I sputtered for a moment, unsure of my retort, realizing that I’d just been handed the story of the day—no, the story of the week at least, and given what seemed to be the meltdown of a senior senator, possibly the final chapter of this man’s career. Not one person in the room seemed to be breathing. The cameraman looked at me, unsure of what to do next, but the red light on the camera was still blinking.
Someone in the room said, “Oh shit,” out loud.
The senator’s staff rushed to him. Virginia croaked, “Stop the tape.” But the political damage to Asa Heathcote had been done.
Heathcote looked at me, almost pleading, unable to speak now. His legislative director bent down asking, “Are you okay, Senator?” Within seconds, the staffer had Heathcote whisked out of the room, looking confused and shaken. Virginia Samson turned to me.
“I never thought he’d answer it,” I started, ready to defend myself. The notes in my hand were all balled up and sweaty.
“Given our friendship, you know what I’m going to ask you.” Virginia took off her glasses so I could see her eyes. After all the years of serving several different senators, deep lines were carved into her plump face. Now her normally soft brown eyes were not kind. “I have to ask it, Helen. You cannot let that tape out. It will ruin his chances for the nomination. The party will drop him for this. You know that. Given what he just said, it could ruin his career. Possibly his marriage.”
“Did you know this, Virginia?”
She didn’t answer.
“Okay.” Both she and I knew that I couldn’t hold back the interview. To do so would be irresponsible. “You know I can’t do that Virginia, even if I wanted to. If there was anyone I would do it for, it would be you, but—”
“But he just broke news,” she added, her face narrowing. “As though In Frame is a real news outlet. But then something like this would help you to elevate your magazine, wouldn’t it?”
“You had my politics reporter in the room, Virginia. I can’t—I won’t stop the story. It would be irresponsible and you know it.” I gripped the chair in front of me, suddenly feeling dizzy. “Is there something wrong with him? Is he drunk?”
“You know him better than to ask that question,” she said. “He never touches the stuff.”
True, I knew that Heathcote’s wife was a recovering alcoholic and he was a renowned teetotaler, but there had to be some explanation for his strange outburst. “What happened in that chair, Virginia? I don’t know if he’s unwell or what… but he seems unstable certainly.”
She shook her head gravely. “No. He’s in perfect health.”
“Then what? That was a grave error in judgment. He shouldn’t even be considered for office with that type of outburst.”
“I have no idea what happened.” Virginia turned and walked toward the door. I could hear her pantyhose swishing beneath her skirt. She stopped. “How long do we have?”
Even if I had decided to hold the interview, the cameraman, Sharlene, and our political reporter had been in the room to witness the crumbling of the normally cool Senator Heathcote who had confessed not only that he was the VP candidate but also that he’d had a relationship with a staffer ending in pregnancy. “Ten minutes at best,” I said. “I won’t stop our reporters from posting it.”
She nodded and took a deep breath, brushed past Sharlene, and headed down the hallway.
Sharlene looked down at the phone in her hand.
“I guess now we know why he’s so passionate about adoption, huh?” I leaned against the chair to steady myself.
She laughed at my lighthearted attempt at a joke. “I just got a text from Josh and Dave. They’re asking what to do.”
“Tell them to run it.”
As Sharlene moved, the room began to rock back and forth like a boat as a wave of nausea gripped me. I had just witnessed a curious thing: the potential demise of a venerable political star, perhaps the end to the long and storied career of a good man. Or had I caused it? I’d been plagued by this nagging feeling before, after the death of Sara’s mother, and Luke had confirmed that I’d played a part in it. My head began to pound and I grabbed onto the faux leather chair as I slid down the cold, smooth material and onto the floor. Then everything went black.
6
Juliet LaCompte
Challans, France, 1895
The next morning, Juliet carried Marcel to Marchant’s studio at a near run. The hill to the stone house was steep, so she braced herself with the boy’s full weight on her hip. The child had tried to run, but he couldn’t keep up, so Juliet had scooped him in her arms. She’d chosen her best dress, a brown shift that skimmed her ankles, and a peacock-blue wrap because Marchant liked all the windows to be left open in his studio. Since the studio was on the western side of the house, it didn’t see sun until the afternoon. Juliet recalled the floor tiles and the whole studio being cold, so she carried an extra blanket for Marcel to keep him warm.
Juliet gazed up over the field she’d just come from, the green hills giving way to the newly blooming sunflowers. She could hear the chickens in her farm milling about and clucking in chorus. She was about to knock on the wooden door when it opened. Marchant appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Ah, the lovely Juliet.” He bent down to look at Marcel, who was hanging heavily off Juliet’s arms. “And who do we have here?”
“This is Marcel.” Juliet shifted the weight of her hip to hold the boy. Marchant lifted the child easily from her arms, placing him on the floor. Marcel began to toddle around the studio. Marchant turned his attention back to Juliet.
“You have grown since last summer.” He gazed the full length of her with what appeared to be an artist’s eye.
“I hope that is a good thing, sir.” Her eyes met his. He had also changed. Juliet noticed that he’d gotten wider, not fat, but solid like a stone. His eyes were still soft and green with a hint of gray. Juliet remembered that he’d had a dimple on the left side of his face that was now hidden by his new beard.
“It is.” He smiled and walked into his studio.
The studio looked the same as last year. Juliet even noticed the same beige cloth draped across the daybed as though it had never been moved, but she knew that couldn’t be the case because Marchant had servants who kept the house for him during the winter. Anyone’s romantic idea of a working artist was shattered when they walked into Marchant’s studio.
He did not sit down at an easel and begin. The process for him was furious and frenetic. At any given time, his studio was littered with charcoal sketches of hands, an eye, a toe. Other smaller pieces of drawings were ripped from larger sheets; the design might feature a study of the hang of a drape or explorations of light on a face. At the end of a day’s work, his studio floor was littered with pieces of paper, but the servants were forbidden to clean until a painting was fully completed.
“I thought we would start by doing some sketches in the garden,” said Marchant as he wound his wire eyeglasses around his ears and pulled things out of his leather case. “There is a good morning sun over by the fountain. I’ll expect you and Marcel here each day at nine. I like to walk in the morning before I begin my work. We’ll work until the afternoon. Is that understood?” Marchant studied Juliet over the top of his glasses. Taking a sketchbook from the easel, he tucked it under the arm of his crisp white shirt and walked out the door to the gardens where the sun was shining.