He smiled. It seemed an effort and a bit restrained. Almost as if he were giving away a secret. “That, too. Aren’t you direct?”
“I suppose I am. I’ve never understood people who talk around things. My great-grandmother says it’s not a very feminine or socially acceptable trait.”
“Well, I don’t understand people like that, either. There’s enough in the world not to understand without them mucking it up even worse by being coy or obtuse,” he said. “So your great-grandmother would find me socially unacceptable as well. But you won’t, will you? So please accept my poor apology and a libation.”
Before I could answer, the little boy Mathieu had been helping came running up, tugged on his jacket, and asked Mathieu if he could finish fixing the boat. He looked at me.
“It will only take a few minutes.”
“Go ahead.”
In the shop, I’d only seen Mathieu from a distance and not often. But now I had time to study him. He looked to be a little older than I. Perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five. As he bent over the boat, the wind blew his hair onto his face. Light brown shot through with strands of gold that he wore parted down the middle, waving to his shoulders. It wasn’t in style at all. Short, polished haircuts were all the rage. Were Mathieu’s Bohemian looks a statement of individuality or a defiant stance against the establishment? I imagined him in a painting done by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, the famous eighteenth-century artist and one of my favorites. He’d paint him dramatically, at the bow of a boat or atop a steed, battling a foe.
Mathieu’s face was a study in contrasts, from his wide forehead and aristocratic sharp nose to his almost too gentle mouth. There were secrets in his blue-gray eyes, unreadable to me, and an invitation.
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever seen a man quite as beautiful.
He finished his repair of the toy sailboat and returned.
“The wine?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Wonderful. Let me just tell my sister-in-law I’m leaving. That’s her, there.”
When he returned once more, he offered me his arm, and we left the pond, Mathieu leading us toward the north exit of the gardens.
Looking back on it now, I don’t remember feeling that those first steps were portentous. I did not know then that I’d met the man whose soul could speak to mine. Who would change the trajectory of my life. Who would tear my heart open.
As we walked, the twilight deepened, and the temperature dropped. Crushed grass and sweet wisteria scented our progress to the pavilion, where he secured us a table inside.
The Art Nouveau decorations were tasteful despite being ornate. The grapevine theme carried through the intricate carvings at the bar, the wrought-iron light fixtures, and the stained-glass shades and window panels. I hadn’t been in every home, store, restaurant, or café that my father had built, but it only took me a few moments to know this was his work.
Mathieu ordered a carafe of red wine. As soon as the waiter departed, I asked him if he’d known that my father designed the restaurant.
“Is that why you brought me here?”
Mathieu looked at me quizzically. “Wait. Your father is Julien Duplessi? I’ve admired his work for years and have sought out all his buildings.”
I nodded.
“I couldn’t have known. I don’t even know your name.” He gave me half of one of his hard-won smiles. “Even though you know mine.”
I introduced myself.
“Now I understand. My uncle and aunt have spoken about you—and your mother, of course. She’s quite well known in their circle.”
I nodded. “She met your uncle when she first came to Paris. They’ve been friends for twenty-five years.”
The waiter brought the wine and poured us each a glass.
Mathieu held his glass out to me. I raised mine. He kissed the rim of my glass with his. He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind and finally said, “To an auspicious meeting. Thank you for coming to my aid.”
I took a sip, as did he. And then his glance rested on my notebook. I’d put it on the corner of the table beside me. Picking it up, he examined the soggy mess.
“If you’ll allow me, I can take it to my shop and try to salvage it. I’m a bookbinder, and I might have more luck than if you just set it on a radiator. You deserve at least that for coming to my rescue.”
“Well, it looked like you needed saving.”
He was silent for a moment. And I could almost hear him running through different responses in his mind. “I did.” His voice dropped. “I still do, I think.” His words sounded the way his burnt-vanilla, honey, and amber cologne smelled. He had a rich, gold-toned voice. “Now, please, will you tell me again what you saw?” He hesitated. “I just hope I can bear hearing it.”
I held off, a bit afraid. He was leaning forward intently. His eyes bored into mine. Worry lines creased his brow. His whole body appeared tensed, alert, as if about to be dealt a blow.
“It’s all right. Go ahead,” he urged.
“It’s going to seem strange, and you probably won’t believe me.”
“I’m not sure why, but I think I’ll believe anything you tell me.”
His words sent sparks running across my shoulders and down my arms. My cheeks felt warm. I wasn’t sure what to say. Sebastian had recently started getting me paid commissions for shadow portraits based on my peculiar expertise, but we never revealed my process. We simply said that I was good at reading minds and made it sound playful. But I knew I could trust Mathieu with knowledge of my special gifts. He was part of Dujols’s world and associated with people who claimed to have far more bizarre talents than scrying.
“When someone sits for a portrait, if I put on a blindfold and keep my eyes closed, I can sketch shadows of things that have happened to them.”
“Scenes from their life?”
“Yes. Usually secrets. Almost always secrets.”
“But you weren’t drawing me,” he said.
Now came the embarrassing part. “Actually, I had been sketching the scene of you helping your nephew.”
“And you closed your eyes?” he asked.
“The sun was shining right in my eyes. For a few moments, I couldn’t quite see the real scene. When I opened my eyes, I saw the reflection of a man approaching you in the water. Or so I thought. Sometimes images also appear to me in a mirrored or reflective surface.”
“So you’re a scryer?” he said, with a mixture of awe and curiosity. “It’s an ancient art. And you do it while you are drawing? That’s quite astonishing. Does my uncle know?”
“He does, but I asked him not to tell anyone. I’m still learning about it.”
“You can trust me. Now, tell me as exactly as you can. What did you see?”
“A man in uniform. Wearing a gas mask. And a helmet gleaming in the sun.”
Mathieu’s eyes clouded over. The odd blue-gray transformed into indigo.
“He was creeping up behind you, pointing a rifle . . . a bayonet and—”
“Stop.”
“You don’t believe me,” I said.