The Memory Painter

THIRTEEN

Bryan pulled into his parents’ driveway, relieved to see his mother’s car was missing.

Not bothering to try the front door, he went around back where he could hear his father talking to the plants. He smiled. Doc had gardened for as long as he could remember and over time he had transformed the backyard into a miniature organic farm. Everything he grew ended up at the restaurant.

“Am I interrupting a private conversation?”

Doc’s face lit up when he saw him. “Just coaxing my brussels sprouts along. They need extra love. Want to get your hands dirty?” He held out a bucket. “Pull up my Purple Majesties over there?”

Bryan took the bucket and went over to the plot. His father had once taught him that all potatoes were originally from South America and that there were over three thousand varieties. Doc was both a scientist and an artist when it came to food. He knew where everything came from and how to make it delicious. He possessed a true gift and Bryan had always admired him for it—especially since he only knew how to microwave frozen dinners.

They worked for a long time in comfortable silence, as they had a tendency to do. Bryan had always felt connected to his father. It made him wonder if people chose the lives they were born into. The relationships in his life seemed far from random.

Doc studied him. “You look different.”

“Not hungover today.”

Doc grimaced. “I am still recovering from that vodka you forced down my throat.”

“Hey, I paid for your cab.”

“Danke. How’s the painting going?”

Bryan thought of Diana’s portrait drying in his studio and wondered what his father would think if he could see it. “It’s going,” he said cryptically.

Doc held up an enormous string of sprouts. “Oh, these are beauties.” He placed them in his basket. “Did you sell all your paintings?”

Bryan shook his head. “No clue.” Derek and Penelope communicated with him by e-mail, and he hadn’t checked his in ages.

“Well, I know you sold at least one.”

Bryan stopped digging. “Dad, I told you guys not to buy anything. You’re welcome to it for free.”

“Your mother wanted to. She fell in love with that Versailles painting.”

Now that was interesting. But of course she would. The Versailles painting had been done after he remembered Louis Le Vau’s life, the first architect to Louis XIV, King of France. A brilliant innovator, Le Vau’s expertise in visual grandeur had left an everlasting mark on the country. During Louis XIV’s long and prosperous reign, Le Vau envisioned the Vaux-le-Vicomte chateau and La Salpêtrière hospital, rebuilt the Louvre, designed the Collège des Quatre Nations, and transformed Versailles into the magnificent palace it is today.

Bryan had dreamed Le Vau’s life when he was seventeen—the year before he had left home. The next morning he had come downstairs for breakfast and hadn’t said a word, trying to assimilate the memories. His mother had taken offense at his silence, which had resulted in their worst fight ever. In his anger, Bryan had struggled to speak in English. He could still remember the moment when he glared at her and recognized the spirit of Fran?oise d’Aubigné, Marquise de Maintenon, Louis XIV’s second wife. The most educated woman in court and the widow of a renowned poet, she had caught King Louis’s eye and replaced his then-mistress. When the queen died, Louis married her in secret and she wielded great influence over her husband. Although she was never officially titled, she liked to have a hand in all things pertaining to the crown, and Le Vau resented her involvement in his work. Bryan had thought then how fitting that his mother had once been a virtual queen, and he was not surprised to hear that she had a connection to the Versailles painting now.

Doc gave a rueful smile. “She said she wants to redecorate the living room so she can hang it there. Thanks a lot.”

“Anytime.” Bryan dug up more potatoes. The bucket was almost full. He decided to take the plunge. “I just got asked to be best man in a friend’s wedding.”

Doc looked up. “Really? Best man?”

Bryan kept his face averted, afraid that his father would see the lie. “Another painter from my days in Europe…” he explained. “Anyway, I was wondering what does a best man do? Have you ever been one?” Bryan stole a glance at his father and immediately felt guilty when he saw the sadness in his face.

“Yeah, once. An old buddy of mine who’s no longer around.”

Bryan kept digging, trying to sound casual. He had to maneuver this just right to get what he wanted. “What do you mean not around?”

A long moment passed. Bryan wasn’t sure if his dad would answer. “He and his wife passed away before you were born.”