The walk back to the hotel had been quiet, but the setting special, with the spires of Notre-Dame lit against the dark sky, first in the foreground, then behind us as we crossed the bridge to ISL. Young, beautiful city dwellers claimed spots along the Seine and benches on all the bridges for impromptu picnics with wine and food, a casual Parisian happy hour. I remember doing that many evenings during my student days when the weather allowed, bringing the American college tradition of kicking off the weekend on Thursday nights to France. I started to tell Nate about the memory but couldn’t muster the energy. Clearly, we were both tired.
When we arrived at my hotel, there was a moment of hesitation. I had no doubt that I could figure out the meeting place in the morning with a good night’s sleep and some focused research time. But despite today’s heroics, I had some lingering doubts about Nate. In a previous life, like two months ago before the Dawn of the Twins, I might have blindly trusted a man this thoughtful and thorough, who had pushed me out of the way of a speeding car and chased down a stranger in the street for me. But now, I couldn’t quite manage it.
“I have to ask again, Nate. Are you involved in this in any way? I’ve lost a lot lately and taken a lot of punches to the gut. It appears my instincts have been off for a long time. You seem sincere, but one more betrayal . . .” I couldn’t even finish the sentence.
He looked right into my eyes. “I am not in involved in this in any way. I promise. Like you said earlier, I’m entirely random. But I do understand your hesitancy. None of this makes any sense. Does it?” He leaned in and kissed me gently on the lips. Salty. Sincere. Then his hands ran down my arms, across my lower back. I stepped in to meet his touch, his mouth, with newfound energy. The kiss on a Parisian street corner I had dreamed about a decade ago was finally happening. Every inch of my body responded.
But I wanted more. I pulled back slowly. “I never had a chance to say it, but remember last night? You know, before the felony? I had a wonderful time.”
“Was that only last night?” he said as he brushed my hair back, shaking his head a bit, then tracing my jawline.
I knew what he meant. The last twenty-four hours felt like a hundred years, but I didn’t want the day to end yet. I found my key card and let us in. I took his hand. “Stay with me tonight, Nate. Please.”
Chapter 12
There was another note on the pillow from Nate. Went out. Back soon. Best, Nate
Best, Nate. Classic. It was almost eight, and I felt rested and ready. Satisfied. And, for the first time in many months, I felt capable.
It wasn’t the most glamorous of terms, but ever since Casey’s announcement, I’d been unsure of almost everything, from my decision to divorce him to my choice of nail polish. My failed marriage had left a big hole where my modest confidence had previously resided. Even though the stolen sketches were bad, I mean, really bad, I felt like everything else was going pretty well. I had handled the aftermath capably. Security was alerted, I had a sense of purpose, and I nailed the first meeting spot even though Blackbird had slipped away.
Then there was Nate, who was turning out to be like some kind of sexual Spackle, gluing my confidence back together. And I was about 99.9 percent sure he wasn’t a con man with a PhD, which was a risk I could live with.
Casey’s infidelities had shredded me. Once I got over the initial shock of his abundant affair, things only got worse. I lay awake in the middle of the night dissecting our sex life, from our first time—a coffee date that lasted all weekend—to our last—an early-morning nonevent. The more I thought about my role, the more I found myself wanting. Even though I knew the kind of deception that Casey had maintained for five years was not really about my lack of adventure in the sack, the thought that I had bored him out of our marriage messed with my mind. Being with Nate was the beginning of a new chapter, if not for Nate, then at the very least for me. I had never thought of myself as a needy person, requiring another person’s presence to validate my own. But feeling Nate’s body move over mine gave me strength.
I rolled over, threw on my discarded nightgown, and grabbed my laptop. Time to check my emails and face some music. I knew I had to connect with Mike today, and there was an email from him in my inbox.
To: Joan Blakely
From: Mike Danbretti
Joan,
Not getting any response to my calls. Time difference. Please contact ASAP when you get this, as I am concerned.
Checked into connection between theft of Panthéon Sketches and any other Joan of Arc–related pieces that may have been stolen in Europe. There doesn’t seem to be any sudden uptick in such thefts, but there was a small statue of Joan of Arc lifted from a church in Donremy along with some other items. The artist was Dubois if that means anything, and it was a copy, so not that valuable. Let me know if you think there may be a connection, but it looks doubtful.
I also checked out Beatrice Landreau and Margot & Fils. There’s something there, as Tai indicated. The gallery is in some financial trouble and she’s had three sales reversed this year due to forged documents of origin. The works in question were all tapestries that appear to have been looted from Poland by the Nazis, then surfaced in France forty years later. No connection to Joan of Arc or Panthéon. It looks like Beatrice could be vulnerable to a bribe of some sort. Can you confirm any recent contact with her?
Nate Redmond checks out. From interviews and additional sources, it appears all he does is work. Nothing about his background indicates an interest in art or knowledge of the art world. Unlike some tech guys with $$$, he does not collect art. He collects Star Wars figurines, but I don’t think that counts as fine art. It’s a fairly valuable collection, though. He’s into music and has a large album collection. Mentioned in a profile of him in SF Chronicle. In case you are wondering, he is truly single—never married, no kids. He contributes money to the Boys & Girls Clubs and is on the board of SheCodes, a nonprofit that encourages girls to go into tech. His last known girlfriend was in 2009, a programmer.
The work he’s doing with artificial limbs is pretty impressive—low-cost, 3D printed limbs with smart chips for kids and veterans. According to Wired, he was inspired by a story he heard on NPR and it’s been named one of the “Do Good” start-ups of the year. Sounds like a good guy.
Finally, I will have to go to the Museum on Monday to inform them of the theft. You have until 10 a.m. PDT.
Call me. Mike
I read Mike’s email quickly and ran though the answers to his questions in my head before responding. No, there would be no obvious connection between a copy of a Dubois statue and the Panthéon Sketches. No, I hadn’t been able to reach Beatrice, despite repeated calls and emails to her. And thanks for the thumbs-up on Nate and the Star Wars collection. I told him I’d keep trying Beatrice’s cell to see if she would pick up and answer questions about the buyer. I decided not to tell him about the appearance of the mysterious envelopes, or that Nate was still in the picture. But I told him enough to show him my gratitude for his discretion until Monday.
There was no follow-up email from my mother, but the intern Kiandra had sent a message. She’d been thrilled to get the extra work of responding to the Henry Blakely letters. I think I bought her undying loyalty with the generous twenty-dollars-an-hour salary. Relieving my mother’s guilt was worth at least that.