, my,” Camille finally said, wiping her eyes and then reaching for her wine. “I haven’t laughed this hard since Rupert and I—” She stopped, looking wistful for a moment.
“This was…nice,” she eventually said. “Surprising. Not just because we’re laughing about Papa, but because we’re all here together, having, well, fun.”
“At Papa’s expense,” Isabelle said, feeling bad.
“Oh, come on,” Camille cajoled. “He had it coming.”
Sophie tilted her head from side to side, grimacing. “He’s an easy target. But…he tried so hard, you know?”
“With his art!” Camille retorted, her anger flashing through again.
“But it’s who he is,” Isabelle said, smiling when she thought back on those days when Papa was whiling away, his mind always busy, his hands always active. “And he always included us. He brought us into his world. He tried to, at least.”
Camille grew quiet for a moment. “Maybe,” she finally said. “Maybe he did try. In his own strange way. For as long as he could.”
“As best as he could,” Isabelle said quietly.
“I want to believe that,” Sophie said, looking at Isabelle pleadingly, much the same way Camille used to those first few nights after Papa had left, when Isabelle still dared to believe that he would be back.
And he had come back. For this dinner. Just not when they needed him most.
Isabelle looked at her sisters, wondering if she dared to ask them the burning question. “So? Do we do it? Do we meet him for dinner?”
“It’s just one dinner,” Sophie said cautiously, glancing at Camille.
Camille contemplated it for a long moment before tossing up her hands, nearly sloshing what remained of her wine. “What can it hurt?”
A lot , Isabelle thought but didn’t say.
And that was what she feared. For herself. But most of all, for her sisters.