Authors: Michelle Gable
A Paris Apartment (50 page)
“Of course not! You’re not old at all!”
“That is not true in the least. I am excessively ancient. Alas, I do not want the money for jewels or fancy shoes.” She snickered and pointed to the silk slippers on her feet. “The painting, your Boldini, no one knew of its existence before,
non
?”
“Correct,” April said. “It was a shock to everyone.”
“Giovanni Boldini has another covert painting, ma chérie. It is owned by a private investor and has never once passed through an auction house.”
“That’s actually rather common. Many of Boldini’s works are owned by individuals.”
“Yes, but only a few people know of this one’s existence. Andreas!” Madame Vannier snapped. “Where is my coat? I am ready to leave. I would like my coat applied to my body this instant!”
“Which painting?” April asked. “I am quite familiar with the full spectrum of his works.”
“You don’t know this one,” Madame Vannier said and wiggled into her jacket, a deep brown mink. “It is a painting of my mother. She is nursing me.”
“Another unknown Boldini?”
“Oui. And now I finally have the funds to purchase it from the private investor.”
April laughed, out of shock and nervousness and some other feeling she could not articulate. There was another Giovanni Boldini in the world, and Agnès Vannier planned to get her hands on it.
“I suppose I don’t need to tell you but this price point will not help your negotiations,” April said, still laughing.
“Perhaps you are right,” Agnès said with sparks in her eyes. “Mine also has—what do you call it? Ah, yes, this painting has quite the fascinating provenance.”
After wrapping a scarf around her neck, Madame Vannier grabbed hold of one of her two helpers and doddered out of the room, leaving April dumbfounded and Luc, forever, smirking.
“I see what you’re devising,” Luc said, the first words he’d spoken to her that night. “You hope to get the premium on that sale.”
“That is not true one bit. I also want the commission.”
Troy appeared behind him then, chuckling and shaking his head.
“Monsieur, you know my wife quite well. Can you believe this racket? Charging the sellers and the buyers?” He extended his hand. “Troy Vogt. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“So this is le grand m’sieu. It’s a pleasure. Luc Thébault.”
“‘Le grand m’sieu.’ At some point one of you will really have to tell me what that means. Anyway, thank you for ensuring my wife didn’t get into any trouble this summer. It is much appreciated.”
“Ce n’est pas un problème. I did what I could. It’s a shame you were never able to make a visit.”
“Well, that should be rectified soon,” Troy said. “Did she tell you? We’ll be moving to Paris in the new year.”
“Paris?” Luc said, a funny look skittering across his face. He gave April a quick glance from beneath his eyelashes. “This is fantastic news, but it is the first I’m hearing of it. Regardless, bravo! I know your wife is happiest here.”
“That’s the plan,” Troy said. “To make her the happiest.”
“Avril!” Luc almost sang. “Such news you’ve kept from me!”
“Well, nothing’s set in stone. We’re still waiting for the final okay from the Paris office…” April let her words trail off. “So, where’s…? I’m surprised you didn’t bring a date … I mean, how come Delphine’s not here?” April turned to Troy. “You should meet his girlfriend. She works in finance too, and is about as stunning a creature as you could imagine.”
“Oh! Great! I’d love to meet her!” Troy said a little too enthusiastically, clearly glad this Frenchman had romantic interests aside from his wife.
“Alas,” Luc said and smiled sadly. “Delphine is no longer. Or no longer in my world in any case.” He shrugged before either could express condolences. “C’est la vie. Sometimes things do not work out as you’d like.”
Suddenly the phone rang. It was Olivier, dialing up from one of the operator’s phones below. The first night was over. April should come down. This was her show, and he wanted her to share in the glory. Furthermore, if her transfer to the Paris office was going to work out, April needed to meet the European players.
“Olivier wants me on the floor,” April said, heart still pounding, adrenaline pulsing through her veins.
“All right,” Luc replied. “I will see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Nice to meet you, buddy,” her big, handsome American husband said.
“Yes, okay, right, buddy.”
Smiling, April reached for her bag. She peeked inside to make sure they were there: a new set of letters and documents. These were not as old as Marthe’s, a few decades compared to a hundred years, but they were more valuable, at least to April.
The papers were not from some stranger’s estate but from her father. April’s parents had been packrats after all, at least when it came to letters posted to and from Vietnam. There was even a journal. For so many years April asked about furniture and knickknacks. She never thought to ask for letters.
They walked down the stairs, April grinning as if she might never stop. Troy paused. He leaned into April’s ear, and a chill ran along her skin.
“When we move, am I going to have to get chest-hair implants? Because, looking around, I question whether I have the ability to blend in.”
“If everything goes the way it should, lack of chest hair will be the least of your problems.”
“You’re telling me.” He rolled his eyes and pretended to groan. “Up to my neck in furniture and Frenchies all damned day.”
April laughed.
“You could do worse.”
She stepped around him and out into the thick din of voices on the floor. People closed in on her from all sides. As well-wishers kissed April and shook her hand, Troy kept a palm at the small of her back. She wanted to turn around, ask that he bear with her for the remainder of the night. Ask that he stay. Then April remembered. She didn’t need to ask. There was no reason to think he wouldn’t.
Acknowledgments
There would be no acknowledgments to write, indeed no book at all, if not for the tireless, impossible, and crafty machinations of Barbara Poelle. Thank you, Barbara, not only for sending me the article that inspired this book, but for believing in my voice, sticking with the turbulence, and always making me feel like the only client you have.
To my brilliant and savvy editor, Katie Gilligan, who understood where I was going with April Vogt before I did. I appreciate your enthusiasm, keen insight, and ability to push me in ways I never conceived. I will gladly share a bottle of wine (or two) with you (and Barbara) any day of the week … whole pig and all.
The crew at Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press worked tirelessly behind the scenes to make good on a tight timeline. Thank you to those I’ve spoken with, those I haven’t, and specifically to Sally Richardson for her early backing and to Melanie Fried for keeping me and this project on track (plus answering all manner of befuddled newbie questions). My publicist Katie Bassel ran with this book the minute it landed on her desk. Thank you for your talent, smarts, and so deftly handling late-breaking changes and dramatics. A huge heap of credit goes also to copyeditor Sue Llewellyn. It’s like you were born to edit this manuscript.
Thank you to Jeb Spencer, Sig Anderman, Jonathan Corr, and especially Ed Luce for the best “day job” (and night and weekend job) a person could have. I think most would be surprised how engaging and inspiring the corporate world can be.
Inspiration is a writer’s greatest asset and no three authors have inspired me more than Tammy Greenwood, Allison Winn Scotch, and Amy Hatvany. Thank you for the continued advice, encouragement, and support.
I can’t mention the word support without also thanking my friend of nearly thirty years, Karen Freeman Landers. Thank you for being a sounding board and sharing in the excitement (and attending any and all Chargers games). I am so lucky to have you in my corner.
I must also mention Jen McGlothlin (aka Jenny Walker), my very first “writing partner” and coauthor of myriad Sweet Valley High ripoffs. How did those not take off, I wonder? Thank you also to Aileen Dowd Brill for your advice and for reading many a manuscript along the way.
So many friends have championed this book and the process to get here. Offline and online … from book club (Michelle Campbell, Denisia Chatfield, Leesa Davis, Lisa Gal, Kerri Merson, Suzanne Miller, Heather Olson, Sabrina Parr, Kat Peppers, Kerry Rooney, Jenna Scarafone, Dede Watson), to my William & Mary crew (special shout out to Jes Singer), to Facebook groups, to the amazing community of Cardiff-by-the-Sea—thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ve always been reticent to share “writing stuff” but the reception has made me wish I’d started sharing sooner. I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
As much as I’ve hit the friend lottery, even more so the family one. To my father, Tom Gable, the first writer I ever admired, thank you for passing along your gifts, encouraging me to write from a young age, and, of course, being a humorous and complex character in your own right.
Thank you also to my mom, Laura Gable, though a mere thanks feels insufficient. The support you’ve given is unparalleled. I rely on you as much now as when I was a child, though in different ways. You are, in a word, the best.
I’m also fortunate to have two smart and quick-witted siblings to make every family meal entertaining and provide no shortage of material. To my brother, Brian Gable, thank you for lending your persona to the “Brian” character in this novel. I hope you find him sufficiently likable. And to my sister, Lisa Gable Wheatley, for your support and inspiring ambition and for reading several early stories.
Special recognition goes to the extended Gable clan, from California to Oklahoma to New York and everywhere in between. The world is livelier with you guys in it. And a thousand thank-yous to my mother- and father-in-law, Pat and Tony Bilski. You are the most supportive and nonjudgmental people I know, even when my work involves a prostitute. (Sorry!) Finally, to my beloved aunt Janet Yergler Rickerson. I am in awe of your strength and the faith and inspiration you’ve brought to so many.
And to my girls … where would I be without you both? Paige, my silly, sweet, smart firstborn. Thank you for being my reading buddy and for making motherhood easy. I’m sorry you can’t read this book quite yet. I’ll write something for you soon.
To my spunky Georgia peach, only seven years old and these aren’t even the first acknowledgments you’ve been in. Thanks for lighting up (and amusing) this world on a daily basis, and for your endless social media–worthy comments and observations. You are a force. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My husband’s name is at the start of this book, which is appropriate because of all the wonderful things in my life, they all start with him. DB, thank you for making me laugh, picking up my slack, and rolling your eyes only some of the time. I’m sorry the husbands in my stories are always such jerks. I promise you a good-looking, wry, super-nice-guy accountant one day.
And, finally, to the readers, to those who have read this book and those who will not. Thank you for finding and sharing new worlds. Thank you for the discussions had and the connections made. Wishing you many more journeys and a short path to your next favorite book.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHELLE GABLE graduated from the College of William & Mary. She currently resides in Cardiff by the Sea, California, with her husband, two daughters, and one lazy cat. This is her first novel.
To learn more, visit
www.michellegable.com
.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A PARIS APARTMENT.
Copyright © 2014 by Michelle Gable. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph ©
www.koziel.fr