As they each processed the fact that managing their respective galleries meant living in separate cities, a pall was cast over the lightheartedness of their walk.
Jean-Christian sighed. “I didn’t mention it before, but on Wednesday and Thursday, I looked at some commercial properties in Manhattan.”
“You did?”
“Mm-hm. I was thinking…I mean…”
“Thinking what?” she asked, her fingers tightening around his.
“Thinking that I might want to open another gallery in New York.”
Her heart leapt with joy, and she jerked her head to look up at him. “You’re moving to New York?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t not say that either.”
“Oh?”
“Fuck, Lib. I don’t want to go back to Philly if you live in New York. I want…I mean, I want to keep going forward. Fuck—how do you say this? I mean, I want to be with you. And I can’t be with you if I’m in Philly and you’re in New York.”
Her breath caught with excitement, but she forced herself to be calm. “I want to be with you too, but we could still make it work, even if—”
“No. I don’t want that. I don’t want to just see you on weekends. Or twice a month when we can get away. I want to see you all the time. Every night. Every Saturday. Every Sunday.”
“But your family’s in Philadelphia.”
“And I’d definitely keep a place there…and I’d go back a lot. But I want to spend my time with you. Near you.” He cleared his throat. “So I thought…maybe…I don’t know. I’d open a gallery in New York. Then I’d have a second reason to stay.”
She had a wild idea that tried to flit quickly through her mind, but she caught it and squeezed it in her hand, wondering if it was bat-shit crazy or a viable idea. She wouldn’t know unless she said it aloud.
“I have a gallery and you have a gallery,” she said.
“Mm-hm.”
“And a presence in Philly would benefit me as much as a presence for you in New York.”
“Right.”
“We worked on the Kandinsky together. It was a breeze.”
“Where are you going with this?”
She stopped walking and faced him. “A merger.”
His eyes widened as he stared down at her. “Are you serious?”
Libitz took a deep breath and shrugged. “Why buy real estate when there’s room at my place for a few of your pieces and room at your place for a few of mine?”
“But a merger? That’s serious.”
“Feingold-Rousseau,” she said, flattening her hands on his chest and grinning up at him. “Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?”
“Not as nice as Rousseau-Feingold,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “Are you sure about this?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “For now, it’s just a fantasy. I’d need for my lawyer to look at your business and my accountant look at your profit and loss. You’d need to do the same. If one of us isn’t a sound partner, the other would have to withdraw the offer. No fault, no foul.”
“I’m doing well,” he said.
She nodded. “Me too.”
His face, which looked so hopeful, so happy, clouded over. “But…what if—I mean, what if we don’t work out, Elsa? This is all pretty new.”
“First of all, it’s a choice to work out,” she said. “Do you want us to work out?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Then we will.”
“Second of all, even if we don’t, we’re bound for life through Noelle. So we don’t really have the option of not getting along. As I see it, you’re an ideal business partner. I can never escape you, and you can never escape me.”
“Is there a third of all?” he asked, smiling at her, his features relaxing.
“Hmmm,” she hummed. “I don’t think so.”
“Good. Because fuck food. I’m so turned on by this conversation, I’m taking you back to the hotel and making love to you.”
“Turned on by the idea of a long-term commitment to one woman?” she asked, grinning at him with delight.
“That is fucking right. So I’m going to take you back to our chateau and make love to you, my darling Elsa…my possible business partner, my goddaughter’s godmother, my…my…”
“Your what?” she asked, holding her breath.
“My Libitz,” he said, bending his head to kiss her. “Fuck. Wait.”
He pulled his phone from his back pocket. “Bonjour?…Oui. Oui, madame. Merci. Ah. Oui. Je vois. Uh-huh…” He looked at Libitz, his eyes bright and excited. “She thinks she may have found something, but not a birth record. A marriage record!”
Libitz gasped, holding on to Jean-Christian’s arm, staring into his eyes.
“Uh-huh. Oui. êtes-vous certaine?” His eyes widened, and he nodded. “Gilles Lévy. Oui. 5 de Septembre? êtes-vous absolument—oui, madame. Merci. Merci beaucoup. Oui. Oui. Au revoir.”
“Tell me!” said Libitz.
Jean-Christian tucked the phone in his back pocket, taking her hands in his, nailing her with his eyes. “She was married. Camille Trigére was married to…Lib, she was married to a man named Gilles Lévy on September 5, 1939. No death record on file.”
She couldn’t breathe.