I tapped the cardboard sleeve with the photo inside. If only I could speak with the man from the picture. That man’s love for my aunt was unquestionable.
Le Papillon Bleu was empty when I arrived, ten minutes before the designated time. Punctuality was a dominant Yu trait that even my bad-boy cousin Johnny couldn’t escape. No one in the family was ever late—except for Cynthia.
The hostess, a pretty redhead, greeted and escorted me to the bar to wait. The art nouveau decor spilled into the space in its gilt and flowing plant-influenced sculptural details. Liquor bottles glowed like jewels against a glittering, golden mosaic backsplash. The vibrancy of the color palette brought a smile to my face.
Ten minutes later, she returned and said in heavily accented English, “Monsieur Renaud will you see you in his office now, Miss Chu.”
I picked up my structured navy vegan-leather tote from the stool beside me and followed.
The path to his office was through a series of hallways, none of which passed the kitchen. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of Marc. My guide led me to a door with a gold plaque bearing the proprietor’s name. She gave me a tight smile and left.
I took a series of deep breaths and opened the door.
Oil paintings and framed watercolors of Montmartre graced the far wall while the others had photographs with noteworthy people, press events, and newspaper clippings. With a round stained glass window depicting peonies behind him, Girard Renaud sat at his desk in a high-backed, tufted leather chair. A small stack of folders lay in a rectangular, wooden tray in the top left corner. The rest of the desk surface remained free of clutter.
Two Queen Anne–style chairs were stationed for guests. I recognized the style as the same as one of the beautiful, comfortable chairs Aunt Evelyn had kept in the parlor of her Victorian.
He stood up and gestured to one of the chairs. “Please have a seat, Miss Chu.”
There was no look of recognition in his blue eyes—I almost sighed out loud from relief. He only saw my aunt that night. I sat down and placed the tote on my lap.
“Jack McCrae is a talented photographer. I’m an admirer and flattered that he wants to use the restaurant for one of his shoots.” Girard returned to his seat. “I’m especially drawn to his personal collections. I have a piece hanging in my house from his Prague architectural series.”
I remembered this collection. It was the exhibition in San Francisco where I had introduced Uncle Michael to Jack. There were buyers from all over the world. My uncle was ecstatic with his purchase.
“Which one?” I asked.
“The exterior shot of the House of the Black Madonna.”
“Ah, the cubist building. One of my favorites. Black and white or color?”
“Black and white.” A smile teased the corner of his lips. “I should have known that his assistant would know all of his pieces.”
I nodded. That particular collection had a significant memory attached to it. I hoped he wouldn’t quiz me about the rest.
Before the conversation continued, I opened my tote, withdrew the cardboard envelope containing his photograph, and slid it across to him facedown.
He picked it up and pulled out the photo. A kaleidoscope of emotions—surprise, shock, regret, fury—shifted across his face. He closed his eyes as his fingertips brushed against the edge of the paper. His other hand held the edge of the desk, knuckles white from the tight grip, his breath ragged. After a stretch of silence, he asked, “Where did you get this?”
“This was you, when you were in love with my aunt.” My reply was quiet, but firm. “You loved her then.”
“Did this come from her? Did she hold on to this?”
“No. She doesn’t know I have it. I came here to show you this and to ask you to call off the boycott and to help dispel the rumors about her.”
His handsome face was implacable.
All traces of his earlier emotions had vanished. “What happens to her business is no concern of mine.”
“But this is a bigoted attack on her character! The language in that flyer is inflammatory and racist. You’re supposed to be a man of integrity. Everyone will assume you share the same hateful view.”
His spine straightened as his jawline tensed. “I wasn’t aware of what had been disseminated.” Every word was precise. “I assure you that I will put a stop to it at once.”
“And what about my aunt? She loves you. She moved here for you. She’s risked everything she owns to make a new life here.”
“And she told you all this? She’s made her affections clear?”
“Not in so many words, no.”
“If she feels this way, why isn’t she here? Instead, you’re here. Her family is always interfering and she allows them to. She cares more about them than she ever did about me. She made her choice and she’s made it clear.”
“Yes, she loves her family, but she also loves you. It’s not—”
“You weren’t there,” he interrupted, “when I waited that day at the airport, or the next when I sobbed in the apartment we found together, or the years I spent hoping she would return because I had made my restaurant a reality.”
“But she left us all behind. She sold her house in California, and put everything she owns into her business here, to be with you. Isn’t that enough? What more proof do you need to convince you that she still loves you?”
“Proof? You have no proof. You have a faded photograph from a previous life. You lied to see me. How do I know you’re not lying about everything?” He leaned across the desk. “She could have seen me at any time. She chose not to.”
“She is your match,” I protested.
“Do you know why I named my restaurant Le Papillon Bleu? We were walking through Luxembourg Gardens. The flowers were in bloom and I told her I loved her. All around us, blue butterflies appeared, dancing in clusters. Blue butterflies followed us whenever we were together.
“I told her my dream for this restaurant, and I have made it a reality. I was here, waiting for her. I named the restaurant after our butterfly so she could find me. For years, I waited. She never came.”
“She is here now,” I replied. “She came back for you.”
“I don’t believe you, and if you were me, would you?”
He handed me back the photo and I tucked it into its envelope.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I apologized, and walked out of his office. The door made a solid snap behind me.
He had been waiting for her all these years, and he was still waiting.
Whether she never knew—or had always known—I had to find out.