CH 16

It was seven in the evening when I aimlessly made my way through the residential streets. It was colder than I had anticipated, but I had no desire to walk back to my apartment.

My mind was blank when I knocked on the door, my throat tight and body aching and weary.

"Phelan! You've finally decided to–" Jean greeted me with a smile that quickly turned to a frown. "My God, what is it?"

I had no recollection of walking through the door or down the hall. All I knew for certain was that he had taken my coat and I was in front of the fireplace, seated in the magnificent parlor with its vaulted ceilings where Jean typically hosted his weekly gatherings of friends.

He wrapped my fingers around a snifter of brandy and I brought it to my lips, but didn't take a sip. I merely sat staring at the large, rectangular rug with its deep red and gold pattern.

I was aware that Jean paced back and forth, his elongated shadow moving along the wall like a zoetrope. Every so often he would pause, bend to look me in the eye, and continue walking the length of the room, his voice an indiscernible murmur.

"Are you going to say anything?" he asked.

There was nothing I wished to say to him. My tongue was heavy and useless, my throat dry and heart aching.

I was certain I hadn't felt this way when I sat at Bjorn's bedside, but Hugo? I couldn't process him confined to bed, much less the thought of him dying.

Jean left the room, then returned. A moment later I realized he'd left again and I prepared to do the same, fearing I had become an unnecessary burden and a terrible guest to his Thursday evening gathering.

It had been at least a year since I'd taken Jean up on his offer to attend one of his parties. The parlor was always packed, every available seat occupied by a guest with a small plate balanced on the arm of their chair or upon their knee while glasses overflowed with drinks.

His guests would arrive close to eight and it wasn't atypical for the festivities to conclude after two in the morning with many of the attendees staying for breakfast.

"Sit," Jean said. "Please. You look famished."

Jean's hands gripped my shoulders and he eased me back into the chair where I had been seated.

I glanced around the room that was bigger than my apartment and noticed two of the paintings I had gifted him over the years, both displayed on either side of the fireplace.

Jean lacked all artistic talent, but he loved spending hours within galleries and museums. We had spent many Sundays walking through room after room of ancient sculptures, pottery, and paintings from all over the world. He would point to a painting and simply say, "I like this one. It makes me feel…"

Most of the time I would nod in agreement even if I didn't feel the same, simply because I enjoyed his company and the days spent wandering.

"Phelan," he said gently, kneeling in front of me. "Please, for God's sake, say something. It's been nearly an hour. You have me worried sick."

There was not a single word that seemed like an appropriate description to say to him that explained how I felt.

"Where is everyone?" I asked instead. "It's Thursday."

"I've sent them away," Jean answered. "Everyone except Celeste."

I blinked at him, my lips parted. "Excuse me?"

"Celeste Guin," Jean clarified. He chuckled. "You do know her name, don't you?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, of course."

I looked past him at the doorway, expecting to see her observing me in my catatonic state.

"Celeste is in the second parlor," Jean explained. "She asked to stay, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to see anyone."

"You are too good to me."

"Shall I send her in?"

I took a deep breath and shook my head. "Not now," I said. "I don't want company. Aside from yours."

Jean raised a brow. "Forgive me for speaking lightly, but I am certain you have gone completely mad. You prefer my company to that of a stunning woman who could most certainly take your mind off your troubles far better than I could?"

"Yes," I said. I chuckled, a sound that I had never expected to make again. "I always prefer your company to anyone else's."

Jean stood. "I will send Mademoiselle Guin away."

He briskly walked out of the room and a moment later I heard their muffled conversation from down the hall. After a lengthy exchange, the front door opened and closed. Jean poked his head into the parlor where I sat and said he would return shortly.

He returned with a cup of espresso for me and a tray of hors d'oeuvres that should have been shared by his guests for the evening. When I started to protest, Jean held out his hand.

"Eat something," he said as he took a seat on the other side of the fireplace where he studied one of the paintings I had given him.

Once the food was in front of me, I felt almost sick with hunger, but nothing seemed truly appealing and I settled for a deviled egg and a slice of cranberry toast, neither of which satisfied my appetite.

"You know, I always find myself wishing I was there on that street," he said more to himself than to me.

I followed his gaze. The painting he studied was of two women crossing the street on a rainy day. It was one of the earliest oils I had completed and was no longer something I felt proud having on display. The sky was too light and didn't have enough detail, the road too smooth and uninteresting. I would have changed the umbrellas from black to blue as they seemed too much of a focal point. The women were sharing a laugh, their hands joined as they both stepped forward with their left feet, and I wished I had changed their expressions to something more solemn.

"What's on your mind, Phelan?" Jean asked. He sat back and crossed one leg over the other, taking a sip from a glass of dark colored liquor.

His eyes looked almost black, firelight glinting off his dark irises. His hairline had been receding since we'd met, and for the life of me, I couldn't understand why he didn't cut it shorter. His dark hair was nearly to his collar and made him appear much older and more severe, almost bird-like with his prominent nose and large forehead. If he had evened it up a bit, the lack of hair on the top of his head wouldn't have appeared so obvious.

I silently chided myself for being critical of his outward appearance. He was far more charming than I would ever be, wittier than anyone else I had ever encountered, and a magnificent story-teller.

He was also the recipient of an obscene inheritance from his paternal grandparents and had the house, furnishings, and wardrobe to show for it.

"I don't know where to start," I said.

Jean pursed his lips. "Start wherever you like. Or if you don't want to talk, I will offer you silent company." He paused. "I forgot you're not one for oysters, but there's a main course as well. I will see if it's ready and we can eat in here if you like."

"You don't need to go through the trouble of–"

"But I want to," Jean said before I finished speaking. "And you should know by now, my friend, that you are never trouble."

I nodded and thanked him. He turned his attention back to my painting and continued talking about what he liked about the scene.

Jean had been the first person I paid a visit to after returning from Conforeit after Bjorn's death. I spent hours in the parlor where we sat, the crackle of logs in the fireplace providing a substitute for conversation.

Val, I knew, would ask endless questions and offer his unsolicited opinion on how I should have handled Bjorn's affairs, but Jean merely sat with me. There was no pressure to explain what I felt, which was not much of anything, or talk about my father.

"So?" Jean said. I realized I hadn't been listening.

"I think I've…I think I've made a mistake," I said more to myself than to him. "I think I've hurt someone beyond repair."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Jean asked.

I exhaled. "There isn't much more to say. I told someone I had plans and…"

"Did you?"

"Yes." I rubbed my temples. "I wasn't being untruthful."

"And this woman, I presume, didn't believe you? Or did you tell her that you had plans with another woman?"

"I simply told her I had a prior engagement. Unfortunately, it's not the first time I have rejected the offer."

Jean eyed me. "You do have a way of saying 'no' rather quickly," he said. "Not something that I particularly enjoy, but I respect your consistency."

"Well, she did not," I mumbled.

Jean stroked his chin with his thumb and looked me over. "That's not the only thing on your mind, is it?"

I immediately looked away and felt as though the wind had been punched from my lungs as I thought of the true reason behind my visit to his home. Many times I felt as though Jean knew me better than anyone else, as though he sensed my thoughts. Over the years he had become my closest friend, so close in fact that he said I was like a brother to him.

With Jean being an only child and my brother missing, I appreciated the sentiment.

For a long moment we sat in silence, Jean with his hands steepled, me sitting forward with the cup of espresso in hand. I must have made a face at the first sip because Jean apologized.

"Too strong?" he asked.

Given how exhausted I felt, I welcomed the jolt of caffeine pulsing through me.

"It's fine," I said.

I took another sip and sat back, staring into the fireplace. An espresso after eight most likely meant I was going to be a caffeinated disaster up until dawn, rearranging my studio and kitchen cabinets while I ran myself ragged and crashed in the middle of the morning.

"Hugo is dying," I said suddenly.

"I beg your pardon? Hugo? Your artist friend?"

Jean had met Hugo a handful of times, but I was still surprised he knew who I mentioned as their encounters had been mostly in passing through the park.

"Yes, the retired professor whose position I accepted at the university."

"Christ, Phelan, I'm sorry. Have you been able to visit him?"

"I came straight from his home to yours," I answered.

Jean's lips parted. "That explains your melancholy."

His description didn't fit how I felt, but I made no argument. I felt more lost than sad, more encompassed by desolation than in mourning. It was more than an emotion; it was physical as well, a pain that defied a reasonable explanation.

"Did Hugo know about the art show?"

"Yes, I told him," I said. "It was brief, but we were able to speak."

"I heard you sold the one with the tree to an anonymous buyer."

"I did. I would have thought it was you."

Jean shook his head. "Unfortunately, someone beat me to it."

I inhaled. "As much as I would prefer it being in your hands, I need the money from the sale."

Jean sat forward. "If you are in need financially, you know that–"

"No, I didn't mean it like that. I'm fine," I assured him. "It's just that…"

Jean waited with remarkable patience for me to continue speaking, knowing full well that the thought might remain unfinished.

"I'm placing another ad," I said at last. "This time with the opera."

Jean didn't immediately speak, but his expression was quite telling. Again? I expected him to say. Another fruitless endeavor and a waste of resources?

"It's been over six months," I reasoned. "It's actually been over eight months since the last time I put an ad in the newspaper."

Still, Jean didn't say anything.

"If this doesn't work, then…then that will be the last one."

Emotion unexpectedly hit me. I sucked in a breath and held it, afraid of what would happen if I exhaled, if I let anything out at all.

Was this truly to be the end? The final search for my brother, the last time I would actively attempt to look for him. Saying it aloud felt as though I had severed myself in half and expected to live torn apart.

At last I scoffed at myself and looked at Jean, who was silently studying me over his steepled hands. "You think I've gone mad, don't you?" I asked, my tone accusatory.

Jean shook his head. "I think you've spent your life looking and don't know what to do if you aren't…" He paused, the look in his eyes remorseful. "If you aren't blaming yourself for Erik's disappearance."

It was strange to hear someone else say my brother's name, and the fact that Jean said it so casually angered me.

"You don't understand," I said.

I wanted to tell him that he was an only child who could not possibly comprehend what it was like to not simply have my brother go missing, but to be the reason behind his disappearance.

"No," he agreed before I said something I would regret. "I don't understand. But that doesn't mean I won't support your endeavor."

He asked about the details for the ad in the opera program and I told him, noting the way his eyes widened when I mentioned the cost and the duration the eighth of a page would run.

"How much of your earnings from your sale does that use up?" he asked.

"Half," I answered.

To my own ears it was madness. Half of a sale–a sale that would have paid several months of rent as well as funded my summer travel–would be earmarked for an advertisement to hopefully locate my brother. Most of the other ads I had placed over the years were under fifty francs. Financially, it was not about to bankrupt me, but it certainly took away any cushion I could have enjoyed or extra art supplies for my personal studio or the university.

Besides, I reasoned, I had sold two paintings and the sale to Jean would provide enough for meals and lodging in Italy, as well as at least one slab of marble to ship back to Paris.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Jean asked.

I nodded without hesitation. "I have to," I said. "I have to try."

"Are you sure you can afford this?" he asked. "Truly? You aren't going to go hungry or end up on the street because of…your search?"

"I can afford it," I assured him. In truth it didn't matter how much I could financially risk. Mentally I was not able to afford the guilt of not searching.

"And this is the last time?" Jean asked. "If this doesn't work, you're done? No more ads?"

I finished the rest of the espresso in one gulp and inhaled. Bjorn had been addicted to whiskey. As much as I detested every way we were similar, I knew that my own addiction was a thirty year endeavor that had provided not even a single lead.

Erik had all but vanished. My addiction, in a way, was perhaps worse as Bjorn chased liquor and I had continued to chase a ghost story.

"No more ads," I said, a promise to myself. I could walk away, I reasoned. I would not allow this to kill me as it had killed Bjorn. "No more searching."

Jean stood. "Let's eat," he said. "And talk of other things."

oOo

Shortly before I obtained my own apartment, I had lived with Jean. It was for a total of two months–in between the time I had moved out of living with Val and proceeded to find a place of my own.

As much as I didn't want to impose, Jean insisted that I take him up on his offer. With six bedrooms and two parlors, he had made a comment that there was a decent chance we would never see one another.

He had seen plenty of me, however, once sweeping the leaves out of the foyer and again dusting the sconces in the second parlor, much to the dismay of my host and befuddlement of his maids. After the sconces, Jean had told me he would beat me senseless with the feather duster if I insisted on cleaning his home.

The house was still remarkable in every way with its wood paneled rooms, high ceilings, tiled fireplaces, and exceptionally comfortable furniture. There was not a book out of place on the shelves or a spot of dirt or dust on the mantel or candelabras. In fact, the house barely looked like anyone lived there at all.

"Don't you dare dust anything," he warned playfully as our meal was served.

"Honestly, I need to dust my own apartment," I said.

"I've been meaning to ask you, how's the house coming along? Jean asked over supper.

He offered me coffee, which I declined. Already my hands were shaking from the espresso, and since he had decided we would take our meal in the parlor, we sat with full meals balanced on our laps. I felt as though every nerve in my body was vibrating from the amount of caffeine I had ingested.

"It's still standing," I replied.

"Then you haven't burnt it down as you've been threatening for the last, what? Six years?"

I'd purchased my parents' home seven years earlier, once Bjorn's body had been removed, and began pouring an unnecessary amount of money into renovating the damned place.

Bjorn was buried on the very edge of the property, in a grave with a wooden cross that the village priest insisted I drive into the earth to signify where the destitute drunk rested.

I had purposely asked for Bjorn to be buried behind a stand of trees where I would never see the cross. In time, I hoped it would become covered in moss and rot away, taking away every memory I had of the miserable bastard.

"Seven years and I keep forgetting to bring matches," I said.

Jean snorted with amusement. "I'd like to see it some time."

"I'll give you the address."

"No, I mean I would like to go with you one time to see it."

"Perhaps when I return in August," I suggested.

I had no desire for Jean to visit the two bedroom shack of a house where my parents had lived. It was slightly bigger and in better repair than the home my uncle had owned, but it was still a shameful little wooden structure, a far cry from the type of home Jean was accustomed to living within.

"Do you have any idea who purchased your painting?" he asked suddenly.

I looked up at him and shook my head. "Do you?"

Jean shrugged. "I've heard rumors."

I paused, fork in hand, and swept my tongue across my front teeth. "Do you intend to keep this information to yourself?"

"I will give you a hint. Your painting will be hung in a very nice home in the Swedish countryside, overlooking Lake Vanern," he said.

"A friend of yours, then?"

Jean shook his head. "I've met this individual, but I wouldn't call him a friend. However, I will say that you are familiar with him and his family. At least you used to be, years ago."

My brow furrowed. "From the bank, I gather?"

Jean nodded, clearly enjoying the guessing game while I would have preferred him telling me outright. Over the years I had handled hundreds of accounts, keeping books balanced and obscene fortunes intact.

"I never handled any accounts with Swedish families," I said. "You must be thinking of someone else."

"The family has a second home in Sweden. I assure you they were very much French."

"Were?" I snorted, imagining that damnable opera ghost was of Swedish descent and happened to frequent art galleries when he wasn't penning notes and fathering children with chorus girls. "Was my painting sold to a ghost?"

"Philibert," Jean said impatiently.

"If you are speaking of Count de Chagny, he truly has been dead for years and probably isn't investing in art."

"His son."

Unintentionally, I took a gulp of coffee. "He has two sons."

The older one was around the same age as me and Jean, but as far as I was aware, he lived out of his trunk and traveled through Europe, doing God knows what.

"You know of whom I speak," Jean said impatiently. "You've met a time or two at the opera after you were moved to his row."

"Vicomte de Chagny doesn't purchase his own art," I answered. "He has someone that does it for him."

"Yes, I am well aware. He uses an art dealer named George San Marie, who was at the gallery the day the show closed. I saw him with my own eyes and watched him give a card to the gallery owner, who immediately marked your painting as sold."

"An act of charity," I muttered, irritated that the painting I would have rather kept for myself and made changes to was now destined to sit in some mansion that was unoccupied for half the year.

Jean placed his plate onto the coffee table. "You know, every single day I think to myself that I should be viciously and unapologetically jealous of you," he said.

My breath hitched. We had been friends for years, and if there was to be any jealousy at all, I should have been the one who envied his wealth and status.

"Why?" I asked. "Why would you possibly feel that way?"

Jean offered a smile. "Because you are far too handsome for your own good, you have a full head of hair." He tilted his head down and rubbed the bald spot on his head. "You're a full head and neck taller than me, built like a damned Greek statue, and you've got more artistic talent in one finger than I have in my entire body. Plus, you know, you seem to attract an endless parade of women."

I moved my left arm, settling my hand on my thigh. Jean watched me and shook my head.

"You could have lost an arm entirely and your bed would never be cold for a single night," he said.

I wasn't sure if he meant his words as flattery, but that was not how I took it.

"You know what keeps me from wanting to trade places with you?" Jean asked.

"How many reasons do you want?" I questioned.

"There," he said, reaching out to squeeze my knee. "That failed attempt at modesty."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

Jean made a face. "You act as though you don't deserve what you've worked for all of these years, Phelan. I can't imagine why in the hell you insist on living as though you aren't allowed to be happy."

I placed my plate beside his and took another sip of coffee, feeling as though any attempt at sleep was futile at that point.

"We've both suffered losses," he said quietly. "But I sincerely believe my parents wanted me to be happy and I hope you understand that you are not required to be miserable."

There was no mention of Bjorn and Gyda wanting me to be happy as well because Jean knew that they had not wanted anything for me. Nor had my uncle. Nor had Val or Val's aunt.

The only people who had truly wanted anything for me at all were Jean, who sat beside me, and Hugo, who was on his deathbed, which I couldn't process.

And Erik? I didn't know what he would have wanted for me. There was a possibility he rarely thought of me after all the time that had passed.

Numbness came as protection over my burdened heart. I forced myself to look at my long-time friend and nod. Everything inside of me had already shut off, and the words I intended to speak were merely for show.

"Jean," I said. "You are correct. I will put forth my best effort to do better."

"Good."

"I should return home."

"Stay," he offered. "You are always welcome and you know there is plenty of room."

"I can't leave Elvira all night."

Elivira had plenty of food, access to water, and multiple ways to keep herself entertained, but macaws were sensitive creatures, and if I didn't return home for lunch from the university, she was far more agitated and prone to biting me or plucking out her feathers. If I left her alone for a night, there was no telling how she would react in the morning.

"Ah, yes, your mean bird."

"She's not mean. Particular about the company she keeps, but not mean."

Jean grunted. "Left to her own devices, I assume she will overthrow the government before dawn."

"Then for the sake of France, I will be on my way."