44. Nightmare

The forest was ghostly about her, the dark trees, leaves, and branches vanishing and reappearing in turn as tatters of a pearly mist wafted through. She stepped closer to the massive beech, grateful for the shelter of its overarching boughs. With her free hand, she traced the straight lines and curves she had managed to cut into the smooth, gray bark: B B-H with a simple cross below. Crude work, admittedly, but functional. She raised her knife again, and, digging its tip into the living wood, scored the vertical line of the next letter. A bar across the top should come next, she knew, with more slashing lines to follow, and yet, she lacked the heart to make those simple cuts. She held the knife tip against the tree, as other, more rounded letters obtruded, insistent, on her mind. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, but still the letters remained. A high-pitched whine pierced the silence, and, glancing down, she saw her loyal pup staring up at her with liquid, troubled eyes. He shifted restlessly from paw to paw, as if sharing her distress. Gathering her resolve, she tried changing her grip on the hilt, only to have the knife slip through her numb fingers, and plunge toward the thick tangle of roots at her feet…

Bonnie sat up with a cry, her hands wild in the tumbled bed clothes. She couldn't lose her knife. She needed it. In the darkness, the nightmare forest persisted several moments, but then the familiar contours of her room took shape around her, and she realized it had all been a dream, a very bad dream. That awful feeling of paralysis, of helpless indecision! She shook it off as best she could, and, curling up once more under her blanket, listened as her heart slowed to its normal beating, by which time sleep had claimed her once again…

High on Bonnie's agenda later that same morning was getting her Grammy A on the phone, but, in her enthusiasm to congratulate her granddaughter on the previous day's exciting news, Angela called while Bonnie was still in her pajamas. "You've probably already heard this many times by now, but I have to be allowed my turn: you handled your interview brilliantly! You were informative without being pedantic or overly technical. And you looked perfectly stunning! That handwoven wrap was just the right artsy touch. It seems to me I used to have one very like it."

Bonnie acknowledged the subtle hit. "It was very generous of you to part with it, Gram."

"I'm only teasing, sweetie. Better you should be getting some use out of it than it sits around in one of my drawers. Now, tell me more about La Coupe d'amour. How much of the practical treatment are they allowing you to do?"

Bonnie described the contributions she'd been able to make, and then, seeing her opening, added, "I'm actually pursuing a side inquiry of my own into the making of the painting, and could use your help, Gram."

Angela brightened with immediate interest. "Really? What can I do?"

"You could ask your friend de Clermont to do a little genealogical research for me." She outlined briefly the events she suspected accounted for the dramatic change in the painting's progress and the consequent importance of learning more about Madeleine Lavallière.

"As favors go, you couldn't ask for anything more up Richard's alley! Family trees, lines of descent, those are the things he lives and breathes for. I'm sure he'll be delighted to look into it. And, you know, I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn he's even distantly related to that Baron Blanchard you mentioned. I believe, once upon a time, local noble families intermarried as a matter of course. They're probably cousins many times removed." She regarded Bonnie shrewdly. "I suppose you'd like an answer sooner rather than later."

"Well… yes, but if it's a bother…"

"Just the opposite, if I don't miss my guess! Richard jumps at any excuse to go digging through old records, and then, to do so at my express request! Let's just say he's likely to be aux anges! As luck would have it, I'll be seeing him tonight. I'm hosting a small dinner party, nothing fancy, just a few friends. I'll put him right on it."

"Thanks, Gram. I appreciate it."

Angela waved this away. "My pleasure, sweetie. So, what are your plans for the weekend? Is that handsome devil Trev taking you out on the town tonight?"

"We're getting together tomorrow." Bonnie had returned Trev's call during her commute home, blithely expecting him to be free on a Saturday night, but it turned out he already had an engagement. As to the kind and with whom, he was uncharacteristically mysterious. "I'm going to take a second look at Rosa Mundy's exhibition this afternoon, and, speaking of which, Gram, imagine my shock at turning a corner, and finding a portrait of you hanging on the wall! I nearly spilled champagne all over myself."

Angela chuckled. "I hope it was, at least, a pleasant surprise. I'm not going to ask if you liked the painting, chérie, because how could you not? Technically, it's brilliant. But, don't you think Rosa flattered your old Gram a little too much?"

"What? No! She caught you to the life, Gram, just the way I see you. The likeness is so true, and so beautiful I knew Gramps would want to see it, too. He's coming with me to the gallery, and after, if he feels up to it, we're going out for drinks and maybe dinner with Rosa."

This announcement gave Angela pause, and while her smile never faltered, it dimmed just a little, and the look in her eyes was suddenly more guarded. "So, you and Rosa are…" She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. "… getting along?"

Bonnie had inherited none of her Grammy A's looks, but one trait they shared in common was a certain inability to hide their feelings. Despite her grandmother's efforts at concealment, it was plain to Bonnie she was afraid for her old friend. "You know, don't you, about her having a son. And you're wondering if I know, too."

Angela released a small sigh. "Rosa thought you'd figured it out, but she wasn't really sure." At Bonnie's frown of confusion, she explained, "She called me yesterday to talk over what happened. I wish, for her sake, it hadn't gone so badly. I feel partly responsible."

Bonnie could not imagine what her grandmother could have had to do with it. "How so?"

"It all goes back to the day Michael Vincent dropped in out of the blue when I was sitting for Rosa. You have to understand: he hadn't said word one about coming to Paris. Your father and his love of surprises! Anyway, there he was, suddenly striding into my workroom, a huge grin on his face and an enormous bouquet of fresh flowers in his arms. Well, I absolutely fell on his neck, of course, and we just stood there, laughing for joy and hugging and talking over each other the way we always do. It was a moment or two before I even remembered Rosa was in the room. She told me later how painful it was for her to watch us together, seeing the love and devotion she might have enjoyed with her own son if her life had played out differently. After her first attempts at reaching out failed, she'd resolved to put any hope of reconciliation behind her, but Michael Vincent's visit brought all the old longing back to the surface, and made her decide to give it one last try, with, unfortunately, the same sad result."

"You know Rosa's whole story, then?"

Angela nodded. "She told me only recently, though, during my very last sitting. I was so riveted by what she was saying, she didn't have to remind me once not to move. Really, I had no idea how hard a time of it she had growing up, or what was really behind her leaving the States forever. And it's no use your asking for particulars," she said sternly, although Bonnie had yet to so much as open her mouth. "It's not my story to tell. I don't think she'd mind my saying this much, however: she left her son not because she didn't love him, but because she feared for his safety."

Bonnie's breath caught in her throat. Even though she'd entertained just such a possibility, she'd considered it highly improbable. "Bear was in danger?"

"That's how she saw it at the time, yes." Angela grimaced apologetically. "I've said more than I should. It's up to Rosa to decide who should know, and how much to reveal. I think, though, if you gave her the opportunity, she'd open up to you. For some reason, she believes she owes you some sort of explanation."

"She doesn't, not at all, but, if she wants to talk, I'm more than willing to listen."

Angela inclined her head, satisfied. "You'll give her a fair hearing, I know. It's too bad — what did you call him? Baer? — can't do the same. He might, at least, give her a chance." She sighed again, at once grieved by the regrettable impasse, and philosophical about it. The sadness slowly ebbed away, to be replaced by a look of mild curiosity. "What's he like, Rosa's Baer? You've worked with him a while, now. Does he take after her in any way? I don't mean in the looks department. She's already mentioned he's the spitting image of his dad. I mean, character-wise. What do you think of him?"

What, indeed? A few months before, Bonnie would have answered easily: "He's a rude, condescending jerk with entirely too high an opinion of himself." But she'd had enough glimpses past his stony exterior in the interim to know he was not hard and arrogant down to the core. He might even have a gooey, vulnerable center, if his dealings with Danny and Isabelle were any guide. And then, there were those rare moments when she looked into his eyes, and saw… she hardly dared give the emotion a name, but there was nothing cold or detached about it. She was practically certain he cared about her to some extent, but how much and how willingly it was possible she might never know. Life had taught him the high cost of misplaced confidence, and he had made the choice, if she read him right, to keep all others at arm's length rather than pay that price again. Danny was his one weakness, the only person to be freely admitted into his heavily-protected heart. What future was there for her with such a mistrustful, closed-off man?

"Bonnie…?"

The adjective "unsuitable" presented itself anew, but that was not something she could say to her sharp-witted grandmother. "He's… complicated."