“You’ll let me stay here, won’t you?” I asked.
“With me, yes, of course, mon ange, for a time. But I wish you hadn’t come . . . I would have traveled to New York.” After a moment she disentangled herself. “Now tell me, why didn’t you ask me to come to be with you? That’s always been the way we’ve visited.”
“I’ll explain all that, but first, did Mr. Lissauer say anything about me in the telegram? Did he ask if I was here?”
“No, why should he?”
“So you didn’t tell him I was coming?”
“How could I? I didn’t know you were coming.”
“You can’t tell him. Not him and not anyone.”
She looked at me with some confusion. “The Ferres know you are here, mon ange. What is this about?”
“Do the Ferres know my married name? They have always known me as Sandrine Verlaine. Did you tell them I married?”
Growing up in New York, I had been Sandrine Salome, but when I’d spent time with my grandmother in Paris when I was fifteen, I’d been Sandrine Verlaine. She’d had me use her last name, instead of my father’s, to protect the secret and the Salome family out of respect to her lover.
“I’m sure I mentioned that you’d married, but I doubt I would have mentioned your husband’s last name.”
“Then don’t. Not to them or anyone. I want to go back to being Sandrine Verlaine. That is the name I booked passage under.”
“But this makes no sense. Why?”
“I don’t want anyone to be able to find me. And no one in New York looking for me would know that name.”
“To find you? Are you hiding? Won’t your husband try to find you? Doesn’t he know where I live?”
I took a breath. “My husband,” I said, “is the reason I’ve left. It’s my husband who I don’t want to find me. ”
“What do you mean, Sandrine? Surely there’s nothing wrong with your marriage?”
I could see worry mixed with the sadness in her eyes. The time had come to tell my grandmother about the terrible thing that had happened to her family.
Chapter 3
We’d all had dinner together. It was a cold and silent affair. My father and Benjamin had been fighting before we dined and had brought their chilliness to the table. Any semblance of civility was, I guessed, for my behalf. As soon as dinner was done, my father told Benjamin he wanted to talk to him in the library.
I went into the parlor and was reading some book or other when I heard their raised voices. I could only pick up an occasional phrase, but from the tenor of his voice, it was clear my father was furious. Benjamin and I had been married for four years and had always lived with my father in his Fifth Avenue mansion. In all that time, I’d never heard my father talk to my husband, his protégé and junior partner, in that tone of voice.
At one point I heard him accuse Benjamin of being a thief. At another of dishonoring his name.
“But you were my partner, you were like a son to me,” I heard my father scream. My father never screamed. What was going on?
After more than thirty minutes, I heard my father shout out my own name. Thinking he was calling me, I went running. I came to the threshold of the library. The door had never been properly shut and remained open a bit. I stepped inside the shadowed antechamber lined with books. Neither man noticed me as I stood in the shadowed alcove and stared.
My father was holding a pistol pointed at Benjamin.
“I trusted you with my daughter!”
“Go ahead and shoot me. How will that protect Sandrine? What kind of life will she have then? Spending her days visiting her broken old father in prison? Embarrassed and humiliated. Ostracized. Is that the life you envisioned for her?” Benjamin said. I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the smile in his voice. He was taunting my father. “Every loan and transfer form has your name on it, not mine, Philippe. I’ve left instructions that in case of my death the whole packet of incriminating evidence will be sent to the police. You will be the villain of this piece.”
“But they are forgeries.”
“No one will be able to prove that. You’ve let me sign too many legitimate contracts with your name over the years.”
“You organized this whole deceit behind my back while living in my house, with my daughter? You gambled like a fool and then borrowed against reserves to pay off your own debts? You stole from me? You used my trust and largesse to put our bank in jeopardy? How could I have been so blind?”
My father noticed me then. He looked right at me. I’d never seen my father embarrassed before. Never in my life. In that moment he was so ashamed that he could barely hold my gaze. I stepped farther into the room.
“What’s going on?” I asked. When my father didn’t answer, I turned to my husband. “Benjamin? What is going on? What is this? What is Papa talking about?”
Benjamin took me by the arm. “This isn’t something you need to be part of, Sandrine.”
“He’s right,” my father echoed in a broken voice. “Please go, Sandrine.”
Benjamin led me out of the room, and like a fool I went. I shouldn’t have. Had I stayed and demanded to be told all the details of the crisis, I might have made my father see there was another way. Some other solution. Hadn’t he taught me there’s always another way? But I didn’t stay. I went off with Benjamin, leaving my father to suffer his long night alone.
The next morning Papa didn’t come down to breakfast. I asked his valet to see if he was all right.
Sometime during the night, my father, who was so fastidious, who was so impeccable, had shot himself in the mouth and left behind a bloody mess so horrific that even when I demanded to see his body, I couldn’t stand to be in the room for more than a few moments.
Before I left, I picked up his pistol. It was cold, and I shivered as I slipped it into my pocket. Of all my father’s personal effects, this was the only one I took from his bedroom. I was still married to Benjamin, and I now knew I might need to protect myself one day.
The note his valet found next to his body, when they moved him, had my name on it.
My dearest Sandrine,
There was no other way but this cowardly exit. Leaving you is the hardest thing I have ever done, but this is the best solution. I am not guilty of what Benjamin would have claimed, but I would never be able to prove it. The shame of what you would have to live with is more than I can bear. At least this way, you are protected. Say I was ill and could not bear the pain. Even though the illness is of my soul, not my body, it is true.
With all of my love to you forever,
Your devoted Papa
By the time I finished telling my grandmother the story, I was standing by the fireplace, and she was still seated on the settee. Across the room, our eyes met and held.
Hers sparkled with unshed tears.
“Mon ange,” she said in a hoarse, whispery voice that reminded me of burnt sugar. She held out her arms. I went to her and, for the second time that evening, took refuge there, smelling her fiery, spicy perfume and face powder and feeling no less sad but much safer.
It was only after a few moments that I noticed she was shaking.
“What is it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “My poor Philippe.”
Now I was not the one taking solace but giving it.
Chapter 4