She hadn’t intended to share any of her art yet, but it was time. Art was meant to make people’s lives better, and perhaps she could do that here by offering her pieces to Mr. Fitzgerald to help pay off his debt. “What you’ve done for me, well, I can never repay you. You gave me a place to work, and a reason to feel that maybe one day, I could do important things. You can have everything I’ve painted so far. Maybe you can sell it and make back a bit of the money you’ll owe the real Anicette Rousselle.”
“Lucie, that’s very kind. But to be honest, even if we sold a hundred pieces, I don’t think it would be enough.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Lucie’s cheeks flamed as she looked down at her lap.
“Lucie.” He waited until she looked up. He appeared exhausted, but he was smiling at her now. “I didn’t mean that your pieces aren’t valuable, only that I owe the real Anicette Rousselle hundreds of thousands of dollars, and there’s nothing I can sell to bridge that gap. But you know what would help me the most right now? To see the work you’ve done, if you’re ready to show me. Knowing that you found some inspiration here means a lot to me.”
She immediately regretted her offer, for if the money wouldn’t make a difference, what was the point? And besides, what if her paintings were terrible, and they made Mr. Fitzgerald regret his decision to offer her his help? It would only make him feel worse.
But he was already standing, looking at her with an encouraging smile, and, despite the butterflies flapping around in her stomach, she forced herself to smile back before following him out the office door.
* * *
Upstairs, the scents of turpentine and linseed, wood shavings and wet clay combined in the heady aroma of artists at work. Down the hall, Lucie knew, there was a sculptor who always worked with her door closed, and in one of the other rooms, a heavyset woman chopped at big blocks of wood, making strange, abstract pieces while she sang Broadway show tunes to herself. But today, the floor was empty, and time seemed to slow as they approached Lucie’s studio.
She used her key to unlock the door and then paused for a second before going in. “What if you hate what I’ve done?”
“Lucie,” he said, his expression soft, “I’m certain I won’t.”
“But what if you do?”
“Then you should tell me I have no taste whatsoever.”
She could hear the levity in his words, but they sank like stones within her. It was an entirely realistic thought that he might hate her work, but it was too late to turn back now. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and went in.
The fourteen canvases she had completed were propped against the wall in a neat row, and as Mr. Fitzgerald followed her in, his sharp inhalation made her chest tighten. Was it a sound of approval or of dismay?
She forced herself to turn to look at him. But his eyes weren’t on her canvases; they were on the walls, the ceiling, and it took her a half second to realize what he was seeing. She had gotten so accustomed to painting the scenes she was remembering from her childhood, bit by bit, that her surroundings had become second nature to her. But Mr. Fitzgerald was seeing it for the first time. What if he thought it was terrible, juvenile? Or what if he hadn’t really meant it when he told her that she could paint the surfaces of the room? What if he’d been joking, and she hadn’t understood that? The longer his silence dragged on, the more foolish she began to feel.
“I’m sorry,” she said when the quiet had grown uncomfortable. “I thought you meant it when you said I could paint whatever I liked, but obviously I—”
“Lucie,” he cut her off. “This is spectacular.”
“Pardon?” She was sure she’d heard him wrong.
“Maybe you’re wasting your time on canvases,” he said, almost to himself, but it felt like he’d punched her in the gut.
“You… think my art is a waste of time?” she asked, trying not to cry.
“What? No!” He chuckled. “No, Lucie. What I meant is that this is incredible. What you’ve done here with the walls and the ceiling… Well, it’s so much more than a painting or even a mural. You’re created a world. It’s a completely different experience, and I think it’s extraordinary.”
She could feel herself blushing. The walls had never been intended as art; they were just the things she had to paint to clear her head before the rest could come. But she had to admit that the more detail she’d added, the more she had felt comforted by the world she’d created. “Oh. Well. Thank you.”
His eyes roamed around her studio, alighting on each of her canvases in turn. “You’re enormously talented, Lucie, and even if this gallery doesn’t remain open, even if I can’t give you your first show myself, I’ll make sure someone does.”
It took a second for his words to sink in. He was telling her exactly what every aspiring artist wanted to hear: that her work was worth something. “Do you mean it, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Of course I do, Lucie.” He massaged his temples for a few seconds and then smiled again, but the light didn’t reach his eyes.
“Look,” she said after a moment. “I know it’s not much, but my boyfriend, Tommy, he’s running a Christmas tree lot with his cousin and a few friends on Sterling Place and Seventh, over in Park Slope. I bet he’ll let me work there on commission if I ask, Mr. Fitzgerald, and I’ll bring you the money I make. You can’t lose this gallery.”
His smile was gentle and sad. “Lucie, I’m not sure it’s something either of us can stop. And I appreciate your offer, but you don’t need to do that. You’re an artist; you should be painting, not working a Christmas tree lot for a few extra bucks. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and I see nothing but a bright future for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Fitzgerald.” The words made her cheeks heat up again. “But I’m going to help you figure this out. It’s the least I can do.”
* * *
When Lucie walked out of the gallery a half hour later, she felt changed, like something had shifted within her. Maybe it was why, buoyed by thoughts that she wasn’t crazy, that she might actually be able to make a career from art, she walked the half block to her mother’s bookstore and went in before she could stop herself.
She had tucked the smallest of her paintings under her arm before she left, an image of a woman walking through a storm on a stretched canvas the size of a novel. She had painted it last week, and she hadn’t realized, until she was midway through, that she had been painting her mother. The central figure was obscured by sheets of falling rain, and her black raincoat seemed to melt at the edges into air. All around her, clouds swirled. If you looked closely enough, you could just make out the silhouettes of a man, two little boys, and a baby girl in those wisps of condensation. There was a little girl there, too, for although her mother seemed not to care that Mathilde LeClair had also died that day, Lucie couldn’t forget. Lucie’s brush had brought out the shapes almost on their own, but as she’d been painting them, it had felt like the right thing. It was her way of saying, “I know. I know you talk to ghosts. And even though I worry about you, it’s okay.”
Now she walked briskly toward the back of the store before she could chicken out. Lucie knew that her mother resented her for living while the others died, and she hoped that with this painting, she could show her that she, too, missed her lost family terribly.
“Maman?” she called out, and when her mother didn’t emerge, she tried again, a bit more loudly. “Maman?”
There was a rustling in the back, but still, her mother didn’t come out, so Lucie steeled herself and headed through the door behind the register.
She stopped short as she entered the room. Her mother sat at the table, her head in her hands, and when Lucie came in, she didn’t look up.
“Maman?” Lucie asked, rushing forward. She set the canvas on the table and bent to grasp her mother’s shoulders. “Are you all right? What is it? What’s happened?”
Her mother continued to stare at the table, but then slowly, she raised her gaze to meet Lucie’s. “What are you doing here?” she asked dully, almost like she didn’t recognize her.
“I—I came to show you something.” Lucie hesitated. Something was wrong; her mother barely seemed to register the words. “Maman? Should I call a doctor?”
Finally, something sparked in her mother’s eyes. “A doctor? What would a doctor do?”
“A doctor might help you,” Lucie said carefully.
“I don’t need help.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Lucie. “Is that what this is about? Did she send you?”
“Who?” Lucie was beginning to grow alarmed. Her mother often behaved oddly, but this seemed strange, even for her.
“And now you’re playing dumb?”
“Maman, I have no idea what you mean.”
Her mother laughed, a rough, bitter sound. “She has no right! Did she come to see you and fill your head with lies?”
“Who, Maman?” Lucie leaned forward and put a hand on her mother’s arm. “Who are you talking about?”
Her mother recoiled like she’d been burned. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Elise LeClair, of course. Is that why you’re here? Is that what this is all about? My God, did she paint this?” She had zeroed in on the painting Lucie had set on the table.