A Sudden Change of Heart Read online

  “I know he nags you about having a child, but it could be his fault you don’t get pregnant. Why does he blame you?”

  “I don’t know, but he does. At least, that’s the way it seems to me. We’ve both been tested again, and there’s nothing wrong with either of us, seemingly. But pregnant I’m not.”

  “Do you want a baby?” Claire asked, looking at Laura intently.

  “Yes, I do, I’ve always wanted a child. But I’m only thirty-one, so there’s time. It’s not as if I’m ancient, on my last legs.”

  “Perhaps Doug’s just too uptight about this, Laura,” Claire suggested quietly, her face reflective. “That often happens. A couple don’t make a baby, and they get overanxious, and that works against them.”

  “I’m not overanxious.”

  “No, but perhaps Doug is, darling.”

  “Maybe he is. He’s certainly high strung these days.”

  “He’s going to have to learn to relax.”

  Laura laughed. “Tell that to the marines. Relax. My God, he’s a bundle of nerves, and always on the go, rushing hither and yon, as Grandma Megan says. She told me recently that Doug doesn’t stay still long enough to make a baby.”

  Claire burst out laughing. “Good old Grandma Megan! I must admit, I do miss her pithiness, and her forthrightness. She comes out with some marvelous lines.”

  “She told me the other day that her great age gives her license to say anything she wants. And to anybody too.”

  “Old people are a bit like that. I guess they get to the stage where they don’t care anymore. And their bluntness can be amusing.” She punched Laura’s arm lightly. “Hey, do you remember what we used to say when we were growing up? That when we were old ladies and had finished with men and all that nonsense, we’d live together on the French Riviera and sit on the beach wearing large picture hats and caftans, having our toenails painted purple by beautiful young gigolos.”

  Laura nodded, her face lighting up. “Sure I do; we were a fanciful pair in those days.”

  “We might still do it, you know,” Claire said, grinning. “When we’re old enough.” She took a sip of her gin martini and said, “I can’t wait for you to see Natasha. I told you, she’s sprouted lately, and since you saw her in the summer her face has changed. She’s sleeker-looking, has lost some of the baby fat, and it helps. She’s just become very, very pretty.”

  “Like mother like daughter.”

  Claire merely smiled. “She’s a very special child, Laura, even though she’s mine and I shouldn’t say it. Nonetheless, she is special, sort of … well, magical.”

  “You may have lived on a battlefield, but you got something out of it after all, didn’t you now?”

  “Yes, I certainly did. Natasha has made it all worthwhile … the spoils of war are veritable spoils indeed. She’s a jewel, and I love her dearly.” Claire’s voice changed, became extremely tender as she continued. “I don’t know what it’s all about, this world we live in, this life of mine, but whatever it’s about, my child has given my life whatever meaning it has. And she’s the best part of me. I thank God every day that I had her, and that I have her with me. She’s very caring of me in a funny sort of way. Sometimes she behaves like the mother, treats me as if I’m the child.”

  “I’ve always thought she was an old soul,” Laura murmured, and then ventured softly, “Does her father ever see her?”

  “No.” Claire shook her head and grimaced. “Well, not very often. She doesn’t care anymore. She used to, of course, but she’s adjusted now.” A small sigh escaped, and Claire added, “But I can’t fault him on the money. His checks come every month, and he’s never missed a payment.”

  “I always thought he loved her,” Laura murmured, and stopped abruptly when she saw Claire’s expression.

  “Mmmm.” Claire twisted her martini glass by its delicate stem, the reflective look in place in her green eyes again. She gazed into her drink.

  Laura decided not to say anything else about Natasha’s father and his feelings for their child. It had always been a sore subject with Claire.

  A moment later, the room service waiter materialized at the door. Laura went to let him in, and clearing her throat lightly, remarked, “Here’s our dinner, Claire. Oh, should I order some wine?”

  Nodding, Claire said, “I’ll have a glass of white wine with the fish, that’ll be nice, Laura, thanks. Why don’t you get a small carafe of the house white; it’s good. We don’t need a whole bottle.”

  After ordering the wine, Laura sat down at the table and turned her attention to the salad. The two friends ate in silence for a moment or two, until Laura said, “Did Hercule give you any idea about the price of his friend’s Renoir? Or, rather, what she wanted?”

  “No, he didn’t, and to be truthful, I’m not sure that he even knows.”

  “It won’t be cheap,” Laura muttered, raising her eyes from her plate, staring at Claire. “A Renoir is a Renoir is a Renoir, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein.”

  “Well put. Listen, Hercule could be a good source for you. Many of his clients are art collectors, and they might well have something they want to sell. That’s of interest to you, I mean, such as a Matisse or a Bonnard. You said your client craves these two artists.”

  “That’s right, and I have another who always says he’d give his right arm for a Gauguin, at least that’s the way he put it to me.”

  “Well, you know Hercule’s the great expert on Gauguin, so if there’s anything knocking around, he’d know. We should talk to him about it. Over the weekend. I’ll invite him to dinner one night.”

  “I like Hercule, and I enjoy talking to him about art. About anything, for that matter. He’s very interesting.”

  “Great, I’ll ask him to come to dinner on Saturday.” Claire put her fork down and leaned back. “I forgot to tell you, I saw Dylan a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh, and how is my baby brother?” Laura asked, sounding surprised.

  “Recalcitrant, as usual, even a bit contentious, to be honest. He took me to dinner at Espadon. He was staying at the Ritz, and he seemed hell-bent and determined to pick a fight with one of the waiters. I felt a bit uncomfortable at first, but then he finally calmed down after I’d kicked him on the shin under the table and punched his arm. I hate it when he picks on people who can’t answer back.”

  “What a pity he hasn’t outgrown that nasty little habit yet. Anyway, how’s he doing? Really. Mom constantly says he’s behaving himself at last, and that things are working out for him, but he’s always managed to pull the wool over her eyes, as you know.”

  “I think he is doing well, Laura, as surprising as that might sound to you. In a funny way, living in England has … what’s the phrase I’m looking for? It’s settled him down, yes, that’s it, and it’s sorted him out. I think he’s come into his own. He says he loves working on Time, and I believe him.”

  “That’s good to hear. But I bet his personal life’s a mess.”

  Claire grinned. “He says it’s a full-blown calamity, and I’m using his words. He told me his girlfriend Minerva has split, and he’s worried that she might be pregnant and is depriving him of his child. And his former girlfriend Nina is stalking him, he insists. He’s just met a new young woman, Inga, a Swede, and he was thinking of having her move in with him. Oh, and he’s bought a farm in Wales.”

  “Par for the course, all this,” Laura said, and she couldn’t help laughing. “We were right, you and I, when we gave up on Dylan years ago. He’s just a bad boy, as Gran’s forever announcing. And you know the way he feels about us. He resents us and our friendship, yours and mine. He’s never forgiven us for sending him away when he was a little boy, cutting him out of our fun and games. Don’t forget that, and his tantrums. He’s all mixed up, that brother of mine.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Claire eyed Laura carefully.

  “I guess so. The Valiants are probably as dysfunctional as any other family.”

  “Better not let Grandm
a Megan hear you say that, or she’ll have—”

  “My guts for garters, to quote dear old Gran,” Laura said.

  “I’m glad you let me be part of it though.”

  Laura gazed at Claire, her bright blue eyes quizzical. “What do you mean?”

  “Part of that dysfunctional, crazy, wonderful family of yours. Without the Valiants I might have turned out to be quite different.”

  “Sane, for one thing.”

  “No, ordinary and dull.”

  “You ordinary and dull, never! You were born special, Claire, take my word for it. And I’m glad you were part of it, are part of it, part of us. You’ve brought a lot of wonderful stuff to the Valiants. And to me especially.”

  Laura awakened with a start.

  She was bathed in a cold sweat, and her nightgown was clinging to her body. Struggling up into a sitting position, she threw back the bedclothes and swung her feet to the floor, turning on the bedside lamp as she did.

  She could not help wondering, as she made her way to the bathroom, if she was coming down with something. To be perspiring like this was not normal; she hoped she was not in for a bout of the flu, or, at the least, a bad cold. She couldn’t afford to get sick; she had far too much work to do, and Christmas was only a few weeks away.

  After taking off her nightgown and drying herself, Laura put on a terry-cloth robe and padded back to the bedroom. Wide awake, she punched up the pillows and got onto the bed.

  Zapping on the television, she found CNN and sat drinking the glass of carbonated water which she had put on the bedside table earlier but had not touched until then. Leaning back against the pillows, she stared at the set, grateful for the continuing stream of news out of Atlanta. At least it gave her something decent to watch in the early hours of the morning.

  Laura put the glass down with a clatter and sat up a bit straighter, suddenly remembering her weird dream…. She had dreamed about Rosa Lavillard. The dream had been frightening, oppressive. She had been with Rosa in a vast building in some unknown city, and they had been lost within its mazelike corridors, which seemed to lead nowhere. The corridors were endless, and there were many, many doors. Every time they opened one, a startled occupant would look up, stare at them, and tell them, in answer to their question, that the way out was at the far end of the corridor. But it never was. Another door led only to another corridor. Nervous and distraught, she had begun to panic, but Rosa Lavillard had not. The older woman had remained calm.

  “There is always a way out,” Rosa kept repeating, and yet they could not find the door that would lead them to the outside … and freedom.

  It had become hotter and hotter in the windowless corridors, and she had grown overheated, tired. But Rosa was stalwart, stoical, forever promising she would get them put of this maze no matter what. The final door opened onto a slide; Rosa had pushed her onto it, and she slid farther and farther down into terrifying blackness. And as she slipped into this bottomless pit, she could hear Rosa singing in French, but she couldn’t make out the words exactly…. Suddenly Rosa herself was on the slide, hurtling down behind her, singing for all she was worth.

  And then she had woken up. Bathed in sweat, and with good reason. She had been afraid in the dream.

  Laura was baffled by the nightmare. What could it possibly mean? And why had she dreamed about Rosa Lavillard, a woman she hardly knew? The answer to the latter was relatively simple. She had run into the Lavillards earlier in the day, and obviously they had remained in the back of her mind.

  For one moment when they were having coffee after dinner, Laura had been about to tell Claire she had bumped into them in the museum, and then the moment had been lost. Claire had started to talk about the Renoir, and Hercule, and the weekend plans. But I should have told her, Laura admonished herself, and she felt suddenly guilty that she had not done so. It’s lying by omission, she thought.

  Her mind lingered on the Lavillards for a second or two, and then it leapt to her brother, Dylan.

  She knew she should call him in London just to say hello, but she was afraid to do so and had kept putting it off for the last few days. And for a simple reason. Invariably, they always managed to quarrel. Her brother was contentious by nature, and she wasn’t a bit surprised when Claire had told her he had tried to pick a fight with the waiter the night they’d had dinner at the Ritz. He loved picking fights with everyone. He was troubled, filled with demons. But weren’t they all? Their lovely Welsh grandparents had always claimed—no, boasted—that they were different because they were Celts, and Laura had believed this, at least part of her had.

  But she was smart enough to know that she and her sibling were odd, troubled, dysfunctional to a certain extent, in part because of a fey, neglectful, if loving mother who was bound up in her husband and her painting at the expense of her children, an overcompensating father who smothered them with love, and a famous actress for a grandmother who surrounded them with her own theatricality and extravagances and mythic tales of ancient Wales.

  Laura smiled inwardly. Whatever it was they had made her, she was very sure of who she was. A Valiant. And proud of it.

  4

  “I am happy you were available to meet with me, Laura,” Hercule Junot said, bestowing his warm smile on her. “My friend is leaving tonight for her château in the Loire, and this afternoon at three was the only time she had free to receive us.”

  “No problem, Hercule, I’m looking forward to meeting her, and really excited about seeing the Renoir. I’m thrilled she still owns it.”

  “It was lucky for you, and for Claire. But come, let us not waste another moment.” Taking hold of her elbow, he ushered her across the lobby of the Plaza-Athénée, continuing. “My car is waiting outside. My friend lives on the Faubourg Saint-Germain in the septième, not too far for us to go.”

  “It’s one of my favorite areas of Paris,” Laura confided as they went out into the street and made for the car. Once they were comfortably settled on the backseat and driving off, Hercule remarked, “Yes, I know what you mean about the seventh. I myself have always found it very special, perhaps because of its diversity as well as its beauty … an enclave for aristocrats in their beautiful houses, and yet an area where students, artists, and writers abound.”

  “I used to haunt the seventh when I was at the Sorbonne, Hercule,” Laura told him. “When I wasn’t trotting around The Rodin museum I was at the Café de Flore or the Deux-Magots, or heading in the direction of the Hôtel des Invalides to visit Napoleon’s tomb.”

  “Ah, yes, he is a favorite of yours,” Hercule said. “Claire has told me how much you admire our famous emperor.”

  Laura smiled. “Napoleon and Winston Churchill are my two great heroes.”

  “Not Lincoln or George Washington?”

  “Well, yes, but in a different way. Churchill comes first with me, then Napoleon. I was tremendously influenced by my Welsh grandfather, who believed that Churchill saved Western civilization from extinction, quite aside from pulling the whole of Europe through evil times in the Second World War. Until the day he died, my grandfather Owen Valiant said that Churchill was the greatest man of the twentieth century. And I believe that too.”

  “And Napoleon, the great dictator, how did you come to him?”

  “Is that how you think of him … as a dictator?”

  “Not I. Neither do most of the French, for that matter. The rest of Europe?” Hercule gave a small shrug and lifted his hands. “They think of him as a monster, but I do not believe he was.”

  “I agree. And I came to him when I was living here as a student. I’m a Francophile, as you know, and I fell upon a wonderful biography of him, by Vincent Cronin, and I was just captivated. He was a genius in my opinion.”

  Hercule nodded. “There is no half measure when it comes to Napoleon. He is either loved or loathed. Now, to move on, Laura, I must tell you about my friend, whom you will be meeting in a few moments. Her name is Jacqueline de Antoine-St. Lucien. I have known h
er for many years. Her late husband, Charles, was a dear friend, and he indulged Jacqueline in her grand passion … collecting art. She has the great taste—” He paused, kissed his fingertips. “Superb taste … formidable. Her collection is enthralling. You will be seeing some of the greatest paintings in the world in a few minutes.”

  “Why does she want to sell the Renoir?” Laura asked, filled with curiosity.

  “She has not really confided the reason to me, but I do know the family château near Loches is expensive to run. Last year she sold a van Gogh.”

  “I wish I’d known about that!”

  “And I, too, wish I had known, Laura. Certainly I would have informed you. Immediately. From what Jacqueline told me later, she did not even have it on the market. Someone saw the van Gogh and made an offer, and so it was sold—just like that.” He snapped his thumb and finger together. “From what I understand, she had not thought of selling it, but the offer was so tremendous, she found she could not refuse.”

  “My favorite of all the van Gogh paintings is White Roses.”

  “Ah, mais oui, the most beautiful. And now it is hanging in France again, at least for the time being.”

  “In France, but in the American Embassy.”

  “And therefore on American soil, at least technically speaking,” he answered. “Actually, it is at the ambassador’s residence.”

  “I’d give anything to see it.”

  “Perhaps that can be arranged. I know the ambassador, Pamela Harriman.”

  “That’d be wonderful, Hercule. By the way, how much does your friend want for the Renoir? Or don’t you know?”

  “When I spoke with her last night, she mentioned that she was thinking of somewhere in the region of four million, or thereabouts.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Yes, U.S. dollars. Ah, here we are, Laura. This is the house where Jacqueline lives. It has been in the family for many, many years.”