Lucie knew something was wrong the moment she entered the gallery, and all at once, the excitement that had been bubbling up within her dissipated like smoke in a wind-whipped sky.
Last night, she had dreamed more vividly than ever of the Paris sky that seemed to be part of her every waking thought these days, the sky that stretched above the park near their apartment where her mother had taken her and the other children for long walks. “Every time I close my eyes, I see it,” she told Tommy that morning as he unloaded Christmas trees from a truck his cousin had borrowed, stacking them in rows in the abandoned lot on Sterling Place. “But it’s not the real world I see. I can’t explain it. It’s like when I dream it, it’s a painting already, like my mind has already figured out the brushstrokes for me.” She’d shot him a sideways glance. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
He’d laughed and shaken his head. “No. I think maybe it’s like how soldiers get shell shock, you know? Maybe you’ve got some shell shock, and the painting is helping you to remember things.”
“So maybe the more I paint, the less confused I’ll feel about why my mother hates me so much?”
“She doesn’t hate you, doll. Who could hate you?”
She didn’t answer that, because he could never understand. He came from a family that was whole and overflowing with loud, boisterous love, not one full of ghosts and regrets.
“Look, Luce, I gotta get back to setting up the lot. Ten days until Christmas! And there’s no use in both of us freezing our tails off out here.”
He’d kissed her goodbye and jogged over to Domenico, who waved at her and called, “See ya, Lucie!” the words forming clouds in the twenty-five-degree morning.
She’d waved back and hurried to the subway, rubbing her arms to stay warm.
Now it was nearly noon and she had shown up at the gallery, eager to tackle the walls of studio six once again. Her mother had the bookstore to commune with her ghosts, and maybe this was Lucie’s way of doing the same. She couldn’t hear the voices of her father and brothers, but the more she brought the sky over Paris to life, the more it felt like everything was falling into place. Somehow, emptying the contents of her mind’s palette onto the walls freed her up to tackle the blank canvases, too, and in the past week, she had painted Tommy’s tree stand during Sunday’s snowfall, and the French bakery across the street, its windows lined with baguettes still whistling with steam. Maybe if she got enough practice in, she could summon the courage to show some of her work to Mr. Fitzgerald.
But though the front door was unlocked, the lights were out inside, and the place appeared to be closed, which was unusual for the middle of a weekday. The LeClair that had hung in the window was gone, as were the ones that had lined the walls. It seemed impossible that the gallery could have sold all of them since her last visit, just three days earlier. “Mr. Fitzgerald?” she called out hesitantly, and when there was no answer, she tried the name of the other owner. “Mr. Bouet?” Even the snooty blond gallery assistant was nowhere to be found.
She headed tentatively toward the back, but she stopped short when she entered the smaller of the two rooms, which normally housed the Anicette Rousselle carvings, part of the collection that had put this gallery on the map. They were gone, all four of them, the pedestals where they’d sat empty, one of them slightly askew. Had the valuable artwork been stolen?
“Mr. Fitzgerald?” she called out again, her pulse accelerating in concern. Should she call the police? “Mr. Fitzgerald?”
Suddenly, Mr. Fitzgerald emerged from the back office, both hands on the back of his own neck, like he was trying to rub away an awful muscle cramp. “Lucie?” he asked, looking dazed. “Is everything all right?”
“Thank goodness. I was going to ask the same. Was the gallery robbed, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
He looked around the room, and from his throat erupted a noise that sounded like a chuckle, but with no mirth behind it. “No.” He rolled his head forward and dropped his hands, then he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He made the same joyless laughing sound. “We’re in a bit of a mess, Lucie.”
“Did someone steal the Olivier LeClairs and the Anicette Rousselles?” she asked, still trying to piece together what was happening.
“Well, yes.” He finally looked directly at her. “It appears that we did.”
“What?”
“Lucie, neither those carvings nor the LeClair paintings were ever ours to sell. Everything I’ve done for this gallery, for the artists, for the past decade… It’s all been built on a foundation of lies. And now we’ll likely owe more money than I could possibly pay out. Not to mention the guilt I feel over this…”
She stared at him. “Mr. Fitzgerald, whatever happened, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
“Yes, in fact, it seems there is. The logical explanation is that my business partner is a thief, and I’m a fool.” He didn’t elaborate, but after a few seconds, he gestured for her to come into his office. “You may as well know the truth, Lucie. I’m afraid we’ll have to close the gallery soon anyhow.”
Lucie’s stomach lurched as she followed him. He’d have to close the gallery? That meant closing the artists’ spaces on the second floor, too. She should have known it was too good to be true.
In his office, he indicated that she should take a seat, and he sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything. “I thought I was doing so much good here, Lucie. And the irony is that it was those Anicette Rousselle pieces that made me agree to open the gallery with my business partner. I wouldn’t be here without them, and they were never his. There’s not even an artist named Anicette Rousselle. He stole the pieces from some poor woman and invented a story about someone who never existed.”
Lucie’s mouth fell open. “So who is the real artist?”
He shrugged. “He didn’t get that far. He just said he’d made a terrible mistake, that he had stolen the pieces from the artist because at first he’d believed she was dead. But this morning, she showed up at the gallery demanding an explanation.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Constant walked out immediately afterward. He told me he had to go to the bank, but it’s been hours and he hasn’t returned.” He gave a wry laugh. “I’d imagine he’s probably boarding a ship to Europe right about now. Or maybe he’s used the last of the gallery’s money for a first-class ticket on one of those new transatlantic flights back to the Continent.”
Lucie didn’t know what to say. “And the LeClairs? Were those real?”
“The pieces are real, yes. Constant really was Olivier LeClair’s art dealer in Paris. But the pieces we’ve been selling here, well, I fear he didn’t obtain them legally.”
“He stole them?”
“I don’t know all the details. Sandra only overheard some of the conversation, and she was so upset she left in tears after telling me what she knew.” He put his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. “I should have listened to my gut.”
“Your gut?”
“It’s all we have as artists, right? But when Constant came along, he seemed to be an answer to all my prayers. I was about to lose my gallery, and he was offering me this great opportunity for an infusion of cash and a fresh start.” He paused and scratched the back of his neck. “I almost said no. There was something about him that seemed off. But then he showed me photographs of the Anicette Rousselle carvings, and I felt something. I felt the way you’re supposed to about really good, honest art. And when Constant took me to the warehouse where he was keeping a few dozen of her pieces, well, laying my hands on them did something to me, too. And I suppose I was moved by the tragedy of her story, an artist cut down in her prime.”
“But it was all a lie?”
“The pieces were carved by an artist who is very much alive, and she had no idea he had taken them from her.” He looked up. “Lucie, how will I ever live with myself?”
“But you didn’t do it,” she reminded him. “And she has every reason to be hurt and angry. But she’ll have to understand that this had nothing to do with you.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple, Lucie. I’ve been Constant’s business partner for over a decade. Legally I’m just as responsible for all of this as he is. I simply don’t see any way to move past it. All of the good I tried to do here… I’m afraid it means nothing.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said quietly. “It means everything. To someone like me, the good you’ve done means everything.”
He looked at her, his face drawn. “Thank you, Lucie.”