“Anything he owned or touched.”
“That, I think I can do.” I pointed.
Twenty minutes later, my cab pulled up at the Hanover Collection. I pushed through the doors and across the concrete foyer and up the loft stairs to the executive offices where Roger worked. It occurred to me that I might run into Sara and honestly, dead in ten days or not, I still wasn’t sure I was ready to face her and her pixie self, always in some shade of beige with her neat blond hair and little makeup.
Roger’s assistant recognized me and looked frightened at my sudden appearance, anticipating the calamity that could befall the office.
“Hi, Maggie.” I smiled. I literally saw her gulp. “I have some quick paperwork for Roger to sign. He’s going to want to see me.”
She met my smile. God, I loved this gift. “Sure thing, Mrs. Lambert.” I’ll admit her referring to me as Mrs. Lambert gave me a tiny thrill. “I’ll get him right away!” She jumped up and scurried to his office. Through the glass divider, I saw him spin around in his Herman Miller chair and watched as a wave of sheer horror crossed his face. It had occurred to me that my new superpower might not work on him. He was the other person in the curse. This was my only shot, though.
I looked at Roger—a younger, more clean-cut version of Marchant—charging toward me. There was no pretense of a smile when we met, and I felt like Juliet at the Paris Opera House that night so many years ago—traces of both of them between us somewhere. I could see him glancing down the hall, worried Sara would see us. This made me angry enough that I could literally feel the power pulsing through me. His voice was low and not welcoming. “What are you doing here?”
I decided to try something light, in case he was immune to my suggestive skills. I needed something that let me save face and get the fuck out of there if it didn’t work. “I need your help with something. Would you be able to help me?” It was an innocent enough suggestion. If he maintained his scowl, I could offer something that I needed him to do for my mother. He liked her. (She hated him.)
He gave me a puzzled look and I froze. Oh shit, I thought. But then he smiled. “Of course I can help you! What do you need?” His face shifted. He put his hands in his pockets like we were the old college buddies that we were.
I lowered my voice, causing him to lean close. “I need to see the Auguste Marchant personal items you have here at the museum. The paints, the brushes. Would you take me there?” I smiled. This was fun!
“Of course, Helen,” he said. “Let’s go.” He trotted down the stairs like he was giving a tour. Since the museum had only been finished when we were separated, I admit that I hadn’t spent any time here, other than my late-night visit with Luke. It was a stunning space that Roger had lovingly created. Other than the circular Hirshhorn, most of Washington’s museums were serious places with Greek architecture. It was a city of columns and marble. This was concrete and glass. It was fitting that Roger had chosen to put this museum in the newly developed Waterfront. Looking around, I couldn’t help but feel proud of my ex-husband. Although I wondered if Roger ever weighed what he’d given up for this.
Like a war charge, he led me down the steps into a private part of the basement. He swiped his key and escorted me into a room that smelled of dust and paint. Something that can only be experienced by living it, not by reading history books, is that the smells of a time are unique. Foods, body odors, soaps, flowers, chemicals—they change through time, and their brewing conjures entirely different olfactory palettes, but smell is the hardest of the senses to describe, so the floral scent of a perfume in Belle Époque Paris is not the same as one today, nor is the smell of garlic cooking since the oils are different. Bodily odors are different, too—the combination of chemicals used on them changes with time. I passed through time as I entered the room. I could smell Marchant’s open paints in the courtyard. I spied the old wooden paint case he always had in the studio. Immediately drawn to it, I pulled it off the shelf and placed it on the table. Opening it, I felt my heart stop. It was really his case. I closed my eyes: Oh, how I had loved this man! Loved so many versions of him through time, including the one standing beside me, but this was the original—the genesis of it all. The pure love that I’d felt for this man in this time with this case. I pulled out a brush—one I’d seen him use on my own painting. “I need to borrow this. Is that okay?”
“Of course, Helen.” Roger smiled. It was kind of Stepford and creepy the way everyone wanted to help me with such enthusiasm, but I needed the brush and Roger needed me to have the brush, even if he didn’t realize it.
I was about to shut the case when I noticed the depth of the tray didn’t match that of the case. Reaching in, I pulled down on the brush tray to reveal a false bottom. Inside the space was a piece of paper. Before I even unfolded it, I knew what it was. Unfurled on weathered paper was a sketch of my nude. It was the face study from the Juliet painting. The outlines of my body were rough—although in true Marchant style they were almost perfect—but the face detail even after all these years was better than my own current DMV photo. He’d told Juliet that he’d kept her portrait to remind him of his folly, but this picture wasn’t about folly, nor was it about lust. It was Juliet drawn by a man who’d wanted to keep a detail of every line and curve of her face etched in his mind. I could see it had been held and opened, the stains on it from fingers—his fingers. Auguste Marchant had loved her and kept it in his most secret spot.
This paper reflected the way their romance was to end: Juliet and Marchant going their separate ways to face different fates. I smiled sadly and felt entitled to do what I did next. I folded the sheet and, instead of sliding it back into the space, I put it in my back pocket. Roger seemed in a weird trance of happiness that he was helping me and didn’t notice I’d discovered a secret compartment in Marchant’s paints. Had Roger been about his wits, he would have knocked me over to investigate the secret compartment. I snapped the lid shut. It would be my little secret with Marchant. “All done,” I said.
He proudly escorted me to the front door, even opening it. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sara watching us from the executive suites with a combined look of disgust and shock. “Roger,” I said. “Why don’t you kiss me lightly on the lips?”
“Of course,” he said. His kiss was enthusiastic, like the old Roger. It was even a little longer than our wedding kiss.
I adjusted his collar. Mind you, there was nothing wrong with his collar, but it was an intimate act and the thrill of being watched by
Sara now felt like the universe had righted itself for just a second.
“You know, Roger,” I said, “I think you are getting tired of Sara.”
He thought about it for a moment. “You know, Helen, I think you might be right.”
“Take care, Roger.” I could see Sara stiffen, and I had to admit that I smiled a little more as I hailed a cab back to Georgetown.
25
Sandra Keane
Los Angeles, May 1970
As Tom Jones crooned over the speaker above her, Sandra Keane snapped open another paper bag. She pushed the button and watched the food inch closer toward her on the belt. Mrs. Gladney was buying an array of meat products in every shade of blood. “You making something special, Mrs. Gladney?”