“God, you are full of surprises today,” said Roger. “How do you know Varnier?”
“I’ve read about him.”
“Well, have you read that his interest in Marchant rivals my own? It wouldn’t surprise me if he had scooped up the painting from a family member in France for a steal. He’s been a big supporter over the years.”
I remembered the envelope full of cash that Juliet’s father had been given by Varnier. My guess was that the painting had always been with Luke. “I’m going to take one last walk through the Auguste Marchant installation,” I said.
“Do you care if I join you?”
I looked at Roger. “I’d love for you to join me. It would be fitting.” I touched his face and he let me.
But he looked at me puzzled. “Helen, you’re awfully odd today.”
“I loved you, Roger. Once… a long time ago.”
“I loved you, too, Helen, but it didn’t seem that long ago.”
I smiled. This would be goodbye for Roger and me—one way or another. As we walked up the stairs through the main foyer and into the French painters’ wing, I held his arm. The Marchant installation looked the same as it had a month ago when Luke had brought me here, but so much had changed since then. As I walked through the paintings, I saw Juliet as a younger girl; Juliet with Marcel; and then Girl on Step (Barefoot). Roger led me through room after room, pointing out intimate things to me about each painting. The images of me—of my many lives with Marchant—were all captured within these walls. We had existed together. In our lives we had loved each other and created these things.
Roger’s entire life’s work—the Hanover Collection—had been a shrine to us. Contrary to the museum competing with me for his affection, it had been an offering to me from him—and I’d failed to see it.
And Luke. Luke had paid for it all.
29
Helen Lambert
Washington, DC, June 21–22, 2012
I made no pretense of going back to my house anymore. If tomorrow was the last day for me, I needed to spend it with Luke.
All of us—Juliet, Nora, Sandra, and I—were one again. It took a day for Sandra’s story to meld with the others. From a span of 1895 to now, we’d all been such witnesses to history. And I felt humbled, as if I was the least worthy of all of them. They were all better women than me and struggled more than me against their own times. But their information was valuable if I was going to end the curse. And there was one thing about me that I knew: I knew how to get things done.
I thought of the knife in my purse, the one with Marielle Fournier’s dried blood coating it. If Malique was right, it was my only hope of survival in this life. Could I stab him?
Luke was making dinner when I got to his house, whipping up something effortlessly, like we were a normal couple. It was endearing. “You okay?” he asked.
“Tell me about Sandra?”
He sighed. “I fucked that up—as usual. Seems I found a way to fuck up each of your lives. I was jealous of Rick Nash, and I caused her death as a result. She was strong and she asked the right questions. She deserved better from me.” He turned back to the stove, like he couldn’t look at me.
“Speaking of Rick Nash, I went to the Hanover Collection today,” I said, wondering why I even bothered to tell him, when he obviously knew what I’d done today. He knew everything.
“To see Roger.” His voice was flat; there was a tinge of jealousy in it.
“Oh, I saw Roger, but I was more interested in the Richard Nash installation, the Billy Rapp film installation, and the newest painting in the Auguste Marchant collection. Juliet.”
“Huh.” He added wine to whatever he was making. It smelled fabulous once it hit the garlic.
“I know, Luke.”
“Know what?”
“That the Juliet painting came from you. Didn’t it? You bought it from Mr. LaCompte.”
“Yes.”
“And the funding for the Hanover Collection came from you?”
“Helen,” said Luke. “I wasn’t hiding it from you. My name is etched on the fucking wall in the foyer. You just never bothered to look.”
It was true. I had gone through this life missing so many things. I walked over to him and placed my arms around him. “I realized something else today.”
“What’s that?”
“The love story… it isn’t Marchant and me. It never was. I mean the first Juliet and Marchant. That was real, but it should have run its course. No, my love story. My real love story… is you.”
He stopped chopping.
“We’re the love that wasn’t supposed to be and yet here we are. I keep coming back again and again going through the motions with Marchant, but it’s you, isn’t it?”
The room was silent. He put his hand over his face and I could see that he had tears in his eyes. “It took you this long to figure that out? Why on the last fucking day, Red. Why?”
I wrapped my arms around him harder. “I don’t know. You are the great love of all my lives.”
I considered that for a moment. “Maybe I don’t have to die tomorrow.”
He stared at the floor. “You cannot live past the age of your mother. Those are the rules; they are written in the curse, Helen. I can’t change that, and you know I would if I could.”
“Well then, let’s not waste another minute of this life together, okay?”
We stayed up until morning came with the heavy knowledge of what the day brought. I also knew what I had to do. It had come down to today with either Luke dying or me. I wasn’t sure which was worse. This was a decision of almost biblical proportions. My instinct was to protect the one I love, not kill him. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I was wired for this, but I had no idea who I’d come back as next time.
The bed was empty beside me. I got up and walked out to the living room to find the French doors open. Luke was sitting on a black wrought-iron patio chair smoking a cigarette and staring at a honeysuckle bush that had invaded the nearby boxwood. I leaned down and kissed his forehead.
It was like waiting for the executioner to come to your door. I recalled the absurd story of Marie Antoinette, apologizing after stepping on the foot of the man who soon would cut off her head.
“What if I don’t leave the house today?”
“It’s no use. You know that. Don’t even say it. I can’t bear it.” He put out the cigarette and walked into the house, leaving me. And I felt alone. Make no mistake, your own mortality is a lonely path that you walk alone. I felt the weight of it all. I don’t know what I wanted from him. Maybe not to see so much of the struggle that he was going through? But in a way, he was dying, too, today. He’d begin waiting for me—a process that I knew was agonizing for him. At least after today, I’d have no memory of me for quite some time.
I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table and slid one out. I lit it. The cigarette was far too strong for me, but the strangle in my throat made me feel alive, until I considered that it could be this very cigarette that killed me. I looked up. The trellis that hung over me could fall on me at any moment. All around me, household appliances lurked, drinks were potential choking hazards, and stairs… well, I had freely stepped down the stairs this morning, trusting the banister. I would not be so foolish again.