They talked about inconsequential
things as she made tea. They took everything into the living room and settled
on the couch.
Olivia took her shoes off and tucked
her feet under her. "Okay, tell us what happened."
She shook her head. "My
grandmother convinced me to run away when I was twenty-one. I came into a trust
fund, and she helped me devise a plan to withdraw the money and leave without
anyone knowing where I went."
"Crazy," Eve said in awe.
"I should have thought of that to get away from my dad. Except I didn't
have a trust fund."
"Your dad isn't as bad as mine
was, either." Gwen frowned thoughtfully. "Although with age I see
that he wasn't bad. He just had no reason to care for me."
"Aside from being your
father?" Olivia asked in an arch tone. She'd had years of fallout with her
father too, so Gwen knew it was a sensitive subject for her, too.
"He isn't my father." The
absolute silence made her smile. "My mother had affairs, and I'm the
result of one of them."
"Affairs? Plural?" Eve
looked at her teacup. "We may need something stronger to put in
this."
"Do you know who your father is?"
Olivia asked.
"I'm not sure it matters,"
she said, knowing that it did a little.
Eve shook her head. "You're a
living soap opera. I can see how you wouldn't want any of that getting out. I
can also see how it'd produce a toxic environment at home."
"I left for more than that. I
always had to act in a way befitting an heiress. Everyone was always judging.
My family, their acquaintances, the media." She leaned forward. "I'm
not
an heiress."
"No, you're not," Olivia
said with a gentle smile.
"Unless heiresses go around with
paint smeared on their faces," Eve added. "Then you'd totally be
one."
She lifted her hand to her face
automatically, even though she knew she couldn't have any paint on her. She
hadn't been to the store since the story broke.
Olivia reached for a cookie. "So
you're out of the closet. What's next? Has your family contacted you?"
She shook her head. "I haven't
been at the store because of all reporters, and no one knows where I live. But
it's only a matter of time before they show up on my doorstep."
The door buzzed. She'd have been
freaked out, but she knew it was Lola.
Her author friend bounded in a moment
later. "What did I miss?"
"We were talking about what
Gwen's going to do next," Eve said, holding out the plate of madeleines.
Lola took two. "I told her she
needs a game changer."
"I'm just not sure what that
is." She frowned into her tea. "For a second I thought about running
away again, but I won't. I'm done letting my past dictate my future. I love it
here. I love my life and my friends."
Eve sniffled, but it was Olivia who
said, "We wouldn't let you go."
"I keep asking myself, what
would my grandmother do?" She lifted her chin. "Mamie Yvette would
have waved a jeweled hand and told people exactly how it was going to be."
"So have a press
conference," Eve said.
They all looked at her.
She shrugged. "It's the best
thing. The media is harassing you, so give them what they want and they'll grow
bored with you. Right now, it's only because you're unavailable that they're
interested. A press conference would nip it in the bud."
"She's right," Olivia said.
"I'll help you set it up."
Eve smiled. "They used to pay me the big bucks to do that sort of
thing."
"Even with a press conference,
you'll never be completely incognito," Lola pointed out.
Olivia nodded. "But her infamy
will be on her terms. She can use it to her advantage where she couldn't
before. Like with the de Young commission."
"True," Gwen said, her mind
racing at the possibilities. "I've felt such resentment lately for having
to guard everything I do. I want to live out loud."
"Nothing's louder than a press
conference." Eve sat up with a gasp. "
No
. Better yet, an exclusive interview. I wonder if we can get
Diane Sawyer to do it. I'll look into it."
"I feel like I'm standing on a
precipice. One side is safe, and the other is scary as hell." She grinned
suddenly. "But the scary side is so much more exciting."
"That's decided." Olivia
set down her mug and leaned back. "Now about Rick."
Lola perked up. "Is that the hot
guy you pelted with a squash?"
Eve laughed. "You didn't."
"I did." Gwen deflated.
"I blamed him for all of this, but I made a mistake. A
big
mistake. The reporter who did the
article on the museum was responsible."
Olivia nodded. "Rick's upset
that you didn't trust him."
"I can see that." She
hugged her legs to herself, resting her chin on her knees. "I said awful
things to him on top of it all."
Eve patted her arm. "He's a
private detective. He's the go-to guy for finding stuff out, of course you'd
suspect him. It doesn't help that he's relentless in his pursuit for
information."
"The question is, what are you
going to do to fix it?" Olivia asked, her gaze direct and steady.
"I might be able to help,"
Lola said.
They all turned to her.
Her cheeks flushed. "Helping the
heroine and hero get their happy ending is what I do for a living," she
said modestly.
"Do you have a suggestion for
what I can do?" Gwen asked.
"He's a private eye?"
"Of the highest order,"
Olivia replied with a dry smile.
Lola worried her lip, a distant look
in her eyes. Then she grinned, big and brilliant. "I think I may have a
plan."
The press conference was exactly what
Gwen thought it'd be: complete torture.
Eve offered Grounds for Thought as
the location for it, arranging everything to perfection. She even advised Gwen
on how to present herself, which was the only reason she was wearing Eve's high
heels.
For a brief moment when she stepped
into the café and in front of all the flashing cameras, she froze, overcome by
the old claustrophobia. But then she heard Mamie Yvette whisper,
Be yourself,
ma chère
, and you will always succeed
.
So she lifted her head, sashayed into
the room, and said, "The first person to make a pumpkin joke will have one
thrown at his head, and I'm an excellent shot."
They all laughed, and the press
conference began.
Half an hour into answering
questions, Gwen looked up to find her uncle standing in a corner at the back.
She faltered a moment, but then continued when she saw he was alone.
A rush of pleasure flowed through
her, making her smile. She'd always loved Jacques. He'd always been fun and
carefree where her father—his brother—had been dour and serious.
Other than her grandmother, he'd been the only one who'd ever shown her caring.
She wasn't sure how long she'd
fielded questions, but finally Eve stepped up and told the crowd to help
themselves to refreshments. Gwen gave Eve a hug and dodged the crowd to look
for her uncle.
She found him outside on the patio,
alone, sitting on a bench smoking a Gauloises. She smiled at the familiarity of
it—the cigarette, the relaxed sprawl. The only thing that was different
was the gray in his hair and the lines on his face.
Even aged, Jacques de la Roche still
looked like the playboy he'd always been.
Stepping outside, she closed the door
behind her.
He smiled in that way that wrapped
women around his pinkie. Dropping the cigarette, he stood and held his arms
out. "
Geneviève, ma petite
."
"It's Gwendolyn now," she
said as she let him kiss her cheeks.
"You were always the most
impossible child," he said affectionately, switching to English. "I'm
glad to see that hasn't changed. Sit."
She sat next to him, feeling an odd
mix of distance and time and longing. "I was sad to hear about Mamie
Yvette."
"It was a great loss." A
look of sadness swept over his face. "
Maman
missed you, you know."
Why did she have a feeling his
sadness was feigned? "I missed her, too," she said cautiously.
"We all hoped you'd return for
her funeral. When you didn't, we feared the worse." He arched a brow at
her and pulled out another Gauloises from an engraved cigarette case.
"Your mother misses you, as well."
She resisted the urge to roll her
eyes at that. Her mother only missed seeing the live reflection of herself.
"How is she?"
"Janine? Ageless." He lit
his cigarette. "You look so much like her. Except for your hair, no? That
is all you."
Her curls had always been a sore
subject. Her mother used to insist on having "that unfortunate hair"
straightened. "And Gautier?"
"Your father is as always."
He smiled deprecatingly. "It's why I'm here."
Frowning, she shook her head. "I
don't understand."
"Over the years, he and I
haven't seen eye to eye." Jacques took a casual drag off the cigarette,
blowing the smoke up and away from her. "We disagree about the way the
company is run. While
Maman
was
alive, she kept Gautier from running unchecked, but now that she's
gone..."
She waited for him to continue,
suspecting she knew where this was going and feeling sad about it. "Now
that she's gone?"
He shrugged in the way only the
French did. "I want to keep the company as
Maman
wanted it, but Gautier has other ideas. Disastrous ones. He
wants to cut costs and corners to increase profits, regardless of sacrificing
quality. And Roger, you know he does as your father wishes."
"That's Roger."
"Yes, and together they have
control of the company."
She stilled, waiting, hoping she was
wrong about the reason he was there. That he'd simply missed her. She waited
for to see how long it'd be before he asked her.
But she wasn't wrong. Jacques took
her hand. "If you sign control of your shares to me, I'll at least have an
equal share. I'll be able to keep
Maman
's
vision alive."
The disappointment was soft, like a
little breeze that brought a whiff of something spoiled with it. It was too
good to be true, hoping that he'd come just because he'd missed her. That
wasn't the way her family operated.
"I know you know nothing of the
de la Roche Corporation, Geneviève. Gwendolyn," he corrected himself with
a wry grin. "You've never expressed any interest in the running of it.
Then why should you shoulder those responsibilities? And I read you're an
accomplished artist now."
"I am."
"All the more reason to give the
shares to someone who will safeguard them and your beloved grandmother's vision
for the company, is it not? Before Gautier and Roger try to wrest your shares
from you."
She tried to picture that scenario.
She wouldn't put it past her father, but her brother? They had never been
close, but he had a good heart. He'd never willingly screw someone over. That
she believed with every fiber of her being.
"Geneviève, you cannot tell me
you want Gautier to get your shares. He doesn't deserve them." Jacques
leaned forward, his regard conspiratorial. "Especially since he isn't your
father. Better give them to your real father, no?"
She gaped, unable to speak. Finally
she croaked, "You?"
He took her hand. "I'm sorry I
haven't been able to acknowledge you all these years. Janine didn't want me to
rock the boat. Ridiculous considering Gautier knew all along."
"He knew it was you?" she
asked, as horrified understanding dawned.
"Janine made sure he knew."
Jacques smiled sadly. "Why else would she have had the affair with me? She
wanted to stab him where it would hurt most. What better way than to have a
child with me? It is the ultimate revenge, is it not?"
It all fell into place: why her dad,
who was really her uncle, hated her but hadn't cast her out; why her mother was
so smug; why her grandmother still loved her so much even when she knew she
wasn't her father's child. That she was Jacques's child made everything fit
into place. He was Mamie Yvette's favorite—despite his flaws, Mamie
Yvette used to say.
When she'd been younger, she
remembered wishing that her uncle were really her father. He'd been so much
nicer, bringing her little toys all the time.
The toys had occupied her—to
keep her busy while
he
was busy with
Janine? Gwen didn't know what to think—to feel.
She cleared the emotion from her
throat. "So you knew I was your daughter all along?"
He smiled deprecatingly. "Janine
made no effort to hide it."
She had from Gwen. "But you
didn't want to claim me out in the open?"
He blinked. "I couldn't. Think
of the paparazzi. It would have destroyed our company."
"The company." She nodded.
Of course. "And now?"
"Now?" He frowned.
"Now you come back to the family. And you sign your shares to me so I can
protect them."
"And you and me?"
He shrugged expressively. "What
do you want me to promise you, Geneviève? The fairy tales
Maman
used to tell you?"
"Yes."
"I cannot."
She nodded, not surprised but still
let down. Although she wasn't as saddened as she expected to be, probably
because she knew one man who
could
offer her a happy-ever-after.
She stood up. "My answer is
no."
"No?" He uncrossed his
legs. "You cannot—"
"This conversation is
over." She headed to the door, pausing when she touched the handle.
Looking over her shoulder, she said, "For the record, you'd have been a
better father, at least for as long as I was useful."
"That's unfair," he says.