Ch 74 - Moving on
It was only on the drive back to the compound, when she no longer needed to be strong for Trev's sake, that Bonnie fully realized how thoroughly exhausted she was. She yearned suddenly for the privacy of her room, and, once home, looked in on her mother and grandfather only long enough to let them know she'd returned and was planning to lie down. She stepped out of her shoes but didn't otherwise bother to undress before curling up on her bed, and, within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, falling asleep. Hours later, she was astonished and disoriented to wake up to full darkness and her bedside clock displaying quarter of nine.
"You were sleeping so soundly, I hated to wake you," Christine said, as Bonnie reheated some of the shepherd's pie left over from supper. "I thought you probably needed the rest more than you needed food."
"You were right." She gave her mother an appreciative peck on the cheek. "I was beat."
Despite a solid night's sleep, she didn't feel noticeably more energetic the next morning, and decided to take things very easy for the day, if not the whole weekend. She kept mostly to the house which, what with her brothers having gone sailing with friends and Christine holed up in her office, was as hushed and tranquil a retreat as she could've wished. She did a little light reading, swam a few lazy laps in the pool, played several hands of cutthroat gin rummy with her grandfather, and then settled down on his couch to watch the Nationals versus Giants ball game, a contest that proved so lacking in offense by either team that Booth eventually nodded off from boredom. Bonnie was on the point of following suit when she was startled awake by the ping of her wrist phone.
She was intrigued enough by the name on the screen to move quietly out of her grandfather's suite and accept the call. "Hello?"
"Bonnie! Hello." Caro Jolicoeur's accented English gave the words a charming foreign lilt. "Am I catching you at a bad time?"
"Not at all. How are you, Caro?"
"Oh, me, I'm fine, thank you, fine. I'm just calling to tell you sorry for your loss."
"Oh!" This was so unexpected as to be baffling. "Well… thank you, Caro. That's very kind. But how did you…?" The answer came to her quickly. "Bear told you, I suppose."
"No-o-o," Caro said slowly, as if puzzled in her turn. "He said nothing to me. I happened to have the news on last night, and saw you at that Senator's funeral. You were sitting in one of the front pews at the service, and you were standing right behind the family, too, at the cemetery." She paused, and then inquired gently, "He was a relative?"
"Not a blood relation, no, but a very, very dear friend."
"Ah! You will miss him."
"Yes." She couldn't say any more on that subject, not with the lump forming in her throat, and rushed on, instead, rather clumsily, "And how're you doing, Caro? We haven't talked in so long. How's Luc?"
"Oh, he's happy as a cricket. He adores his new teacher, Miss Monroe…"
"He's already started school?" But of course he had, she reflected. It was the second weekend in September. Schools would've reopened their doors on Wednesday, which meant that Luc — and Danny — had already had their momentous first days of school. She'd been too immersed in her own grief and Trev's to be aware that life was carrying on as usual around her.
"There were tears," Caro was saying, with a note of dry amusement in her voice. "But they were mine, not Luc's, and not Danny's, either. Those two were just wriggling with excitement and, when it was time to go in, they just hopped into line and marched off without a backward look, or even a teeny wave goodbye." She chuckled at her own expense. "I didn't know whether I was more proud of Luc for being such a big boy, or sad that I'd lost my baby."
Bonnie made a sympathetic noise. "Did you take any pictures?"
She laughed. "You have to ask? Only a dozen or so! Would you like me to send you some?"
"That'd be great, thanks."
"No problem." A silence fell and stretched so long Bonnie was beginning to wonder if she'd lost the connection when Caro ventured, "It's Luc's birthday next week — six years old! I'm throwing a little party for him — just a few friends, nothing fancy. It's late notice, I know, but if you think you might like to come, we'd be very glad to have you."
"That sounds lovely. What day next week?"
"Saturday, from one to five. We're going to cook out, weather permitting."
It was on the tip of Bonnie's tongue to accept with pleasure and ask what she could bring when she suddenly remembered the fashion show. "Oh, no!" she said, with genuine regret. "I have a previous commitment — a charity event — I can't get out of. I'm so sorry."
"That's all right. We'll get together some other time."
"I'd like that," Bonnie said, sincerely. "Maybe we can take the boys out for a movie and ice cream the weekend after, my treat." They agreed to talk again before long to firm up a plan, and, the call ended, Bonnie found herself smiling happily for the first time in several days.
The promised photos appeared in her message box shortly after: one, the obligatory pose of Luc standing stiffly in spanking new clothes, pristine Keds and an oversized pack on his back; a second, of Danny and Luc outside the school, beaming for the camera, their skinny arms slung chummily over each other's shoulders; and a third, a candid shot of Bear and Danny approaching the school hand-in-hand that tugged at Bonnie's heartstrings. Bear, holding Danny's backpack in his free hand, was bending solicitously over his son as they walked, speaking to him reassuringly by the looks of it while Danny, for his part, was staring straight ahead, more with interest than anxiety. Bonnie could easily imagine, knowing Bear, that when the time had come to say goodbye, he'd had a harder time letting go than Danny.
That evening and the next day, more calls and texts came in, many from acquaintances who, like Caro, had seen Bonnie on the news, and wished to offer their condolences. She acknowledged the texts briefly, and let the calls go through to voicemail, all except the call from her Grammy A. Angela's primary concern in calling had been to check on her granddaughter's spirits, but she also had some slight progress on the Madeleine Lavallière front to report.
"It isn't much," she said, apologetically, "but, after a great deal of digging, Richard finally found the death record for Lebrun's mother, Marie Anne, in one of the Paris parish registers. Unfortunately, unlike the much later civil records, parish records aren't a treasure trove of information. The entry mentions her age — 26 — her maiden name — Marchand — and her stillborn son being buried with her, but nothing of any real use to us, such as where she was born, or who her parents were. On the positive side, we did learn the Lebrun family's street address and the parish they lived in, so that'll simplify the search for other documents. Richard's optimistic about finding Hervé Lebrun — the father's — death record and that could provide clues as to where to look in the notarized records for a possible will. Maybe, too, if she died while still employed by the family, there'll be a parish death record for Mme Trouville. That would give us her Christian name, at least."
"And if it's Célestine or Bérénice…"
"We'll be in business!"
It had taken her grandmother's bringing up La Coupe d'amour to jolt Bonnie into realizing she hadn't given a thought to the painting in over a week. It flashed on her, then, that the painting must already have made its long-awaited public debut, and had likely been drawing hordes of visitors to the Jeff for the past several days. The mental image of a large group of people crowding round the painting occasioned her some pardonable pride, but it reminded her, too, that her work on the painting was done, and that caused her a twinge of sadness. Lebrun's masterpiece had, rightfully, entered its new phase as a major museum attraction, and, consequently, Bonnie, too, was going to have to move on. It occurred to her that night as she lay awake thinking that, for the first time in months, she had no idea what the next day in the workroom held in store for her. Would Bear assign her a new painting to restore, start to finish, or would he attach her to a project already underway? In a sense, it hardly mattered; any assignment would be a letdown after working on the world-class Coupe d'amour.
Her return to the Jeff the next morning was met, literally, with open arms. Gabby gathered her in for a hug, and insisted the place hadn't been the same without her. "We really missed you around here, kiddo. Somebody," she said, with a speaking eye roll in the general direction of Bear's office, "has been grumpy as… well, as a bear with a thorn in his paw. Maybe, now, his mood'll improve."
Bear, however, upon looking up from his desk at her knock, gave no sign of being particularly pleased to see her. "Bonnie." He acknowledged her with a nod, his expression disappointingly neutral. "Come in. Take a seat." He said no more as she settled on a chair, his eyes intent on her face before dropping briefly down to her dress, a black jersey wrap dotted with minuscule white flowers. "How are you?"
She smiled to ease his concern. "Good, thank you. Ready and eager to get back to work. Thanks again, by the way, for allowing me the time off."
"You were entitled. And your… ah… friends?" he said, after a pause. "How're they?"
"As well as can be expected. They've gone out of town for the week. To their lake house."
"You didn't go with them."
She frowned, understanding the unspoken question but not what prompted it. "There was never any question of my going. They need time on their own to heal, and I have my work here. Although," she admitted ruefully, "now that La Coupe d'amour's finished, I'm not really sure what that is."
Bear appeared to relax with the change of subject. "As to that, you have a few options. First, I need to know: are you still interested in presenting at the Lebrun symposium?"
"Of course!" she answered instantly, mystified again. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He shrugged, his nonchalance not quite convincing. "I just thought you might not want to be out of the country right now."
Because of Trev. He didn't need to say it; the implication was clear. He was suggesting, on the strength of the four days she'd taken off, that she was putting personal considerations ahead of her work, that she was not a real professional. The insinuation was so unjust, so offensive, she answered curtly, "I'm good to go. If I'm offered the opportunity, I'll jump at it."
He accepted this assurance with a nod. "In that case, while we wait to hear if your proposal's been accepted, I'm going to have you work on a short-term project. The de Troy painting we took down to make temporary room for the Lebrun could stand a thorough cleaning. It's in good structural condition, but the varnish that was applied last time it was treated hasn't aged well, and needs to be stripped and replaced with one of the newer synthetics. The four weeks we have until it goes back on display should be more than sufficient, which will leave you time to work on your presentation if the green light comes through."
She was encouraged enough by the assignment he proposed to ask, "Is there a chance I might get it, do you think? The green light?"
He hesitated. "This is off the record," he cautioned, "but, for what it's worth, Perrin let it slip to Cummings that he thinks you'll make the cut." His lips crooked up in half a smile as a small, excited cry escaped her. "We should know for sure, one way or the other, by the end of the week."
But Bonnie's patience wasn't tried so long. She received an email that very afternoon from the Lebrun International Symposium Program Committee who professed themselves "pleased to approve her submission" and requested that she confirm her intention to participate in the conference at her earliest convenience. She was in!
Bonnie was going to Paris!