Chapter 17
Emma
I’m staring at a ghost. She’s beautiful, radiant, and looks ten years younger than when I last saw her in her apartment.
“You’re not dead,” I finally manage.
“Not yet. But the day is young,” she says through a toothy grin. “Colette, Lucie. We haven’t formally met, but I feel like I already know the two of you.”
“Same here,” Lucie says coolly. She never betrays her emotions, but I can tell even she is thrown.
The waiter chooses that exact moment to bring our food, though my appetite has disappeared.
“I’ll take a Bloody Mary, please. Extra sherry vinegar and hold the cucumber,” Stella orders in French. To us she says, “Please eat and I’ll explain everything.”
“Matthew told me you didn’t make it.”
“That’s what I would prefer for Matthew to believe for now.”
“He was devastated.”
“I wonder if that’s true,” she says with a raised eyebrow. “His love for me was becoming quite inconvenient for him. I know you have plenty of questions and I’m going to answer all of them. But let me get my drink first.”
There’s so much authority in her voice we have no choice but to comply. We even manage to work our way through our food as she tucks into the large cocktail. Finally, she glances around the café, and satisfied no one is listening to us, she begins.
“I need them to believe I’m dead. They were weeks away from shipping me off to some facility in the countryside and taking away the last bits of my freedom.”
“But the doctors? How did you convince them to tell Matthew you didn’t make it?” I ask.
“Oh yes. I suppose I should back up.”
“As far as possible,” Lucie says, still reserved.
“I like you,” Stella says to her. “I knew I would, and I regret not meeting all of you sooner. My plan was not perfect, but it will be from here on out. The first thing you should know is that everyone has a price. It will serve you well to keep that in mind going forward. That nice young woman doctor named hers and I gladly met it.”
She drains her drink and motions to the waiter to bring her another one.
Lucie makes the same motion. “I think I need something stronger than coffee for this resurrection.” She turns to Stella.
“Madame Swanson, before we go any further, there are some things we should clear up. First, Emma explained how we are indeed indebted to you. That you have been our silent benefactor, the one who brought us all together. For that we are incredibly grateful. I think we can all agree.”
Colette and I nod slowly, unsure where Lucie is going with all of this. But Stella seems to have some idea.
“Girls, when I started the scholarship for you two years ago I was looking for allies,” Stella responds.
“My husband was very ill. I still believed there was a chance that I would be named his successor. He promised me as much, but I knew I would need a secondary plan. I began to think about selling my Sunflowers, but as you know I couldn’t do it myself.
I just didn’t think I could convince anyone to make an enemy of Louis Swanson by working with me.
I needed help. And I chose you to come here and help me.
I didn’t know if I would ever need it. If not, then you got a full ride to come to Paris and live out your dreams. I was consumed with Maxwell’s care, and he went faster than anyone expected.
Louis made sure he was appointed the sole heir of his father’s company, and I do believe that it happened when my husband was no longer in his right mind. That’s when the family cut me off.”
Lucie clearly wants to get straight to the point. “I’ve seen the painting. We’ve talked about it and we’ll be glad to help you if we can, but I think we should determine what will be in it for us if we do.”
This amuses Stella greatly, I can tell.
“What would you like?”
“An even split,” Lucie says.
“Of the sale of this painting?”
“Yes.” Lucie doesn’t stammer, but I can tell she’s nervous.
The silence grows heavy around us. Stella sips her drink slowly without answering.
“What do you think the painting will sell for?” she eventually asks, directing the question to Colette, who is, after all, an expert in these kinds of things.
“You would know better than I do. Most of these paintings are purchased privately. They never even go to auction. That’s why the market is so difficult to navigate. Your family has made sure of that,” Colette says pointedly. “The entire system is rigged.”
“I don’t disagree,” Stella says. “But let’s say it would go to auction. Sotheby’s?”
“A Van Gogh that has never been on the market before? Wooden Cabins Among the Olive Trees is similar. It sold for seventy-one million. This is smaller, but more vibrant. And a self-portrait in addition to the sunflowers. Maybe ninety million?”
Stella nods, pleased at the assessment. “There would be fees, of course. The auction house could take as much as twenty-seven percent. And then there are legal costs. So let’s say sixty million. Divided four ways? Is that what you’re asking for?”
“Yes,” Lucie says.
“You would be a very rich woman. All of you would be very rich women.”
“We’re worth it,” Lucie says, louder this time.
Stella’s laugh echoes through the small room. “Damn right you are. If we can pull this off, you girls can have whatever you want. I don’t need much. Who knows how long I have left?”
She certainly seems to be the picture of good health right now.
“I want to enjoy my final years. And I think the three of you are an excellent investment. Always have. There’s a reason I chose each of you. Plus, this endeavor is not without its risks.” She calls the waiter over to the table and asks for the check.
“Let’s go somewhere private where we can talk,” she insists as we walk out of the restaurant and into the rows of the market. We don’t dawdle the way we usually do. Stella keeps hustling us back to our apartment building, where she parked her car.
Because it turns out Stella’s idea of somewhere private where we can talk is a four-hour drive away.
“We’re going to the island,” she declares.
The island, as if there are no others.
She waits outside while we pack a couple of duffel bags and carefully place her Van Gogh into a large rolling suitcase. We hastily wrap the painting in thin brown paper and secure it with thick black packing tape.
“Who can drive stick?” Stella asks from the passenger seat of the idling jewel-toned green Bentley when we return. “I can, but I don’t feel like it.”
“Of course I can,” Lucie says. “But are you going to tell us where we’re going?”
“Start out on the A10 toward Le Mans and stop there for gas.”
In the trunk of the car is a monogrammed suitcase, a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk, and something long and unwieldy covered with a sheet. We have to do some Tetris to make everything fit.
“Shit.” Colette jerks her hand back from the sheet. “I nearly sliced off a finger.”
“Is that an actual sword?” Lucie asks as the mysterious object is revealed to be none other than Tipu Sultan’s antique weapon.
“Shove everything in,” I say. “And get ready for more surprises. She’s full of them.”
Stella is asleep within minutes, and I can’t help but wonder if all her new energy is a front. Was the frail, beleaguered widow whose apartment I cleaned for months the real Stella? Or is she this dynamo? Maybe both are a creation.
I close my eyes and let Paris fade into the background. We don’t leave the city that often. Money is tight, and besides, you could spend your whole life in Paris and not see everything within the city limits. Why go anywhere else?
It takes about an hour to get through the industrial wasteland on the outskirts of the city. Then we roll through the Paris suburbs to reach the bucolic fields and vineyards that the Impressionists made famous. As instructed Lucie stops for gas when we reach Le Mans.
“We have to wake her up. I have no idea where we go from here.”
I shake Stella awake. Confusion takes over her face the moment she opens her eyes. I suddenly worry she might not even remember this morning.
But it only takes her a beat to recover her senses. “Are we at Le Mans?”
“We are. We’re getting gas.”
“Lovely. Is anyone hungry?”
Colette and I shake our heads. “Tell us again where we’re going?”
“I told you. To the island.”
“Does it have a name?”
“It does, but no one ever uses it. There are many small islands right off the coast that have been used as ports for commercial shipping, for fishing, for love affairs and escaping reality. Maxwell took me to this one on our honeymoon and we tried to return every year on our anniversary. There’s a ferry right before sunset, so let’s step on it, shall we? ”
Stella rustles around in her handbag and pulls out a small Moleskine notebook. She scribbles down some directions and then immediately dozes off again.
“Are we crazy?” Colette whispers to me as the sun starts to sink toward the horizon.
“Did you think it was crazy when you left your husband behind and moved to Paris on your own?”
“Yes. I thought I was absolutely insane, and I was terrified.”
“Are you glad you did it?”
“Every single day.”
“Then, yes. I think this is crazy, but sometimes the crazy choice is the right one.”
“I second that,” Lucie says in a stage whisper.
We make it to the coast before sunset and as Stella promised, a beat-up passenger ferry is being tossed about by the waves in the harbor.
“The car isn’t going to fit on that.”
“We’ll leave the car here. It will be fine,” Stella says through a yawn at the same time as she lights a cigarette. Before we head to the docks, Stella covers her hair with a drab brown scarf and dons a large pair of prescription glasses that are the opposite of chic.
“Are you in disguise?” I ask her.
“Simply dialing it down a bit. But it’s the offseason. The island will be empty.”
Lucie manages both of Stella’s suitcases, while Colette rolls the large suitcase with the painting inside it. I have our three duffel bags slung over my shoulders. On board the grizzled captain collects our money and prepares to set off, clearly not expecting any other passengers.