“He had such promise, my brother. My mother used to brag he knew how to paint before he could walk. An exaggeration, I’m sure. Come to think of it, though, I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t drawing or painting or something.”
Reaching up, she pulled out what looked like a large plastic binder and opened it up. “This is him here,” she said. “Five years old and he’d already won his first competition.”
She set the album on Frederic’s lap. The old photo was too small and blurry for him to focus much on, but he leaned forward and pretended all the same. Piper leaned in as well, her left knee knocking against his as she shifted angles. Frederic sucked in his breath at the awareness shooting up his thigh. Even with two layers of material, he felt every bump and bone pressed against him.
“Impressive,” he murmured. Although he wasn’t sure if he meant Nigel’s childhood art or Piper’s knee.
“He could have done so much,” Marie said. “We all told him to stop riding that motorbike, but he was stubborn.” A crack worked its way into the end of her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing a fist to her lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about Nigel at all.”
“We’re sorry if we’re bringing up bad memories,” Piper remarked.
“That’s all right. They aren’t all bad. In some ways, I think Nigel wanted to die young. He once told me that art only reached the masses once you were gone.”
“I could name a few living painters who might disagree,” Frederic replied.
Her resulting smile was watery, but strong. “I never said his theory made sense. In the end, it didn’t matter anyway, because his work never reached anyone.”
Because Theodore Duchenko ordered it destroyed.
“That is why we’re here,” Piper said. “My sister works for Ana Duchenko.”
Every ounce of humor disappeared from Marie’s face. “That family destroyed my brother,” she said, stiffening. “I was only a child, but I remember how my parents cursed Theodore Duchenko and the rest of them.”
To her credit, Piper didn’t stiffen in return. He always thought how a person reacted when challenged said a lot about them. His housekeeper, it appeared, knew how to stand tall. “From what I hear, Theodore Duchenko deserved cursing,” she said. “What he did was awful.”
“It was an outrage. Ruining my brother’s life, decimating his art all because he was afraid his family would be embarrassed.” The rest of her rant disappeared in a soft mutter.
“For what it’s worth, Ana never spoke to her brother again because of what he did.”
Marie stopped muttering. “She didn’t?”
“No. My sister says Ana blames her brother for Nigel’s death as much as you do. She never married, either.”
“Because of Nigel?”
“She loved your brother very much.”
This was the part of the story that made Frederic uncomfortable. Love stealing a young heiress’s future. The idea of a life stolen out from under you struck a little too close to home.
Marie was back at the bookcase, a long purple silhouette whose head was cut off in darkness. “I only met her once,” she was saying. “Nigel brought her to Sunday dinner and told us all she was his muse. My parents were not happy. I remember my father whispering that Ana ‘looked expensive.’” Frederic could picture the scene. Nigel, their starving artist son, walking in with his wealthy seventeen-year-old lover.
“I know that Theodore tried to destroy all of Nigel’s paintings.” Piper’s knee brushed Frederic’s again as she shifted in her seat. His entire leg felt the contact this time. “We’re hoping, though, he might have missed one or two.”
“If one existed, don’t you think my family would have kept it?”
“Perhaps there was a sale he made before Theodore arrived in France,” Frederic suggested. “Or a gift he gave to a friend.”
Marie shook her head. “I have no idea. The only paintings left of Nigel’s that we have are a couple small landscapes he did for my mother while he was in art school.”
“It’s all right,” Piper replied. “We figured it was a long shot.”
Perhaps, thought Frederic, but she had clearly hoped. Her disappointment was palpable.
Whenever one of his students felt let down, he made a point of reminding them life was full of disappointments.
Right now with Piper, all he wanted was to squeeze her hand. Reassure rather than remind. It was definitely not like him.
Marie was still talking. “To be honest, even if a portrait of Ana did survive, I’m not sure my parents would have kept it. They didn’t want anything to do with the Duchenkos.”
“No,” Piper said. “I don’t suppose they would.”
“My brother did have a friend who might know. He owned an art gallery in the Marais. A very successful one, I believe. His name was Gaspard.”
Frederic looked up. “You don’t mean Gaspard Theroux?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“You know him?” Piper asked.
“Galerie Gaspard Theroux is one of the most respected galleries in Paris.”
“Gaspard and Nigel were very close. If he is still alive, he might know whether any of Nigel’s early Ana studies sold.”
* * *
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Frederic said as they were walking across the square a short while later. “If Gaspard represented Nigel’s work, he must have been very talented. The gallery is known for discovering the best rising talent in Europe. I’ve bought a couple pieces from Gaspard’s son, Bernard. He doesn’t have quite the same eye as his father, but he does well.”
Piper didn’t care how good an eye the guy had. All she cared about was that her search hadn’t reached a dead end. It took her by surprise just how disappointed she was when Marie first said the paintings were gone. The repeated stories of Ana and Nigel’s love affair had gotten to her.
She turned so she could get a better view of the man walking beside her. Inviting Frederic to join her was a total impulse. He sounded so animated when he was talking about Nigel’s work being a significant discovery. Plus, she liked the idea of his company in case Marie wasn’t as friendly as she had sounded on the phone. There wasn’t a woman of any age who wouldn’t like seeing a man who looked like Frederic on her doorstep.
Now as it turned out, he turned out to be an invaluable resource. “I don’t suppose you know if Gaspard Theroux is still alive, do you?”
“He is, but he has had health problems the past few years. His mind...” Frederic gestured with his hands as to say he didn’t know.
That’s what Piper was afraid of. She combed her fingers through her hair with a sigh. At least she had a place to start. “Maybe his son knows something. What did you say his name was?”
“Bernard.”
“I’ll give him a call tomorrow.” Maybe his father kept records from those days.
“Good luck. Bernard is not the easiest person to reach. He tends to ignore people who aren’t serious collectors. Even his gallery is open by appointment only.”
Great. How was she going to get an appointment? Make a pest of herself until he called back?
Or... An idea struck her.