Gavin eats like he hasn’t seen food for days. At least he doesn’t bother with conversation. I can tell he’s anxious to get dinner over with and check out the apartment.
“We have a special dessert, gateau au fromage, but it’s not quite finished yet,” émile says. Cheesecake. What that guy said in his letter to Marguerite. I almost laugh.
“That’s okay, Rosemary and I will hang out for a while,” Gavin says. He grins in a conspiratorial way with me, like we’ve been planning this together. “She wanted to show me her room.”
“C’est vrai?” Sylvie’s incredulous face swivels in my direction, making her long, silver earrings jangle. She hasn’t forgotten how I screamed at Gavin and almost knocked him off his feet.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, after a second. I struggle to find a reason I would ever want to “hang out” with him, and have a sudden burst of inspiration. “I wanted to show him Ansel’s paintings.” Wow. I’m so good at lying.
Hearing this, Sylvie gives us one of her wide, Mediterranean sunshine smiles and we all crowd into Ansel’s bedroom. Sylvie chatters in half French, half English about her son and gestures all around.
The telltale hole-in-the-wall where the doorknob once was is now well hidden, thanks to a little creative rearranging of pillows on my bed, but the long cracks in the wall practically scream their presence. Feeling my heart skip around in my chest, I smile and nod and point along with Sylvie. émile glows as well, but leaves soon to check the dessert. Sylvie stays and keeps chattering.
Gavin shrugs and glances at me with a rueful expression. I can tell he didn’t expect the crowd.
“Oh la la,” Sylvie exclaims. “That crack has appeared again. I should do something about it. I don’t want Ansel’s paintings ruined.”
My smile freezes on my face.
“What did she say?” Gavin asks.
“Look, up there,” Sylvie says, sparing me the need to speak. She walks over to the hidden door and traces a finger along the crack that leads up to the ceiling. “There used to be a door in that corner, a long time ago. This entire building was the home of one family. That door was shut and plastered over when they left and this building was divided into apartments.”
“Who lives on the other side of the wall?” Gavin asks.
“No one, for as long as I have been here. I’ve heard that fifty years ago a woman lived there, but she left during the War and never returned. The apartment sits empty all this time. A shame, eh?”
émile calls from the kitchen and Sylvie excuses herself to go help her husband. I find that I have to sit down on the bed. It was actually more of a collapse. I’ve been holding my breath. But she left. She didn’t question me about the cracks on the wall.
“Okay, one quick look,” Gavin says to me. “Come on, let’s do this! I really want to see that apartment.” His face is hopeful and for the first time I notice that he has dimples. He probably thinks the girls love them.
“No!” I say. “Not enough time.”
At that moment, émile calls from the kitchen, “Give us about ten minutes.”
“Okay!” Gavin hollers. He turns to me. “Perfect timing,” he says, grinning. “Now’s our chance. Unless,” he says, moving toward me, “you’d rather do something else instead.” He reaches out to touch a strand of my hair, moving it away from my eyes.
Is he serious?
“Fine!” I slap his hand away. We work to ease the bed away from the wall. “One look. Fast,” I add.
“Wow,” Gavin says, once we’re inside Marguerite’s apartment. He whistles, and the thin sound fills the place. “Someone with money lived here.”
I slug his arm and hiss, “Quiet! They’ll hear!” I’m furious, but part of me is also thrilled that the words came out clearly. Score one for Rosemary on an otherwise crappy day.
“Ow,” Gavin says with a half grin, rubbing his arm. “Tone down the violence, Rosemary.”
He creeps around the room, carefully watching his step. I follow so I can keep an eye on him. I’m feeling possessive about Marguerite’s home. The now familiar dust-bunny smell is almost welcoming, but my stomach ties itself into a knot at the sight that meets my eyes. The books I have yet to rescue lie in disarray on the floor, and someone attacked the furniture. The cushions were ripped open and stuffing lies scattered all over the floor. Much of the wallpaper has been torn completely away from the walls.
I survey the jumble on the floor and wonder if there are any more letters to be found. I kneel to sift through the piles, but a sudden loud squealing sound steals my breath and I’m positive my heart stops. We’ve been caught! But the sound comes from Marguerite’s bedroom. I tiptoe through shards of a broken vase to the bedroom door.
“What are you doing?” I ask through clenched teeth. That does not help me speak clearly.