She began to cry, wrenching, tormented sobs, and étienne gathered her close, whispering soft, encouraging endearments into her ear until she was able to speak again.
“I met him in 1918, right at the end of the war. We didn’t know one another for very long, but I loved him. I did. He was sent back to America, and we weren’t able to say good-bye, and I tried to find him. I even asked Daddy for help, but he said it was no use. That it was better to forget. And I believed him. Why did I believe him?”
“Are you speaking of Daniel?” Helena asked, recalling their conversation about Daisy’s time at the Studio for Portrait Masks.
“Yes. Daniel Mancuso.”
“How did his letter come to be hidden in your father’s desk?” étienne asked gently.
“It wasn’t for me. Daniel had heard I was sick with the flu, and came by the house to ask after me. Daddy told him I was dead, and Daniel sent a letter of condolence. That’s what I found. I don’t know . . . I mean, I don’t understand why my father didn’t simply destroy it.”
Daisy reached for the brandy and took another fortifying sip. “I know I ought to be sad, and grieving for my father, but I’m so angry right now. How could he do such a thing? He didn’t even know Daniel.”
“What will you do now?” Mathilde asked.
“I have to take my father home. He wanted to be buried next to my mother. I guess I owe him that much. After that . . . I’m not sure.”
“Do you know how to find him? Your Daniel?” étienne ventured hesitantly.
“I know he was an engineer before the war, and that he grew up on the Lower East Side in New York. I suppose I’ll start there.” She wiped her eyes decisively and took a deep breath. “I’m leaving in two days. I’ll worry about the house and everything in it later.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Helena asked, her heart aching for her friend.
“Listening to me, just now. That was enough.”
“Where is Louisette?” étienne asked. They hadn’t noticed before, but for the first time since they’d met Daisy, she was alone.
“Gone. Sacked. But I’m not heartless,” she said. “I gave her a reference, and enough money to live on for a while.”
“You were perfectly justified,” Helena assured her.
“I couldn’t bear the sight of her. I couldn’t. She was always so unfeeling. So cold. I thought of asking her why, but in the end I didn’t. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“What of your paintings?” Mathilde asked.
“Do you think you could take care of them? At least until I’ve a better idea of what will happen.”
“Of course we will.”
“I need to go. I’ll write as soon as I arrive.”
“You must write,” Helena insisted. “We shall all be holding our breath until we hear from you.”
Daisy hugged them, one by one, and stood back to take a last look at the studio.
“Au revoir, mes amis.”
Chapter 24
28 March 1925
Dearest Mama,
Thank you for your letter, and for the recent photograph of you and Papa. I think it is the first one I’ve seen of him in which he’s smiling. Usually he looks rather fierce, as if he is only just restraining himself from shouting at the photographer or complaining that the room is too hot and someone needs to open a window.
I do apologize for not writing as often as I did in the autumn. You mustn’t fret—I assure you that I am happy, and healthy, and still enjoying my stay here in Paris. If I haven’t written it’s only because I am so terribly busy. I am still attending classes during the week, and then, in the evenings and on Saturdays, I spend every spare moment at the studio I share with my friends from school. We are all working frantically to finish off our paintings for the Salon des Indépendants—the exhibition at the end of April I mentioned in my last letter—although Mathilde and étienne are rather farther along than I.
I really must get back to work on my painting—it’s a large canvas depicting the Blue Train to Antibes, with everything in it looking as it ought to do (I am sure Papa will find this reassuring), without even a hint of abstraction or any puzzling motifs. I am feeling tremendously pleased with it and have high hopes that it will be received well by visitors to the exhibition. Once it is finished I shall take a photograph so you can see what it looks like, and I’ll describe all the colors, too, as they are such an important part of the piece.
I do hope you and Papa are well, and enjoying the spring weather.
With much love from your devoted daughter,
Helena
Another chore accomplished, and done well in spite of everything. It was an assortment of half-truths and outright lies, for she was the farthest thing from happy. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Sam in weeks; she was worried to death about Daisy; and she was anything but confident about her work.
It was Saturday evening, the end of another long day in the studio, and she had dashed off the letter to her mother while étienne washed his brushes and swept the studio floor. Mathilde had gone home early, leaving just the two of them to continue on to dinner at Rosalie’s.