 
Part I, Berkeley 1980

Chapter 1

Carolyn Stuart lay wide awake, intoxicated and restless. She imagined the handshake from Marc Silver later that morning, when he accepts her into the program at the UC Berkeley Art Institute. Her thoughts were interrupted by the heat that radiated from Damian next to her on the bed as he breathed in and out.

She pulled the covers back and moved her legs over the side of the bed. The floor cooled her feet. She yawned and stretched high, smiled to herself, and then tiptoed to the window. Between the blinds she saw down the street to the lights of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco across the water. Had her mother Elizabeth awakened? She wished one of the pinpoints of light beyond downtown to be her mother's upstairs windows in Sea Cliff.

Her stomach hurt, but excitement kept her from going to the kitchen. Once more she observed Damian shift in the bed and wondered whether this self-taught abstract artist would be proud of her. She shook her head, sad to think she didn't really know the answer to the question, and walked over to the bathroom.

A photo of her mother and herself stared at her on the wall, from last spring when she graduated from Mills College. Then she thought of the argument they had later at dinner, over her decision to get an MFA at Berkeley, instead of an MBA at Stanford, copying her mother's career path.

Warm water cascaded over her head and down her body as Carolyn imagined the opening of her show at the Whitman Gallery on Hayes Street. She walks around, her pastels on one wall, gouache drawings opposite, and large oil paintings brightly lit on easels in the center. Her mother leads wealthy friends around the gallery, wine in hand, and when she spies Carolyn, smiles warmly. "I'm so happy for you, Darling. I'm sorry I didn't believe in you before, but I certainly do now. I want to fund a new show for you." Carolyn sees warmth and happiness her mother's eyes she has never seen before.

She turned the water off, dried herself. She tiptoed around the bed to the chair and took the clothes she had laid out last night back to the bathroom. The steam kept the room warm and damp, so she opened the window and felt the cool early morning air pouring past her body. It made her feel fresh and ready to take on the day. The coldness of the air was the clear sign of great things to happen.

She had studied Marc Silver, the director of the institute, and knew he liked his men and women as he liked his art, beautiful and well-dressed.

Carolyn has prepared a wide-ranging sample of her work to show him. In her portfolio she placed an impressionistic watercolor landscape of the Berkeley pier, an abstract oil with predominant browns, a tempura in beige and blues of expressionist sympathies, and finally, a tropical gouache. Marc's office displayed his eclectic tastes, so she believed he would appreciate her eclectic projects.

Carolyn slipped on her Chanel panties and bra and studied herself in the mirror to make sure her nipples weren't showing. She brushed her blonde hair carelessly. Then she put on a black sweater and new Jordache designer jeans. Neat, clean, studious, but contemporary and expensive. She finished her makeup, also neat and clean, but with expressive highlights and shadows. Her large hazel and green eyes dominated her face.

Her portfolio leaned against the door waiting for her, a concession to her nervousness. She put it on the coffee table and went through each work, then decided to not bring the watercolor. That medium worked for hobbyists and afternoon painters, not for serious artists. The three, the oil, tempura and gouache, would show him her talent well enough.

For a moment she wondered if that sufficed. Maybe she needed another oil, something more representational. She pulled canvases back from the wall, studied each one, and recognized one of her favorite works, a portrait of her mother Elizabeth. Her mother refused to sit for it, but Carolyn modeled the painting on her favorite picture from a few years ago at Christmas. Elizabeth Stuart looked radiant in a dark red dress and pearl earrings. She thought, I should have seen that earlier. That will be the perfect complement, to make a great range of talent. She picked it up, careful not to scrape it, and brought it over to her portfolio with a satisfied sigh.

She put on her coat and lifted the portfolio, but then put it down again and went back in to Damian. He slept on his back, oblivious. She kissed him on the forehead and touched his shoulder. He mumbled and turned, and then opened his eyes, then saw her and smiled.

"Hm. Why don't you come back to bed and let's get it on, baby."

Carolyn pulled back a step. She would love to jump back in bed with him, but not now. "Damian, you know I can't, I have to go for my interview."

He lifted himself up on his elbows and looked around.

"It's barely light out there. You've got time. Come on." He moved over in the bed and pulled the sheet off his chest and the warmth from his body filled the air.

"No, Damian, I can't."

He tried to pull her down on to him, but she pushed away and stood up straight. "I've got to go. After the interview, I'm having lunch with Andrea. I'll come back after that. You obviously need your sleep." She leaned back down and put her hand on his shoulder. He tried to pull the sheet down to expose himself, but she stopped him, even as she smiled. "We'll have champagne and celebrate. The whole afternoon in bed. Just you and me." She resisted the urge to touch him.

Damian fell back on his pillow, and turned and pulled the covers up. Carolyn pulled them over his shoulders, gave him a little pat, let out a sigh, and left the room.

She took her portfolio, opened it up and checked the items one more time, nodding with satisfaction, and then closed it. She looked around as if she were missing something, checked her watch, and opened the front door. She heard the phone ringing in the bedroom, but she shook her head and shut the door behind her.

She went out the short dark hallway to Rose Street, but stopped, stiff in the cold air, as a young kid with wild hair flew past her on a skateboard. Then she put the portfolio in the back seat of her red Jaguar convertible, and got in the front. She sat for a moment and breathed, then took off for San Francisco.

Carolyn drove downhill on the empty street in the dark to Interstate 80 and headed south to the bridge. The mist rose up from the Bay, and the City sparkled in the distance until she took the Van Ness exit and drove up to Bush Street. Even then, just the normal early-morning delivery vehicles blocked lanes on the street as the first long shadows settled over the city. She turned right and went downhill until she parked across the street from Notre Dame des Victoires. She waited for a truck to pass, and then hurried up the steps to the church entrance and pulled the door open with both hands, careful to not make any noise.

An older woman in a faded brown coat who smelled of mothballs sat motionless in the last pew, as if she hoped to be a statue herself. Carolyn passed the woman and walked to the alcove with the statue of Our Lady. Blue votive candles put flickering highlights and shadows on the statue from below. She took a long taper, lit it on one of the burning candles and held it in her hand for a moment. She didn't pray, she just held the taper for a few moments, then lit a new candle and blew the taper out. In the still air the small flame flickered for about half a minute, then glowed steady along with the others. She stepped back, stood silent, and then put a dollar into the small rectangle on the top of a wooden box. She left the church.

Carolyn crossed Bush Street as the dark gray light of morning began to turn yellow as the sky brightened over the East Bay. She got in her car and made her way back to the bridge, merged on to the growing traffic on Interstate 80 and turned right on University and followed it on up to campus.

*

Carolyn pulled into Bancroft Parking, took her portfolio out of the back seat, then saw Andrea Frohman getting out of her car.

"Andrea, hi."

Andrea, dressed in her signature bib overalls to hide her weight, with her scraggly long black hair half-hiding her eyes, pulled her portfolio out of her car and turned to Carolyn with a smile. She held the portfolio high. "All ready to go. It's an exciting day, isn't it? I can't believe we're here today. You're seeing Marc Silver, right? Today?"

Carolyn looked at Andrea with a dismissive frown. "You're not going like that, are you?"

Andrea looked down at herself, at her grandma shoes, but kept on smiling anyway. "Hey, it's not a cheerleader audition. It's what's in the portfolio that counts."

Carolyn smiled back at her. "Well, every man for himself."

Andrea rolled her eyes. "I guess. But I feel lucky. Why don't we splurge and have lunch at Chez Panisse afterwards?"

"Okay, how about an hour?"

"You got it."

They walked together in the bright morning sun to the Art-Deco building of the Art Institute. Andrea waved goodbye and disappeared inside as the campanile chimed three-quarters of an hour.

The lobby of the Art Institute had been remodeled into sparse, cold, and modern. A large vertical abstract bas-relief combining rays of black, white and grays dominated the wall facing the chrome and black visitor chair. The outside of the building had a very old feel to it, but the entrance door with "Marc Silver" in bold lettering beckoned with new mahogany and brass. Carolyn sat in the chair and put her portfolio beside her. She checked her watch, reassured that she arrived with time to spare.

The office door opened and a tall, thin blond man with angular features appeared. He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. He held out his hand and said in a formal, crisp voice, "How do you do. I'm Marc Silver. Please come in." He held the door open for Carolyn.

His office functioned as an art gallery. Modern, renaissance, Greek. Eclectic, she noted.

He held out his hand as he said, "May I look at your portfolio?"

Carolyn handed it to him.

He put it on a large black table, and opened it up. "Let's look at it together, shall we?"

Carolyn nodded.

Marc spread the work out on the table. He picked up each one, moving it to observe the effects of lighting, now oblivious of Carolyn's presence. He put the final piece of art back on the table and closed the portfolio. Then he turned and handed it to her, and looked her in the eyes. "You have four very different paintings. Some are chromatically intense, others look washed out. You are experimenting with your style. That is very clear. I'm afraid it won't work for us."

Carolyn's heart sank and her head spun. "I'm sorry?"

"We don't teach technique here. We guide artists who are self-aware. You are not. You wouldn't fit." He nudged her toward the door.

She stopped. "I have a letter from Robert Henry. He recommended me."

"Yes," he said. "I know Robert. I read his letter. In my view, it wasn't strong enough."

Carolyn couldn't accept what he said. She had to say something in her defense. "I won awards at Mills."

Marc raised his voice. "This is not Mills, Miss Stuart. You should consider art history perhaps, or commercial art. Now if you will excuse me, I have other appointments." He opened the door wide for her and stood in rigid sentinel for her exit. Somehow, Carolyn moved through the door and heard it shut behind her. And the world shut with it.

She sat on the steps in front of the building, her portfolio falling down to the cobblestones below, lying there for anyone to walk on. She shivered in the cold shadow, and the shivering was just punishment. She looked left and right for a pay phone to call Andrea and cancel lunch and commiserate with her, but saw nothing. Instead, she picked up the portfolio and drove down Shattuck to the restaurant. She found Andrea in the upstairs café nearly hidden by a giant dark green fern.

Andrea smiled broadly when Carolyn arrived at the table, already set with water and a half-bottle of white wine. "Carolyn, can you believe it? Kroeber Hall! The Art Institute! We've got it made in the shade." She stood and opened her arms.

Carolyn pushed her back. "What? You got in? And I didn't? Shit. I don't believe this. Dressed like that?" She folded her arms across her chest.

Andrea appeared very close to tears. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I can't believe it."

"Yeah, well neither can I." Carolyn swept her hand across the table and sent water and wine flying, glass breaking on the tile. "I wonder what you had to do. You can go to hell!"

She turned and went out and back to Bancroft parking. Sitting in the car, she banged hard on the steering wheel. Andrea, she thought, goddamn Andrea? And not me? She hit the sides of her head with her fists and grunted all the air out of her lungs.

Carolyn headed back to the apartment. Right now, she needed Damian's arms.

Carolyn opened the door to the apartment and looked for Damian's sympathetic eyes on the sofa or the kitchen table. Not there. Damn him!

A strong musky odor permeated the air. He still slept, the bastard, and hadn't opened any windows. She bit her lip as she shook her head.

She walked down the hallway to the bedroom. The door was closed, but Damian was making a muffled noise inside.

She pushed the door open and looked over to the bed. A pain spiked down her chest. A naked red-haired woman moved up and down on Damian. They did not notice Carolyn, but went on grunting and thrashing. Carolyn tensed her whole body and screamed. The woman fell off and Damian grabbed a sheet to cover himself. His dark eyes glared angry and defiant as he came up on one elbow, breathing hard.

Carolyn backed out of the room, slammed the door shut and kicked it. As she turned to leave, the portrait of her mother looked down on her from the wall. Before, it was the radiant red dress, the glamorous pearls. Now it was the stern, analytical eyes accusing her.

She went to her car sat in the driver's seat, turned sideways, her feet on the ground. Her head was light, her stomach ready to vomit. She waited. The feeling passed and she moved inside the car. She looked out the car at the San Francisco skyline in the distance.

Her mother. Despite all the tension-filled history between them, Carolyn had a mother. Elizabeth.

Carolyn stood inside the elevator on the 47th floor of the Bank of America building in San Francisco. The tears she had been holding back welled up in the warm air, but she brushed them away. She entered the hushed offices of Elizabeth Stuart Financial, LLP. On the right, glass windows looking in on rows of young men and women in professional business suits, typing away before banks of computer screens, with older men prowling among them. On the left, a giant door, made from a single board of European walnut, as she knew, with a gleaming brass handle. Only the best for her mother. Except not today, Carolyn realized.

A handsome young man with curly blond hair appeared in front of her. "May I help you?"

Carolyn smiled, in an attempt to be polite and keep her emotions to herself. "No thank you. Actually, I'm here to see my mother." Without waiting for the man, she turned left and headed for the door. She opened, and then closed it without looking behind her.

In front of her, Marian Brooks, at her gilt-edged Louis XIV desk, smiled at her, leaned forward, and held out her hand. "Carolyn, how nice to see you. It's been a while since you've been here." Still smiling.

Carolyn nodded. "Yes, that's true. But I'm here to see my mother."

Marian frowned and spoke in a warm voice. "Oh, I'm sorry. Your timing isn't good. She's in a meeting. Does she know you're here?"

Carolyn responded with her best imitation of a warm voice. "She's always in a meeting, isn't she? That's all right. I'll just go see her." She walked to the end of Marian's desk and turned toward the door.

Marian stood and blocked her way, her lips a thin line. "I beg your pardon, Miss, but she is in a very important meeting."

Carolyn's eyes widened and her voice rose, just enough. "She is going to be in a meeting with me. Please get out of my way."

Marian sighed and returned to her desk.

Carolyn opened the door. Elizabeth Stuart sat at the end of a long green marble conference table, Alcatraz shone white in the distance behind her, her auburn hair tied back severely, accentuating her strong jaw line, large brown eyes, red lips, and the diamond pendant earrings. Everyone in the room stopped talking and looked at Carolyn. She looked at her mother.

Elizabeth stood up. "Excuse me, please." She smiled as she looked at the four gentlemen at the table. She was wearing a Valentino black stretch wool dress. She moved forward to Carolyn, taking her by the arm and leading her out of the room. Before closing the door, she turned back in and said "Gentlemen, she's my daughter. This won't take very long." The men all nodded and smiled politely, then turned to each other in conversation.

Elizabeth led Carolyn two doors to the right and pushed her into a plush office with a view of the Bay Bridge. Two steps in she stopped and turned to face her daughter, arms folded across her chest. "What is this all about, Carolyn? This is a very important meeting with Goldman Sachs."

Carolyn hesitated, confused about where to begin. "Mother, I-"

"Yes? Tell me. I don't have time for a chat."

Carolyn looked at her mother's eyes, the same as her own, hoping for recognition. "I wasn't accepted at the Art Institute." She desperately wanted Elizabeth to hold her so that she could let the tears flow.

Elizabeth threw her arms up in the air. "You came here to tell me this?" She walked to the window, and then turned around. "I don't have time for a career discussion, Carolyn. You should have come to work here. You could be talking to Goldman Sachs."

"I need a key to the house, Mother."

"Where is your key? Oh-" Elizabeth looked at her diamond Rolex. "This won't do." She picked up her purse off a chair and took out a keychain, taking a key off it. "Here." Then she put it back, shaking her head. "I don't need a distraction right now. And you don't need a key. Alice will still be there. Just go."

"Mother, please, I-"

Elizabeth opened the door. "Carolyn!" Her eyes blazed with frustration. She went out and shut the door.

Carolyn stood, silent, stiff, cold, her head down, shoulders stooped, heart empty, amid the splendor of crystal chandelier, designer carpet, burled French wood, Renoir, and leather chair. "Goldman Sachs. God, Mother!"

Carolyn parked her car half an hour later on Camino del Mar, walked to the side gate of her home and followed the brick path to the back yard. In the distance, through the span of the Golden Gate Bridge, were the dark Berkeley hills, far away. Distant from this morning. The memory of her morning when he awoke took hold of her, when she looked out the window, wishing she could see the lights of this house.

The low brick wall at the end of the yard overlooked the restless sea below, waves incessantly crashing against the rocks. Carolyn leaned over, looked down and became dizzy, mesmerized by the whitecaps moving in and out. The swaying water pulled her down. Holding her stomach, she turned away from the view, closed her eyes for several seconds, and looked at the home she grew up in. On the third story on the right was the window of her room.

She had been so anxious to leave that room, the departure that symbolized her adulthood. Now she needed to be in it, to feel a child again, to know she could start all over. Without rejection, without betrayal. She could leave behind the rejection by Marc, and the betrayal by Damian.

But not her mother's stinging criticism, which had come just when she needed understanding. She didn't know if she could leave that behind. Goldman Sachs. As if that were the be-all and end-all of life.

Carolyn walked the 20 yards of grass back to the house. The door stood open to the rec room. She went in and climbed the stairs to the first floor. From the kitchen came the sound of pots and pans. Alice. Carolyn went into the kitchen, and when she saw Alice, the perfect grandmother substitute, who had practically raised her, standing there, a chocolate cake on the counter ready for frosting, she burst into tears. Alice had always been there for Carolyn. She took the place of both grandmothers and grandfathers. And Carolyn's father as well.

"What's the matter?" Alice, in a staid blue dress, with an apron her sympathetic eyes widening, opened her arms and pulled Carolyn in and held her for a long time, patting her on the back.

Carolyn pulled back from Alice, held her hands for a moment, and then sat down at the kitchen table. She ran her hands through her hair. She pointed at the chocolate cake and said, "Can I have a piece?"

Alice smiled and her eyes lit up, just from being asked for a piece of cake. It meant she was appreciated. "Of course you can, Darling. Just let me cut a piece and put some frosting on it for you."

Carolyn slouched down in the chair and watched Alice moved deftly around the kitchen, getting a plate, cutting the cake, putting frosting on the piece. She felt at home. She had not realized until now that she had missed home, missed being home. Missed the comfort of Alice.

She put a bite of the cake in her mouth, and held it there, savoring the creamy chocolate density of the cake and frosting. She sighed and relaxed, and quietly ate the rest of the piece of cake, looking down, following every bite on the fork from the plates to her mouth.

Alice stood with her hand on Carolyn's shoulder. "There, now. Why don't you go up and take a nice long bath. That's what you need. You need to relax." Alice was like a talisman to Carolyn, irresistible.

Carolyn looked up at Alice, licked her lips and smiled. Then she stood and gave Alice a hug, and went upstairs to her room.

Carolyn was stunned by the art on the walls of her bedroom. Exactly what Marc Silver had pointed out. Something of everything. Every style, every hue, every nuance of brush stroke, medium, line and atmosphere. Nothing that told you who Carolyn Stuart wanted to be. An excess of eclectic, whether of her own or of great painters. She had plastered every inch of space on the white walls with art. It wasn't inspiration, it was dizzying distraction.

She got to work and took it all down. She lifted the framed paintings off first, and yanked the nails out of the wall. Then she took the taped pieces of art paper, pulled them off, and threw them on the floor. Finally, she gathered them all up and hid them behind the sofa. As a final act she went down to the garage, found the Spackle and a spatula, and went back to her room and cleaned up every hole in the wall. She stood back and looked at it and realized this was the state of her life. She saw more than a empty single canvas a whole empty wall. She had nothing before her. Nothing to look forward to.

She took her clothes off, deliberately letting them fall to the floor in a heap. Then she turned the water on in the bathtub, sat down in the middle, her legs outstretched, and waited for the warm water to come up to her neck. She rested there, surrounded by silence, covered by oblivion. By the nothingness of her existence. And she fell into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke up, the water had cooled, and the orange glow of sunset filtered in through the window. Carolyn got out of the tub, dried herself, and went out into her bedroom. She picked up the clothes and put them into the hamper. On the table she noticed a sandwich and diet soda. She smiled to herself. What a wonderful thing for Alice to do.

Carolyn put on Ralph Lauren: dark blue wool pants and multicolored wool knit cardigan. To show her mother she was not going to give in. She splashed water on her face, straightened her hair out, put on light lipstick, and then went downstairs. She had no idea what to say to her mother. But one thing for sure, it didn't involve going to work anywhere near Goldman Sachs. And absolutely not for Elizabeth Stuart Financial, sitting in front of a screen while millions of meaningless numbers marched by.

Carolyn stepped into the living room. She expected to see her mother there, but she obviously had not come home yet. Logs burned in the fireplace. She stood before the fireplace and felt the warmth. She went into the kitchen, where Alice looked up from the vegetable-strewn counter, smiled, and insisted on another long hug.

"Are you feeling better now, dear?"

Carolyn nodded. "Rested, and clean, Alice." She looked out the kitchen window to the long lawn. "Do you know where Mother is?"

"Your mother, she just came in. I'm sure she's in her room, changing. She knows you're here. Why don't you just go wait in the living room?"

Carolyn took a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator, went to the living room and sat down on the sofa, then picked up the Cartier coffee-table book and flipped through it. She looked up to see Elizabeth standing in the hallway at the entrance to the room.

Elizabeth was dressed in her white terry cloth bathrobe, her hair dry but messy hanging down. No makeup, no jewelry, and bare feet. She smiled at her daughter. She was holding two short Waterford cocktail glasses with amber liquid in them. "Carolyn, will you have a cocktail with me? It's dry Oloroso and a drip of Johnny Walker Blue. Not very strong, really. We could have a drink together, you and me. I would really like that." She saw the can of pop on the coffee table and smiled again. "Something more grown-up, maybe?"

Maybe Elizabeth thought that was clever, but Carolyn did not take it that way. It was not the way to start a grown-up kind of conversation, if that's what her mother really wanted. Not today. She had enough happen to her today. Her voice became hard. "Mother, if you don't think I'm grown up, you shouldn't be offering me liquor."

Elizabeth looked disappointed, hurt even. "No, Carolyn, I didn't-" She sat down next to Carolyn on the sofa. "I'm sorry, maybe I did talk that way, but I didn't mean to. I just wanted us to have the same drink, and it came out the wrong way." She leaned back and rested her head and let the drinks rest on her thighs. "I wanted you and I to be two women having a cocktail before dinner." She held a glass out to Carolyn. "I know you had a very bad day. Please share it with me."

Carolyn took the glass without looking at her mother. Elizabeth held her glass out toward Carolyn and waited.

Carolyn looked down at the floor, and then raised the glass to her lips and let the liquid just barely touch them. Then she looked over at her mother, who was taking a drink from the glass, but looking over the top at Carolyn. "I appreciate that you're making an effort, Mother. It would have been helpful to me if you would have made an effort this morning."

Elizabeth stood up and looked down at Carolyn. "You can't get it through your head, can you, that the world does not revolve around you."

Carolyn put her drink down on the coffee table. She pulled her legs back underneath her and folded her arms across her chest. She looked down at the floor as she spoke. "No, Mother, I don't think the world revolves around me." She reached out and took her drink, raised it to her lips and quickly emptied the glass. "Sorry, I think one of your two women needs another drink." She went to the bar cart and filled the glass half-full with the sherry and then poured another inch of scotch into it. Sitting down, she held the glass in her hand and looked into her mother's eyes, waiting.

Elizabeth sat down and shook her head before answering her daughter, her eyes trying to penetrate Carolyn's mind. "Getting drunk will not solve any of your problems. And this stuff will just make you sick at the rate you're pouring it down. Suppose we slow down on the drinking and then talk."

Carolyn tried to determine the attitude in her mother's voice. Criticize her behavior and at the same time try to sound empathetic. But Carolyn could not bring the two into agreement. She heard only criticism. Feelings had never been important for her mother. For Elizabeth only success mattered. As Carolyn witnessed this morning. So now, it was obvious, that her mother tried a pop psychology trick to get her to calm down. Carolyn drank the whole glass of liquor in response. But then her stomach became queasy and the room started to spin around her. She rolled off the sofa on to the floor, got up and walked to the bathroom, holding on to the sofa, the table, the chair, the wall, and finally the bathroom door. Then she threw up in the toilet.

Carolyn sat down on the bathroom floor, hoping to hear her mother's voice above her, comforting, worried. She heard nothing. She pushed herself up and washed her face and cleaned her mouth, then went back to the living room. Elizabeth was sitting on the sofa, drink in hand, looking at the floor. Her mouth was a straight line. One leg was over another, the foot moving slowly up and down.

Carolyn stood in front of her mother, exhausted and beaten down. Sick to her stomach and sick of heart. Her mother could not accept her unless she changed. Elizabeth needed to make something different out of her daughter. And Carolyn could not be controlled like that.

A small black-and-white photograph in a silver frame stood on the mantelpiece. A picture of Elizabeth as a very young child in Central Park holding the hands of her mother and father. She took the picture down from the mantelpiece and held it in front of her mother. Elizabeth looked at the picture, then looked up at Carolyn, with eyes that showed how much the picture meant to her. For just one second she looked helpless as if Carolyn controlled in her hand everything that was dear and precious to her.

"You know, Mother, this is your whole problem isn't it?" Carolyn took a step back as if she were making sure that Elizabeth could not reach out and take the photograph back from her. "There is no picture of my dad in this house, is there?" She held the picture out in front of her so that Elizabeth could see it. "You have no mother, your father disowned you, and my father ran away from you. So you take it all out on me. You want me to be rigid, and controlling, and hateful, just like you!" Carolyn threw the picture at the fireplace. It hit the brick and fell to the floor, the glass broken in jagged triangles.

Elizabeth stood, her eyes blazing, her lips quavering, her hands shaking as she pointed at Carolyn. "You-you-you are the reason I have no husband!"

Carolyn stood in disbelief, staring at her mother. She turned and saw the long lawn, the brick wall, and the sea beyond that. She ran to the hallway and out the back, slamming the door against the wall. When she reached the wall, she climbed and stood in the wet breeze. The wind whipping her hair in her face, she put both arms out and looked down to the waves crashing into the rocks. And waited, confident that her mother would see her and come.

Strong arms circled her leg. "Carolyn! Please, I beg you."

Carolyn opened her eyes and looked down. Elizabeth held her tight, then lifted her hand up, her eyes full of tears. Carolyn took her mother's hand and stepped down from the wall. They walked close together back to the house. Inside, Elizabeth led Carolyn back to the sofa in front of the fireplace. They sat, quiet, in each other's arms. Then Elizabeth, shaking, held Carolyn and looked at her.

"Carolyn, I love you. Do you understand me? I want to help you, not work against you. I have an idea. Will you listen to me?"

Carolyn nodded, watching her mother's eyes, moving from one to the other to try and perceive her mother's feelings. Listen to her mother, that's what she is supposed to do, when the real problem is that her mother doesn't listen. Her mother held her tight against the pull that Carolyn still felt from beyond the walls, from the brick wall and the sea, the rocks below it. She sighed, slumped down in the sofa, and said, "Yes, I will."

Elizabeth tightened her grip on Carolyn's hands, then put her hand on her daughter's shoulder and shook it with a gentle movement. She waited, and Carolyn opened her eyes.

"What I want-"

Carolyn sat up. "I will listen to you, Mother." Her voice was begging. "If you will listen to me."

Elizabeth let Carolyn's hands go. "I just want you to listen to my idea. I have no control over you. I don't think I ever had. At least, not for a very long time. I paid for you to study art at Mills College. I paid for you to go to Paris in the summer to study Picasso, Florence in the summer to study Michelangelo, and then Louvain in the summer for medieval jewelry. Don't say I have failed to listen to you." Carolyn started to speak, but Elizabeth held up her hand. "Hear me out, will you?"

Carolyn fell back into the sofa again, nodding to herself. "Tell me what your idea is."

Elizabeth came close to smiling, but she knew it wasn't appropriate under the circumstances. "What if you went to New York?"

Carolyn sat up, her eyes widened. "What exactly do you mean?" She wanted to be interested, but she wanted the conditions to be right. She hadn't yet learned to trust her mother. "You're going to put conditions on it."

"Let me finish. We can worry about conditions later on. But let me tell you upfront I am worried about one thing. It's Damian."

Carolyn rolled her eyes.

Elizabeth threw her hands up. "There you go."

"Mother, you don't have to worry about Damian. I'm through with him."

Elizabeth looked long and hard at her daughter, testing what she saw in the eyes, and sighed. "Well thank God for that."

There was a moment of silence and Carolyn knew that her mother expected her to explain why she didn't have to worry about him, but she couldn't tell her about another failure.

"All right, here's what I propose. You know your aunt Beatrice lives in New York."

"Aunt Beatrice? I have never even met her."

"I know that, Carolyn. But she is my father's sister, and she lives in my father's house on the Upper East Side."

Carolyn suddenly found herself very interested in New York. She didn't let herself believe that her mother's interest coincided with her own. That would be too much to expect. Her memories of her mother's support for her interest in art weren't very positive. "You have a house in New York?"

"No, I don't. Beatrice does. My father left it to her."

"Why did he leave it to her?"

"I don't know, Carolyn. When he cut me off, he cut me off. His sister was married and living in Canada at the time."

"Maybe you were in his will. Well, of course-" Carolyn knew the answer before she finished the sentence. She had known it for a long time.

"No. My lawyer saw his will, and there was nothing in it for me."

"You didn't see the will yourself?"

"No."

"Why didn't you contest it?"

"My father already told me personally, to my face, a long time ago, that he was only leaving me the trust fund. Fortunately, he left me something more valuable."

"What was that?"

"His list of friends and contacts. That's what I used to start my own business."

"Mother?"

"Yes?"

"How well do you know Aunt Beatrice?"

"Not very well, I admit."

"Don't you see her when you go to New York?"

"Carolyn, I tell you, outside of business the only place I go to in New York is the New York City Marble Cemetery where my mother is buried. I leave flowers there every time I'm in the city. And that brings up my idea."

Carolyn waited without moving.

"I propose that you go to New York and stay with Aunt Beatrice."

Carolyn's eyes lit up. "And-?"

"You stay there while you-now please don't get upset with me. Hear me out. I think you should explore the schools there."

"School. What kind of school?"

"Okay, I want you to consider business school. Columbia, or NYU, or even Wharton."

Carolyn's eyes widened. She felt trapped. New York. But not my New York. My mother's New York.

"I can see your reaction," Elizabeth said. "But please hear me out-"

But Carolyn did not wait. "Mother, I'm not prepared for business school. They won't even let me in."

Elizabeth laughed. "Oh, my Dear, I'll make sure they let you in if I have to buy the whole damn campus."

Carolyn resisted. Her mother always bought what she wanted. "I'm not going to do it, Mother. You can't force me. I'll just go live with Andrea until I get a job." But she didn't tell her mother that she had burned her bridges with Andrea. She'd figure that out later.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Carolyn, don't you see what you're doing? You're going to get a job. Doing what? For how much money?"

"You don't get it, do you, Mother? I'm not going to business school. I'm not you. I'm not a math person like you."

"Look, things will work out. They have an international program. You go to London, to Paris, not just New York. You concentrate in art philanthropy, or in art collection finance. Whatever you want."

"Oh, great, just like Marc said. Work for a museum."

"Good god, Carolyn. You do the collecting. You make your home a museum. You work with the New York art galleries. That's what I'm offering you. And nothing's stopping you from taking art courses on the side. I'm offering you the world. Don't you see that?"

Carolyn was confused. She didn't want to do what her mother proposed. A flurry of ideas flew around her head. She did want to go to New York. But she knew in her heart she wasn't an MBA student. It would be marvelous to work with art galleries in SOHO and Chelsea. And London and Paris. The real question was whether she could accept her mother's help and not go to business school. "So I would have to stay with Aunt Beatrice, is that it? So she could watch over me?"

Elizabeth put her lips together and thought for a moment, then said, "Beatrice has no children. She would very much enjoy having you stay there. She's not going to control you, Carolyn. You will be too busy."

"How do you know all this? Have you already talked to her about it?"

"Yes, I have."

Carolyn's voice rose. "When? This afternoon?" She couldn't believe she was hearing this.

"No. Not at all. Earlier in the summer."

"Mother, you mean to tell me you worked this whole scenario out with your sister-in-law and you didn't say a word to me?"

"I think you should calm down. I didn't work out anything. We talked, and she mentioned that she lived in a very large house on the Upper East Side, and she would like for me to stay there when I go to New York, and she mentioned you as well. It was her initiative, not mine."

"Are you going to stay there?"

"I don't know. I don't have any plans to go to New York at the moment, so I haven't given it any thought."

It's true, Carolyn thought, this Aunt Beatrice can't really control me. I can do as I want. "All right, Mother. I agree. I will go to New York. But I can't promise you that I'm going to become a banker."

Elizabeth smiled for the first time. "All I ask, Carolyn, is that you try."

Carolyn fastened her seat belt and watched out the window as the American Airlines DC-10 accelerated on the SFO runway and lifted into the air and banked over Golden Gate Bridge on its way to Idyllwild Airport. She looked down on the bridge she might never have to cross again. As the plane climbed into the sky, she felt free. The whole Berkeley episode disappeared. New York lay ahead of her beyond the clouds.
Chapter 2 - 1960

Elizabeth Frances Stuart looked out over the water as the Eastern Airlines Douglas DC-6 floated low over Rockaway Beach and landed smoothly at Idyllwild airport in clear skies with a westerly breeze. She took her coat from the overhead rack, and walked straight from the airplane stairway out though the terminal to the waiting line of taxis. "Park Avenue and 85th Street."

She got out of the taxi and looked at the imposing four story grey stone townhouse. The cold Atlantic air made Elizabeth pull her pull her coat tight around her and button it up. The chandelier shone in the window of her father's office, as he no doubt scrutinized his return on investment. He waited up there, his anger radiating out the window, as if he already knew what she had to confess.

She turned back to the street and raised her arm for another cab. "60th and Madison, Please. Between Madison and Park."

Elizabeth entered Midtown Internal Medicine and smiled formally at the receptionist wearing a starched white nurse's uniform and cap at. "I would like to see Dr. Rivlin, please."

The young woman, with dark red hair and no makeup, put her finger on the open pages of a large thick appointment book. "Hello, Elizabeth." A smile. "Have you scheduled an appointment? I don't often miss them."

"No, I don't. I just flew in from California."

The young woman frowned. "I'm sorry, he is fully booked for this week. If this is an emergency, perhaps you..."

The door opened behind the reception desk and an elderly woman in a wrinkled nurse's uniform came out. She had white hair and round horn-rimmed glasses and she spoke with genuine warmth, also visible in her eyes. "Elizabeth, how unexpected. I didn't think you had an appointment today."

"I don't, Colleen, but I just arrived from California, and I need to see Dr. Rivlin. Can you fit me in?"

"Let me come around." Colleen disappeared behind the door, and reappeared from a side door in the reception room. Shaking Elizabeth's hand, she said "It's nice to see you again. Let me talk to Dr. Rivlin. I'll be right back." One minute later she came through the door again. "He can see you, but not right away. Can you come back in an hour? Will that be all right? He's-"

"Of course that will be all right. I appreciate this, Colleen. I'll be back in an hour. Thank you so much."

Elizabeth stepped out on to the street to catch her third cab, then changed her mind and walked back to 59th and Lexington and caught the #6 subway headed downtown. Getting off at Bleecker, she bought a small bouquet of yellow roses, then walked across Bowery, to 64 East Second Street, the address of the New York City Marble Cemetery.

Her heart beat faster as she entered the rustic black wrought-iron gate and walked across the lawn to the old sycamore tree with the gnarled trunk, covered with vines. She pulled her skirt up above her knees and knelt, placed the roses on top of the small cement square that read Vault 238, Julia Marie Stuart, and put her hand on her mother's name. "Hi, Mama. It's me." She sighed and wiped tears from her cheeks with one hand, but kept the other on the plain gray slab for nearly half a minute. She stood and said, "Pray for me." She walked toward the cemetery gate, but halfway there she turned her head back and watched the small concrete square diminish in the distance as she walked out the gate. She retraced her route back to the doctor's office.

Dr. Rivlin, tall and broad-shouldered, energetic for his sixty years, welcomed her into his office. His silver hair offset black-rimmed glasses and a red bow tie. "Welcome, Elizabeth. It's very nice to see you, though I must admit I'm intrigued. I understood you were still way out there at Stanford. I trust your father is in good health. At least I haven't seen him in a while."

"I haven't seen my father recently, either. I did talk to him two weeks ago, and he was fine, then."

"Why, then, Elizabeth, have you come all the way to New York? And to see me?" He adjusted his glasses, sat back in his chair and interlaced his fingers on his chest.

Elizabeth looked down at the floor, then up at him. "I need to ask you to do something that is very important for me."

"Well, you certainly have piqued my curiosity."

"I must leave school for several months. I am asking you to write a letter to the school explaining my absence. Letting them know that I have mononucleosis, and that I need total bed rest."

He pursed his mouth and frowned, sitting quietly, studying her. Then he sat up. "Elizabeth, I can see from where I sit, you don't look like you have it. Your movements are very energetic-". He studied her. "Your neck looks fine. You don't seem to have a fever. In any case, I would have to examine you. What you are talking about is an infectious disease. I would call the school today, and you would have to give me the names of people you had close contact with." He stood up. "This is a surprise. Let's go to an examining room."

She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Dr. Rivlin." She looked at his Columbia diploma on the wall, then back to him. "The problem is something else."

He nodded solemnly, saying, "I think you have to tell me what the something else is. I have been giving you physicals for your whole life, Elizabeth. You can confide in me."

She did not know this would be so hard. "Doctor, I am pregnant. I can't be expelled from Stanford. I need your help."

"Does your father know this?"

"No, he doesn't. I'll tell him when it's time."

He looked her in the eye. "And the father of the child? Is it a student? Or a professor?"

Elizabeth reddened at the insinuation, at the sudden accusatory change in his attitude.

Dr. Rivlin continued, noticing her reaction. "You should have come here with the father, Elizabeth. In any case, I'm not a gynecologist, as you know. I could give you the names of several good people in the building. Perhaps a woman..."

This childhood doctor suddenly became a cold, objective clinical threat. Elizabeth put her arms across her chest. "Thank you, Doctor Rivlin. I'm not quite ready for that yet. I apologize for taking up your time. I will go see my father now." She stood and turned to leave.

He held out his hand, but when she didn't take it, he shrugged with seeming sadness, followed her out to the reception room and opened the door for her. "Elizabeth, please come see me whenever you want," he said, nodding slowly. "I am your doctor."

She thanked him and went down to the street. A cab stopped to let an elderly woman in a red coat get out, and Elizabeth a took a step toward the cab but stopped and turned north and walked the long way up to 85th and down to Park Avenue.

Her father's house, the home she grew up in, loomed high above her. The light was out in her father's office window. She had not brought a key with her, so she rang the bell and waited, nervous and unsure of how to tell him.

The door opened and Mrs. Willow, still gaunt, with her long white hair streaked with black, brushed back from her face, put her hand on her chest in surprise. "Miss Elizabeth, how unexpected." Then she took a step back and looked concerned. "We weren't told you were coming. I would have prepared your room. I..."

Elizabeth waved her off. "It's a bit cold. I'd like to come in."

Flustered, the woman opened the door wide and backed away.

Elizabeth entered the hallway and looked up at the marble staircase. "Is my father at home?"

"Yes he is, Miss. Excuse me, doesn't he know you're here?"

"No, I didn't tell him. Where is he?"

"He's in the library. He was on the phone a few minutes ago."

"Thank you, I'll just go up there."

Mrs. Willow took Elizabeth's coat. "Will you be staying long? Would you like something to eat?"

"I don't know how long I'll be staying. And I'm not hungry right now. I'll just go upstairs."

"Will you be staying for dinner?"

Elizabeth put her hand on Mrs. Willow's arm and smiled in sympathy for the woman's worry. "I don't know. We'll see."

Elizabeth walked up the long staircase, pausing to look at the grand master paintings on the wall. At the top, she stopped to listen, but heard nothing. She put her hand up to knock on the library door, held it, then brought it down. She adjusted her skirt, then opened the door without making a sound. At the far end of the room across the dark Oriental rug the fire burned brightly in the fireplace. The graying auburn hair of her father peeked out above the red leather wing-back chair. She paused to see if he was awake, or reading, or just thinking, but she could not tell. He did not move.

She closed the door. At the sound of the click, Hugh Stuart turned around in the chair and looked at her, a snifter of amber liquid in his hand. His mouth was turned down and he looked at her with ugly fury. Elizabeth froze.

"Why did you come here?"

"Dad..." she had no idea how to begin.

Hugh turned back away from her to face the fire, slowly taking a sip of his drink.

Elizabeth walked toward him until she was in front of him. "Dad, why are you so angry?"

He stood and walked away to the center of the room. "Angry? Why should I be angry?" He waved his drink back and forth as if trying to find the words in the air. "I get a call from Dr. Rivlin, and what do I hear?" He glared at her. "I hear that my daughter, my very own daughter," his voice rose with each phrase, and he turned to face her directly, pointing with the glass as if offering her a toast, "Elizabeth Francis Stuart, upon whom I have lavished my time, my fortune, my influence," and he was straining his voice now, "I could say my love and my life, that this daughter is pregnant and she is leaving the university. Tell me, Elizabeth, is our family doctor lying to me?"

She sat in a chair, silent, surprised and stunned at this total lack of sympathy. And at the betrayal by Dr. Rivlin. No, more than that, this hostility from her father. Looking down at the floor, she said meekly, "No."

Hugh continued, pacing back and forth, his voice now changing to a lower but more sinister tone, "And then he tells me you tried to get him to lie about it to the university?" He put his drink on the library table and turned to her. "Is that also true, Elizabeth?" He put his hands in his pockets and raised the toes of his shoes up and down. He did not wait for her answer, but looked up at the ceiling, expressing his frustration at the event threatening his composure. "But, of course, it's true. You lied to me about being pregnant." He took a deep breath and shook his head back and forth as if he were shuddering, piercing her eyes. "You want to lie to the university. What other lies are you keeping from me?"

Elizabeth sat in the chair, hunched up, closed in, helpless. "Dad-," she said, pleading. "I-"

He resumed his loud accusatory tone. "Don't, Elizabeth. You have nothing to say. After all I have done for you. After raising you with love and generosity entirely on my own. After all the people I have told that you would be following in my footsteps. After all the charitable donations I made in your name-," another deep breath, "-all the associations I have prepared for you-to eventually take over this firm." Hugh stopped, out of breath. Out of accusations.

He waved his finger at Elizabeth when she opened her mouth to speak. He spoke as if the voice of the devil spoke for him. "You are just like your mother." He couldn't look at her. He got up, once more, and sulked to the center of the room, looking around for an answer to why this plague visited him.

"Dad, please, I was just at mom's grave."

Hugh's face reddened and blood vessels stood out on his temple. "Grave?" He asked the question as he searched in the air for its meaning. "It's not a grave, Elizabeth, it's a vault. She is dead to me, do you hear me, young woman. Dead! She was a vicious slut, just like you."

"Daddy-"

"Oh, yes, I hear you. Dad, Daddy. Elizabeth where is your husband? Why are you here alone?" He stomped his foot and slapped his thigh, then stood ramrod straight. "Where is the baby's father?"

She knew he hoped to find some answer to this predicament. "I don't know."

"You don't know." His eyes widened in disbelief. "What do you mean you don't know. Was it a student at Stanford?" Then he stood silent for one moment of possible shock. "Was it a professor?" The word sounded like an explosion coming out of his mouth. He forced himself to stare at her face as he waited for the answer.

Elizabeth had heard enough. She stood. Back straight. "No, not a professor. He was a student."

"Was?"

"He left school."

"So, he left school, and he left you and I'm supposed to just pick up the pieces after your slatternly behavior."

"I'm asking for your help, Dad. You don't have to be so hateful toward me."

"Hateful? I don't think so, Elizabeth. It's you who have behaved as if you hate me, after everything I have done for you. I'll tell you how it's going to be. I'm going to go to the University Club. I will be back on the weekend." He leaned and pointed to her. "You had better be gone by then or I will have you thrown out."

"Dad!"

"No! No! It's over. Just like your mother." His lips tightened into a straight line, his eyes moved back and forth as he thought. "I will leave you a trust fund, and a trust fund for the child. Go to JP Morgan on Monday and it's yours. But I will see no more of you."

He pounded his steps out the door. Elizabeth stood. No tears. A pain ran down her back. She heard the door slam shut downstairs.

Sunday morning, she left the house with one small suitcase. Besides her clothing, there was the picture of her as a child with her mother and father. And a copy of every item in Hugh Stuart's Rolodex file.

A few hours later, she sat in the first row of an American Airlines DC-7 airliner bound for Chicago, the first leg of her trip back to San Francisco. Her hand rested on her purse on her lap, and the picture was in the purse.
Chapter 3 - 1940

The Broadway Limited streamlined steel car pulled into track 17 in Pennsylvania Station. Porter Malcolm West pulled down the pieces of luggage and backed out the door of the drawing room. When he had left, Hugh Stuart moved out to the passageway, followed by his wife, Julia, and Elizabeth, their two-year-old daughter. Down on the platform, Hugh gave Malcolm a tip. "Our automobile will be waiting out on 8th Avenue as usual."

The porter thanked him, smiled, and moved the luggage cart out to the station.

Julia Stuart held her daughter tight as they walked through the sprawling Beaux Arts concourse. Elizabeth strained her neck to look up at the gray light from the glass-and-wrought-iron ceiling.

A man's voice droned on in tired monotony out over the concourse. "The Pathfinder, bound for Pittsburgh, Chicago, and St. Louis, leaving at two o'clock-".

Elizabeth, puzzled, searched for the source of the voice . "Our train, Mommy?"

"No, Darling, it's a different train."

"Where's our train?"

Julia looked down at her little girl and smiled in enjoyment. "Our train just waits on the track for more people tomorrow, Sweetheart."

"Oh. Look. Can I have candy?"

"Lizzie, you just had dinner."

"Oh, all right."

She let her mother's hand go and ran over to Hugh. "Daddy, I want a candy bar."

He looked over to Julia with a smug grin, then smiled down at Elizabeth. "Hm. Sure, why not?"

She pulled her dad over to the newsstand, jumping up and down while he paid for the candy.

"But, you can't eat it till we're home, okay?"

"Okay." Elizabeth looked stealthily at her mother, but held on to his hand while they went up the grand staircase to the 8th Avenue exit.

Hugh opened the door to the street for his wife and daughter to pass through. He took Elizabeth's hand again and pointed her to the long black Cadillac Fleetwood limousine at the curb where the porter had just closed the trunk and was walking back inside.

Grace Stuart, Hugh's mother, white-haired, square-jawed, severe, looked out the rear passenger window, holding her black hat against the wind. She waved at them. "Come, Elizabeth, come sit next to me."

Elizabeth looked up at her father, who nodded. She ran over to the car, where Timothy Gibbons in his dark brown chauffeur uniform tipped his hat and opened the door for her. She scampered in.

Hugh turned to Julia, who had moved back to the station door. She was talking to a middle-aged Mediterranean-looking man carrying a battered suitcase with several large tourist stickers on it. He smiled at Julia and patted her affectionately on the arm before disappearing behind the doors. Hugh's face turned rigid.

Julia continued looking inside for a moment, then turned back and walked toward the car, her eyes down in some private thought. When she approached Hugh, she looked up and smiled, took his arm and said in a normal, pleasant voice, "Let's go home."

As Gibbons held the door open for them, Julia saw Grace looking at Hugh, the straight line of her lips and the coldness of her eyes a mark of hauteur and disapproval.

Elizabeth sat between Grace and Hugh, while Julia sat on the jump chair that folded out from the back of the front seat.

Grace looked at Elizabeth. "My dear, be careful with your hands, they are dirty from the train and you do not wish to soil your nice dress."

Elizabeth looked up at her father and then her mother. "I'm sorry, Grandmother."

"You needn't be sorry, just be careful." Grace gave the child a smile of approval and then looked out the window in a distracted manner.

When they arrived at their townhouse on Park Avenue, and Gibbons opened the door, Elizabeth quickly stepped out to the street.

"Oh no, be careful," said Grace, looking out the door after the little girl.

Gibbons ran over, put his arm on Elizabeth's shoulder, and waited for the others to get out.

Hugh opened the front door to the house for them all while Gibbons went back to the car. As soon as they were inside, Mrs. Willow, in a black dress with white lace, came scurrying out of the side door to take coats and hats with a little curtsy.

Mary, the household maid, stood at the top of the staircase, her hand held out. Elizabeth ran up the marble staircase and took the hand. The two of them turned right, facing the hallway toward her room.

"I'll be right there, Darling. Just wait for me." Julia took a quick step up.

Elizabeth stopped and looked down at the adults walking up the stairs. "I want to play music."

"Lizzie, you're not old enough to do that."

"Mary will help me." She disappeared with the maid.

"Quietly!" Julia called after her.

"Oh my, that child has so much energy." Grace patted her hair. "She needs to be controlled or she will just run wild on you both. I know she will end up destroying that beautiful record player. It shouldn't be in her room."

"It's wonderful that she has so much energy," said Julia, and after a quick look back at her husband continued, "and Hugh bought her the machine, remember?" She knew that when it came to their daughter Grace accepted whatever Hugh did without argument.

The three of them went on in silence up the marble staircase. At the top, Grace turned left to her room. Hugh and Julia went into the library.

Julia sat on the green brocade sofa, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes fixed on Hugh. He walked to the library table, picked up the Wall Street Journal and opened it wide. She cleared her throat. He paid no attention. She cleared her throat again, louder. He folded the paper and looked at her, irritated, and raised his eyebrows.

"Hugh, who do you think is Lizzie's mother, Grace or me?"

"I think that's a silly question. Don't you?" He looked down at her with a frown and his chin lowered.

"Silly? No I don't think it's silly. I think it's important."

"Julia, you're making too much of this. What's got into you anyway?" He opened up the newspaper again and turned away from her.

Julia stood, walked to Hugh, and pulled the newspaper out of his hand. She threw it on the carpet.

He turned to her and angrily demanded, "What's got into you?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "You're not listening to me. It's not about me, it's about your mother."

"Keep her out of this."

Julia put her hands behind her and focused on his eyes. "I want you to take me seriously, Hugh. I am Lizzie's mother. I saw today in the train station when I said she couldn't have any candy, she went right to you to get what she wanted. And then all the way home her grandmother acted like she was in charge of our daughter."

Hugh put both hands down on the table and leaned on it, turning to Julia. "What do you want me to do about it? If you controlled Elizabeth yourself, then my mother wouldn't be getting in the middle." He stepped back, put his hands in his pockets, and leaned to her. "Have you thought of that?"

Julia raised her arms up, let them fall down at her sides, and gave a sigh of helplessness. "If your mother would stay out of the way I could control my daughter."

Hugh sighed and walked over to the fireplace. He put his hand on the mantle and tapped his toe up and down. Then he turned around and faced Julia. "All my mother did was try to keep Elizabeth clean and safe. That's hardly controlling her."

"Oh, if that's all there was to it." Julia walked out of the room.

Hugh picked up the intercom phone. "Have Gibbons bring the car out front. I'm going to my office." He left the library and walked to his mother's room. He knocked on the door and heard her voice beckoning him in.

She was sitting in the chaise longue, dressed in her green satin robe, her head back on the pillow, her hand on a small book open on her lap. "Hugh, Darling, I heard you and Julia in the library. I don't know what you were saying, but I'm afraid it had something to do with me."

"Now Mother, a man and his wife are allowed to have a conversation. It doesn't have to be about you." He smiled at her.

"Don't patronize me, Hugh. You chose her as your wife against my wishes, indeed against the wishes of all the family, including your sister Beatrice. You both got married too soon."

Hugh sat down at her dressing table and moved her mother of pearl hairbrush out of the way to make room for his hand. "You can leave Beatrice out of this. You weren't happy with her husband either."

"Well you can hardly blame me can you? This man takes her off to Canada and they go traipsing around the Yukon. Who knows what kind of danger they'll be in. I might never see her again."

He put his hand on top of hers and waited a moment before speaking. "Mother, they settled in Montreal. Give Beatrice a little room to get on with her life."

"But she's in another country, for God's sake. And don't they speak French there?"

"You've been up there yourself on the Montreal Limited. It's just a day's ride with a great Pullman lounge. So stop worrying." Hugh stood up and gave his mother a kiss on the forehead. "I have to go."

He left the room hearing his mother's long sigh and walked around the banister to his office. Inside, he looked at the ticker tape, which had curled up in a long paper snake on the floor, a day's ticking. He picked up the tape closest to the machine, now silent, and began reading. He pursed his lips as he drew the paper through his fingers. The paper swished to the floor when he let it drop. He moved to the gold ticker and held up its short tape, looked at it, then tore both tapes out in disgust, dropping them in the mahogany bin in the corner. He picked up the intercom phone and cancelled the car. Then he called to his office on Wall Street.

"Stuart Financial. How may I direct your call?"

"Hanna, put me through to Luther Bollinger."

After a few seconds, a high-pitched man's voice came on the phone. "Yes, Hugh. I hope you had a pleasant holiday."

"Luther, did you see the gold ticker today?"

"Yes, it went down a couple of pennies."

"Well, buy some more."

"But-Hugh-is that wise?"

"Wise? What do you think? You're so-cautious. You're too cautious, Luther."

"Sir, I am neither cautious nor foolhardy. I buy and sell on instruction."

"I instruct you to buy five million dollars of gold. Today. Now."

In a voice that was practically shivering, Luther answered, "Sir, if that is your instruction I will carry it out. Will you be available to sign a check today?"

"Of course I will. When we're finished, I will call Accounting and make sure they do their part."

"I remind you again, Mr. Stuart, that the price of gold is declining."

"It is indeed, Luther. For now. There's going to be a war. England has transferred millions of pounds of gold to Canada. Gold will be the most precious commodity on this earth and I plan on owning as much of it as I can. I'm just getting started."

"Sir, a war would be calamitous."

"Luther, I am not discussing politics with you. You are valued for your ability to make trades. That is all I require of you."

"I'm sorry, Sir. You brought up the subject of war."

Hugh hesitated. "Hmm. So I did. Now, make the trade and get me a check to pay for it."

"Yes. Right away, Sir. I did not mean to offend you."

"You did not offend me, Luther. You merely irritated me with your caution. Now, transfer me back to Hanna."

"One more thing, Sir, if you please."

"All right. What is it, Luther?"

"It's too late to make the trades today, Mr. Stuart. I'll have to make them first thing in the morning."

Hugh held the handset tight in his grip and let out a frustrated breath. "Of course, that's right. But first thing in the morning. As soon as you've made the trades, you call me, you hear?"

"Yes, Sir. First thing."

"Now get me back to Hanna."

The phone went blank and Hanna was back on the line. "Yes, Mr. Stuart."

"Hanna, put me through to Kurt Walther."

After a click, another voice. "Mr. Stuart, this is Kurt."

"Kurt, first thing tomorrow morning, Luther will be coming down to see you with a request for a check for five million dollars. Do you understand me, five million?"

Silence on the line, then, "May I ask for whom, Sir?"

"Dammit, I don't know, Kurt. It will be for the purchase of gold. Perhaps he will require checks to several different traders. And it might not be exact. That's beside the point. When he brings the request to you, I want you to get me those checks to sign as quick as you can. Understand?"

"Yes, I do, Mr. Stuart. But it will have to be Sachs. Only the Swiss have gold for transactions now. You know they won't move it out of the country. It will have to stay in Swiss vaults. I will bring the checks up to you myself."

"I'll be waiting for them." Hugh put the handset down. He swiveled around to face the window, leaned back with his hand behind his head, smiling to himself and watching the trees sway back and forth down 85th Street.

His phone rang. He picked it up impatiently, sure that someone downtown had failed to do his job. "Yes?"

"Mr. Stuart, this is Elmer Griesbeck in the real estate office. Do you have a moment?"

"I do. But it's late in the day, Elmer. As they keep telling me."

"Then just let me fill you in, and you can decide how you want to proceed. It's about the apartment building on the Lower East Side. I think you ought to go see it."

"Elmer. What do I pay you for?"

"You pay me for management, Sir. And I do it. But I think this building could end up causing you a lot of problems. See, there was a fire, some people got hurt, and-"

Hugh snorted and looked at the handset, then said, "There are some important trades I have to make in the morning. Before I do anything else. Perhaps by that time you'll be able to figure out a way to do your job. Is that understood?"

"Thank you, Sir. I understand, Sir. I will inform you tomorrow of how the situation develops."

"No. Do not inform me tomorrow. You take care of this."

Hugh hung up the phone and slammed his palms down on the desk. He stood and put his hands in his pockets and looked out the window again, at the traffic moving and stopping along Park Avenue. His mother, his wife, his daughter, his staff, and now his damn tenants pressing down on him. The day trip had been a waste of time.

He went back to the library and found Julia lying down on the sofa, reading The American Weekly. He gestured at the cover. "Look at that rot. She's practically naked. Why are you reading that?"

Julia closed the magazine and looked at the cover. "Why, I didn't pay any attention to the cover. It's just Henry Clive. It was just here, and I felt like something relaxing. I think we both need something relaxing."

He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled his tie off. Then he took the carnation off his lapel and threw it in the wastebasket. "I hope you don't plan on painting lurid images like that. It's hard to know what you think you are doing with your art."

She put the magazine down and walked to him, putting her hands on his chest, looking up into his eyes.

He backed away.

She put her arms out, making a point of still looking into his eyes. "Hugh, Darling, anytime you want to know what I am doing with my art, I would love to tell you. You just never seem to find the time. I'm all on my own, I'm afraid."

"What do you mean, alone? You have Elizabeth. And you have Mother, too. And there is this whole household to run. Why, I should think you have no time to yourself at all. Didn't you enjoy today?"

She sighed and backed away. "Enjoy? A trip to North Philadelphia to see your cousin? The highlight of my day was getting a facial massage in the salon car coming back."

"Elizabeth had a very good time."

"Lizzie was bored the whole time, Hugh. She's too young for a day trip like that."

"I see. Then why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"

"Why? It seems to me I didn't have any choice in the matter. Your mother arranged the whole trip without any advance word to me."

Hugh sucked his lips in and moved his head up and down. "Mother. Oh, yes, Mother. She took time to make arrangements, Julia, and you should be appreciative instead of complaining. And we had a wonderful meal in the dining car just before arriving. They have quite excellent cuisine."

"Yes, I know. Cuisine for you, cousins for your mother. When are you and I going to have some time just for ourselves, Hugh? Just you and me."

He sat down in the red wing-back chair and put one leg nonchalantly over the other. "Perhaps we would have more time together, if you would spend less time at that art league of yours." He put both legs on the floor and turned toward her. "And by the way, who was that man at the train station? He seemed to be awfully familiar with you."

"That? That was Carlo De Luca. He's a painter, and a rather famous one at that. He has a painting in the Metropolitan museum. Which your mother contributes to. Which you would know if you took your nose out of finances long enough to pay attention to art."

Hugh stood, obviously not accepting the idea that bringing Grace in would solve the problem. "Fine. So he's a famous painter. What's that got to do with you, Julia?"

She went to him again and took his arm and spoke in a soothing voice. "Absolutely nothing, Darling. Nothing at all, personally. He was at the Art Student League last week and did a master class."

"Oh, a master class. I suppose there was a nude at the center of it all?"

Julia laughed, cupping her hands over her face. "No, I'm sorry, Darling, nothing so lurid as that." She smiled and still laughed. "There were twenty people there. He looked at one of my portraits, and was rather complimentary if I do say so myself."

"And that gives him the right to put his hands all over you?"

Julia recognized she was having no success with him. The humor left her face. "It's not right to put it that way. Not everyone is as reserved as you."

He stood straight and bent back. "Yes, well, I may be reserved, but I wouldn't think of touching another woman, Julia." He looked at her intently. "Does that make any sense to you?"

"It does. You're reserved, he's not. He wasn't touching me, not the way you make it sound." She put her arms across her chest. "And why don't you come to the Art League? Why don't you come and see what's going on? See for yourself."

He looked at the paintings on the walls. "Look, Julia. Look what Mother and Father have collected. Beautiful, all of them. Impressionists, Post-Impressionists, Renaissance, Old Masters. Look at Cross's La Terrasse Fleurie. Isn't it beautiful, those flowers. I mean absolutely stunning, don't you think? And there, that little thing is a genuine Signac. It's the Grand Canal in Venice, for God's sake. See," he said, pointing, "there's San Giorgio. Now what's wrong with that?"

Julia looked at Hugh, then at the painting, confused. "Why should there be something wrong with that?"

"Don't you think-it's not-modern- is it? It's impressionist, Julia, it's modern-yes, in the timeline, but you can actually make out what it is. That's what art is, not that awful contemporary chicken scratching."

"Oh, Hugh. Is that what you think art is about? Is that why you won't come, because you think all we are doing is awful chicken scratching? Have you seen my chicken scratching?"

He looked at her. Now he was clearly confused. "Chicken scratching? You? My God, I should hope not. Well, at least you have kept that from me, and it's just as well. Your portraits are nice. Yes, they are. I've seen your portrait of Elizabeth, and one of Grace. And then there's-well-okay-that's what I've seen. And I like them very much. They look quite good there on the wall in Elizabeth's room."

"Oh, there you go, "she said, turning around, her hands out, "on the wall in Elizabeth's room. That's where you think they belong, don't you?"

He thought for a moment, then smiled at her in an attempt to keep the emotions within control. "I thought we agreed, Darling. They are there for a reason. They are something for Elizabeth to be proud of."

"Right. But not something for us-for you-or your mother-to be proud of."

Hugh looked around the room again, with a sweeping gesture. Surely, you didn't think it would be appropriate to put your student work up on the wall with these-" and he pointed at each as he spoke, "with-Ostade-and a drawing by-Gainsborough." He put his hand on his chin, waiting for her.

Julia stood still, stunned. She looked at him in amazement. "It doesn't matter what I think, does it." Her mouth turned down. She felt hot. She looked at the floor as she spoke. "Since you insist on the truth, no, I don't think I'm up there with Rembrandt and Michelangelo. But I did think I was up there with you!"

"Oh, honestly, Julia. I didn't think you were really this petty. Up here with me? What's that supposed to mean? I'll tell you, actually. It sounds like you married me for money and now you're expecting me to make sure my money guarantees you a career. That's what this is all about."

Julia shook her head in disbelief. "You've been talking to your mother, haven't you?"

"Leave my mother out of this."

"Oh, no, your mother is very much in the middle of this, Hugh. You and her money. You and she and our daughter."

"This makes my point."

"What makes your point?"

"My point that you are indifferent to my mother, who wants to help you in every way. And, also, in some ways, you are indifferent to me."

Julia's face crumbled, her muscles pulled tight. "Indifferent? To you? Now you are becoming bizarre."

"Perhaps. So it would seem to you. Bizarre, I mean. You object to my mother, in whose house we live. In the very house where I was born. As a matter of fact, that's more than indifference, Julia, it's-it's-well, let's leave it at indifference. But you object to my mother who tries to help you. And you object to me because I don't show you sufficient cultural deference."

"Hugh...I love you." Her voice was pleading.

"Love, yes, you say you love me. I hear you."

"Am I not good enough for you in bed, Darling?"

"Ah. Yes. I knew you would bring that up. Love and sex. That's just exactly what an artist would say. Love and sex. Tell me something, Julia."

She looked at him, her stomach turning.

"Elizabeth is two years old. Why haven't we had another child?"

Her eyes opened wide. "Why? How am I supposed to know?"

"I think maybe you do know."

"Hugh, you're scaring me. Do you know something I don't? Has Dr. Rivlin told you something?"

"You tell me."

She folded her arms across her chest. "Me tell you? What's there to tell?"

Hugh hesitated, bit his lips, seemed to be thinking, then raised his voice and blurted, "Why can't you get pregnant, Julia?"

"I don't know."

"Have you talked with the good doctor about it?"

"No, I haven't."

"Why not?"

"Why not? Good God, Lizzie is only two years old. It wasn't that long ago I was still breastfeeding. Why should I get pregnant?"

"Don't you want to get pregnant?"

"Hugh, what's going on here?" She shook her head in disbelief. "I'll get pregnant when I get pregnant. I'm not doing anything to keep from getting pregnant. Yes, I want another child. Yes, I hope it's a boy. There, is that what you want to hear?"

Julia waited to hear a sigh of relief from Hugh.

He remained silent for several seconds, as he took the time to ingest what she said. He looked at her, smiling, but he forced the smile. "Ah, you see, indifference. That's it. You say you want a boy. But then, you haven't been to see the doctor, have you? To see what's wrong. Why you're not getting pregnant."

She laughed, her voice full of cynicism. "Oh, I know. Pregnant, that's what you want. That's all that matters to you and your mother. Children. Heirs."

Now Hugh laughed. "Wouldn't you like more children laughing in the house? It would make Mother so happy."

Julia sensed his laughter was as full of cynicism as hers. "There you go. Your mother's house. You can't stay away from the topic, can you. It's always there in between you and me." She looked up at him, begging in exasperation. "I wished we lived in our own house, Hugh. You and me and Lizzie and little Hugh as well."

"Little Hugh? Are you making fun of me. Because I'm not making fun. I've been to see Dr. Rivlin and I know there is no reason for you to not be pregnant. At least when you haven't even been examined. You haven't even tried to find out if there's a medical reason."

She walked to the door. "At times, you really are preposterous, Hugh."

*

Julia opened the door to Lizzie's room and shielded her eyes from the sunlight streaming in the window. Lizzie sat on the red Persian rug, her dolls arranged in a row, and before the dolls, a small car. A tiny baby doll rode naked on top of the car.

Julia smiled with delight. "What's going on, Darling?" she said as she knelt by her daughter. "Ooh, doesn't she have any clothes?"

Lizzie laughed and moved her head back and forth. She leaned over and picked up a pile of small pieces of paper. "Ticker tape parade."

"Oh, that's wonderful. Who's the parade for, Lizzie?"

"The king."

"The king? Oh, my," Julia said, covering her cheeks with her hands in great feigned excitement. "Can I help you?"

Lizzie nodded, but her puzzled eyes showed she was uncertain about how her mother could help.

"What shall I do?" Julia said.

"Watch, Mommy."

"Who's going to move the king's car?"

Lizzie looked down at the little car and at the scraps of paper in her hand. "You." She held her hands cupped to hold the paper ready and waited.

Julia knelt and pushed the car an inch along the rug. Lizzie let the paper scraps fall and jumped up and down with joy as the pieces covered the baby and car. Julia sat back and gave Lizzie one-person thunderous applause and yelled "Yaayyy!"

Lizzie looked at her mommy and laughed and joined her mother in the small chorus of joy.

Hugh's loud and angry voice came from down the hall. "Where the hell's my ticker tape?"

Lizzie looked at her mother and pulled her lips in between her teeth. Her eyes welled up.

Julia felt her little girl's fear inside her own breast. She slumped. Her face showed concern but made it look not so serious. "Darling, is that your father's tape?"

Lizzie nodded. She dropped to her knees and began picking up all the little pieces.

"Did you take it out of the wastebasket?" Julia spoke in a warm, comforting tone, hoping to shield her daughter from her father's anger.

Lizzie didn't respond. She remained frozen, her eyes wet.

Julia smiled. "You got it off the machine, didn't you, Honey?"

Lizzie hesitated, then nodded once and her chin lowered to her chest.

Julia patted her on the head, then pulled her up and wrapped her arms around her. Lizzie's warmth and smell of warm soap made Julia want to hold her forever. Julia held Lizzie out from her, lifted her chin with a hand, and spoke in a warm whisper. "It's all right." Then she pulled her back in again and whispered in her ear. "Don't worry, I'll talk to Daddy." She let the little girl down.

Lizzie backed away from her mother and held out her hands with the scraps she had been able to pick up. She looked up, imploring.

Julia put her hands out and let her dump the paper in them. She picked Lizzie up, wiped her eyes, then put her on the bed and said, "Just wait and everything will be okay." She kissed her daughter on the cheek. "I'll be right back."

Julia stood, looked back one time at Lizzie and smiled, then went out, closing the door behind her. No more yelling was coming out of Hugh's office. She walked to his office where the door was open.

Hugh was sitting behind the grand oak desk, papers strewn over the top, with his finger on the phone, ready to turn the dial. When Julia entered the room, he put the headset down and leaned back in his chair, frustration clearly showing on his face. The room smelled of cigars, even though Hugh had never smoked in his office in the past.

Julia put her hand in front of her face to block off the bright sunlight from the window, then turned sideways and looked down. "Hugh, you scared Lizzie, yelling like that."

He sat up and pointed to the two ticker tape machines on his right, his eyebrows lifted.

Julia put her hands behind her. "She is just a little girl."

Hugh stood so that he looked down on Julia. "Yes, well let me tell you something. Now I had to call downtown to find out what's going on." His voice grew louder and more insistent, almost threatening. His eyes widened, and he threw one arm up. "I looked like an idiot. I never want to ask them what's on the tape when I'm home. Never." He came around the desk and put his index finger on the gold ticker tape. "It looks like they know more than I do."

Julia bowed her head a little and moved it from side to side. "You're kidding. They work for you, not the other way around. You could've said the machines didn't work."

Now he reared his head back. "My business is my business, Julia. I don't want Elizabeth interfering with it. Is that clear?" He tightened his lips in disbelief at this conversation he was forced to have. "Can't you control your daughter?"

"Yes, sir." She put her hand out on the desk and let the pieces of tape fall like a little parade on his papers. "There." She turned around and walked toward the door, then stopped and hesitated, thinking for a moment. She pivoted on one foot and faced him, breathing slowly. She spoke in a quiet voice. "She's terrified, you know. Won't you come and tell her it's all right?"

Hugh was already sitting in his chair, an unlit cigar in his mouth and his finger in the rotary dial, the skin white from pressure, the phone to his ear. He froze for an instant, his eyes on her, questioning. "Maybe later," he said. Then he looked down and continued his dialing.

Julia left the room, walking with deliberate movements back to Lizzie's room at the end of the hallway. Before going in, she stopped to turn a vase of light yellow orchids, using the time to listen for Hugh's footsteps, wanting him to think of her and Elizabeth. She heard nothing, so she continued on into Lizzie's room.

Lizzie sat motionless on the pink bedspread, surrounded by dolls and teddy bears. They were all sitting, waiting for judgment. She looked up at her mother.

Julia knelt in front of Lizzie, smiling. She spoke with a soft voice. "Honey, your father says it was all right to take the paper this one time."

Lizzie burst into tears and leaned forward to her mother. Julia pulled her down and sat on the floor with her, cradling and rocking her. "Lizzie, sweetie, it's all over now. There's nothing to be upset about. Your father loves you."

But Lizzie let herself snuggle into her mother and continued rocking back and forth. She jumped up and took a teddy bear and sat back down, holding the fuzzy brown bear tight with one hand, and her mother with the other. When Lizzie fell asleep, Julia put her to bed and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

*

Julia entered the cab. "215 West 57th," she said.

She entered the Art Student League building and walked to the second floor. On the right, she entered the classroom where she studied the basic methods of oil painting. Inside, the students moved around the room putting away their canvases, paints and brushes. Carlo de Luca stood in the corner of the room, hands in pockets, watching the chaos. He ran his hand through his black wavy hair.

Julia walked to Ann Bayle, a tall girl with long, straight dark brown hair and outsized round glasses. "Ann, what's going on? Am I late for class?" Julia looked at her watch.

"No, not at all. We're going to Harlem." She opened her eyes wide, and Julia knew this was unexpected. Or that Ann thought Julia would be surprised.

"Harlem? Whatever for?"

Ann looked over in the corner. "Carlo is taking us over there to look at the murals in the Harlem Hospital."

"That's a long way. Why didn't he tell us before?"

"I don't know. Who cares? I think it'll be fun, and he thinks it's important."

Julia thanked Ann and walked to where Carlo stood. "Professor, I'm sorry I missed your remarks this morning. Can you tell me why we are going to Harlem? I thought we were going to continue discussing brush techniques."

Carlo smiled with a row of perfect white teeth. He looked intently at Julia's eyes. "Of course, Julia. It's simple, really. The murals at the Harlem Hospital are modern painting at its best. This is a class in fundamentals. It's not all about getting the paint on the canvas. It's about the meaning of art. And this work is about the social justice in art."

"Social justice?"

"Julia, where have you been? You don't learn brushstrokes and then figure out what to paint. It's all part of the same process." He put his hand out and touched her on the upper arm, the same as he had done at the train station.

She withdrew a step.

"Julia," he said in a warm, personal voice as he took a small step toward her, "if you think pure abstract art is what you want, perhaps you should be in another class. There are people in other rooms who are throwing paint on the walls. Is that what you want?"

His accusation stung. "I signed up for this class, Sir." She grew nervous, pressing her lips together.

"Please, call me Carlo. And forgive me, I didn't mean to cause you any harm. But I believe very strongly in my mission. Will you come with us?" He defended himself with his smile. "You like to do portraits, I know, but perhaps you will see something helpful."

Julia ran her tongue along the inside of her lip. "Thank you-Carlo." She glanced left and right to see if anyone was close enough to hear them. "I'll meet you up there."

"Thank you. Listen, everyone's going on the subway together. I'm glad you're going to join us. You're going to be delighted and enlightened."

Julia followed de Luca and the group into the Harlem Hospital and down the corridors with the WPA paintings along the walls. He pulled Julia to walk along with him. The first mural showed Charles Alston's Magic in Medicine, and on the opposite wall, his Modern Medicine. De Luca stopped the group halfway down the hallway, in the middle of the two murals.

"You see, this is what I'm talking about. You know these murals caused a great controversy several years ago? Too much Negro subject matter. Can you believe that? But look at these two murals? Do you see the difference? Do you see the social justice in these murals? Just walk up and down and absorb this art." He stopped and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Go on. I'll wait."

The group moved in a slow, chaotic dance walking up and down the hallway, stopping to talk and point.

De Luca waited until they had all observed enough of both murals. "You see, on the right, that's modern medicine, but there aren't just Negroes in it, are there? " His eyes brightened. "Look, that man in the center, that's Louis Pasteur. And that woman, holding the baby, that's Dr. Logan, the painter's wife." He looked around at the group, making sure they were paying close attention. "Do you get my point? This is the power of art. This is what brushstrokes and mixing oil are about," he said, hesitating, looking at the murals again before continuing. "And perspective." He stopped, his hands folded in front of him, looking down, waiting for it to sink in. "Now, I want you all to take one last look at these murals, and we'll go on to the other. You'll see. It's not just medicine and people wanting integration. You'll see the Cotton Club, too!"

Julia held back as the group of artists wandered down the long hallway. Carlo leaned close to talk to Ann Bayle, and Julia let them all go on ahead, until she had the hallway to herself. Carlo did not notice her absence from the group, which gave her relief. She made a mental note to keep her distance from him in the future. The thought of him touching her chilled her entirely. She ran her fingers through her hair and walked back to the lobby and out to the street.

A cab let someone off in front of the hospital, and she instructed the driver to take her back to 85th and Park Avenue. On the ride home she felt confusion. Could it be that the foundations of oil painting was a subject too advanced for her? That's what Carlo was implying. That it wasn't about painting at all. But as she settled in the seat and watched the buildings passing by, she understood. The class was being taught by the wrong person. She was interested in art. He was interested in her. He was a person to stay away from as much as possible. Finish this class. Be involved at the bare minimum.

*

Julia arrived home, hot and sweaty from the long excursion. The door opened just as she reached for the knob. Mrs. Willow stood impassive as a sentinel to the side of the door, with a slight but rigid bow and Julia entered the house. The woman stood solemn in her black and white uniform, her hair pulled severely back. Her eyes looked down at an angle, but she struggled to keep from looking Julia straight on. She was a perfect complement to Grace. Julia knew the Mrs. Willow studied her appearance no matter how much she wanted to seem inattentive. How long it would take for Grace to hear of her unkempt appearance?

Before changing, she went to Lizzie's room. She opened the door to find Lizzie sitting on the bed, dressed in a beautiful pink pinafore dress. Grace stood in the middle of the room with a stern face. The little girl looked up at her mother and back to Grace, and then down at the floor. Mary stood quiet in the corner, smoothing the little white apron on her uniform.

Grace towered over the scene, standing straight, her hands folded across her stomach on the dark blue Valentina dress. She looked back into Julia's eyes as they surveyed the voluminous folds of the skirt.

Julia broke the tense silence with a smile. "What's going on?" She looked from Lizzie to Grace, then back to Lizzie and waited.

Lizzie said nothing. She wasn't near tears, but she was unsure of what was going to happen to her next. She turned to her grandmother.

Grace gave out a close-lipped smile of triumph as she swiveled in place back and forth to survey the room from on high. "Elizabeth was going to play with her watercolors. She was clearly going to get the room dirty. The set you gave her, I believe, Julia. And she was wearing atrocious clothes. Mary was having a difficult time, so I naturally stepped in to set matters right." She looked over at the maid.

Mary folded into herself and kept her eyes pinned on the floor.

Julia sat on the bed next to Lizzie. She put her arms around the little girl but looked up to her mother-in-law. "Thank you, Grace. I know you meant well. I appreciate it." Julia's smile was as cold as the marble floors in the house. "I'm home now, and I can take care of her." She pulled Lizzie to her and bent down and kissed her head. Then she looked up to Grace, still smiling.

Grace stood silent, looking at Elizabeth, maybe feeling sorry for the little girl's lack of discipline, or just disappointed at the loss of her triumph. "Come, Mary." She moved out of the room with her silent grace.

Elizabeth let out a long sigh of relief. Julia held her tight for a moment, then stood up and said, "Let's get you out of these ridiculous clothes." She opened the closet and saw Lizzie's play clothes on the floor. "What's this?"

Lizzie smiled. "I changed." Julia noted that Lizzie did not say that Grace had made her change. That was pretty clever for a little girl.

"Why?" But then Julia realized she had come in on something threatening to her. And her daughter. More threatening than it had appeared at first. She nodded with understanding. "It looks like I came home just in time." Raising her eyebrows, she said "Let's do drawing, okay?"

Lizzie nodded, but she clearly was unsure of herself. She stayed close to her mother as she changed into her bib apron and red pants. When she had them on she looked down as she rubbed her hands over them, making sure they were clean. Then she looked at her mother for approval.

"Honey, you look terrific. I am so proud of you." Julia put her hand on the bib. "Now, let's have some fun!"

Lizzie was clearly not ready yet to adopt her mother's happy demeanor. She looked over at the bed and pointed.

"What is it, honey? Show me."

Lizzie walked to the bed, then climbed on it and scuffled over to the pillows where she picked up a book. She brought it back and showed it to her mother.

"I see," Julia said as she flipped through the book. "A coloring book." She opened the book to the first page and saw the scribbles in various colors. She noted in particular, that the colors all were concentrated in the center of large spaces. Lizzie had made sure she didn't go near the black borders. Don't go near them and you won't go outside them. She knew exactly what it meant. She looked at Lizzie. "Okay, you know what, I bet grandmother got you this book didn't she?"

Lizzie nodded, not any more sure of herself.

"Darling, I know grandmother is trying to help you be neat. But it is very hard, isn't it?"

Lizzie nodded again with the same insecurity.

"Do you want to do the coloring book?"

Lizzie shook her head.

Julia smiled at her and touched her on the shoulder. "I think coloring books are a good idea and your grandmother meant to do the right thing. But they are for older kids. After you've had a lot of practice drawing on your own. Let's you and me do our own drawing. You have some blank paper in the closet don't you?"

Lizzie was smiling now and turned toward the closet.

"All right then, bring the paper and the watercolors over here to the floor and let's have some fun."

Lizzie picked up the box of water color paints, but hesitated and looked up at her mother.

"It's okay, Darling. You're wearing your play clothes, it's fine.

Julia knew she had her work cut out for her to keep Lizzie free to grow up. But she didn't know how she was going to do it unless she stayed home all day, or somehow was able to teach Mary how to take care of heLizzie. She sat back and ran her fingers through Elizabeth's red hair, then leaned over to view the paper on the floor. "Oh my, "she said, "that's lovely. Just lovely. I think we're going to have to put that one up on the wall. Next to mommy's." She looked at the yellow sun and blue-green-purple sky and dirty-brown something else. That's right, Lizzie, you just keep on painting from your gut, from your toes, your being.

Lizzie beamed. Julia beamed. Julia pulled her little girl over to her and hugged her as tight as she could, without hurting her. The little girl pulled away and went back to her paper and paints. Julia put her hands up to her face and wondered, without knowing, what Lizzie was feeling right now. Lizzie dipped her brush in red and drew a sun and looked up at her mom for one second then dripped the brush in blue.

Julia patted Lizzie on the head and kissed her forehead. Then she stood and said "I've got to change clothes, too. Will you play alone for a while?"

Lizzie didn't answer. She stopped the blue brush in the middle of a line and waited.

"I tell you what, I'll ask Mary to come in for a while. Will that be okay?"

Lizzie looked up at her mother for the answer to the question.

"I think it will be just fine. And Mary will be happy, too."

Lizzie continued with her blue line. Julia called downstairs and Mary soon opened the door. She came in, but a small frown appeared on her forehead, and she looked around the room to see who was present.

"Mary, will you watch Lizzie for a little while. I need to freshen up. It won't take long."

Mary curtsied. Julia laughed. "Mary, that's kind of old-fashioned."

Mary smiled, but hid the smile behind her hand. "Yes, I know, I get used to doing it because Mrs. Stuart likes it. But I only do it when I'm alone with her."

Interesting, Julia thought, Mary didn't hesitate to share this information. Maybe there's some sympathy there that I can take advantage of. "Well, you don't have to do it with me and Lizzie."

"I wish I could work just for you."

Julia remained silent for a moment before speaking. "Thank you, Mary-I'm just thinking out loud. But, if Hugh and I were to set up our own house-somewhere near-would you come with us? I know you were hired by Mrs. Stuart, but-"

Mary's eyes sparkled, her hand came up to her mouth. "Yes, Ma'am, I would."

Julia touched Mary on the arm. "That's very nice, Mary. It makes me feel good. But let's just keep this between us, please. I'm not even sure it will happen."

Mary nodded and knelt down beside Lizzie.

Julia stood and walked down the hallway. As she opened the door to her bedroom, Grace's cold voice came from behind her.

"Julia, may I have a moment with you?"

Julia turned to look at her. "Do you mind, Grace. I'm very hot in these clothes. Just let me change. Will that be all right? And I'll be right there. In your room? Or in the library?"

"In my room, if you please. It will be more private."

Julia showered fast and changed into black slacks and a scarlet cardigan and walked down the hallway to Grace's room. She knocked once with a quiet little tap and waited.

"Please come in, Julia."

Grace sat at her Chippendale desk, wearing a white satin robe, poised with a silver pen in her hand, as if writing a note in a book. She turned on her chair, pulled one side of the robe over to cover her legs, and looked at Julia with stern eyes. "Do sit down, Julia," she said in a warm voice that didn't have honesty behind it. She pointed to the French antique chair upholstered in cream brocade.

Julia knew that the look in Grace's eyes meant more than the honey in her voice. This was not going to be a comfy little chat. "If you don't mind, Grace, I prefer to stand."

Grace nodded and the warmth left her voice. "As you wish, my dear. I'll come right to the point."

"Please do," Julia said, folding her hands in front of her to imitate the schoolgirl look that she thought the treatment warranted.

Grace put one leg over the other and adjusted the robe again, then put her hands one on top of the other on her knee. "It has come to my attention-"

Julia frowned and moved one step closer to Grace, who raised her head to look down her nose. "Your attention that what, Grace?"

Grace looked into Julia's eyes, head not moving. "My attention, if I may continue, that you are engaging in behavior that will bring disgrace upon this house."

Julia wanted to laugh. She had done nothing whatsoever that anyone would relate to the grace of this house. Nothing. She tried to keep a straight face but could see that Grace was insulted by her attempt.

Grace stood. "Tell me I'm wrong, Julia. Tell me where you were this morning."

Julia couldn't speak for a moment. Then she understood that Grace had some agenda. But she wasn't going to accept it. "Where I was? Where I was this morning is no business of yours."

"Oh, but it is, my Dear," Grace replied, her voice rising. "Where you go is important to your husband and to your family."

Julia scrunched up her face, almost in mockery. "Grace, not every detail of every day is important."

"Don't try and change the subject. Just tell me where you went."

Julia decided that the only way out was to play along to see what her mother-in-law was up to. "I was in art class."

Grace scoffed. "Art class. Indeed. I expect you to be honest with me."

"Honest? I'm afraid I don't understand, Grace. You're going to have to explain what this is all about because you have me at a disadvantage. I don't know what you're talking about."

Grace sighed. "All right, if you force me." She shook her head, looking down, then up at Julia. "You were in Harlem today. And with some Italian man. And we know that Italian man would be the same one who met you at the train station."

Julia put her hands over her face and laughed. "What? You have got to be kidding. I go to art class and study art in New York, and you turn it into something-sinister?"

"I'm not turning anything, young lady. One of my best friends called me today. Your reputation is already something of gossip, it appears. She called me out of friendship." Grace put her hands together and looked at the floor. "Who knows how many other people she has called."

"Grace-."

Grace stood up. "Oh, no, don't act so righteous." She took three steps and turned around to face Julia. "Don't act so indignant. You owe me a proper explanation." She stood straight, arms down at her side. "You owe your husband an explanation."

Julia put her hands behind her back, lowered her head, and realized that Grace was not going to give up. She lifted her head, stared into Grace's eyes, and waited several seconds before speaking. "I don't owe you an explanation, but you seem to think you need one. I already told you I was in art class. The class went to Harlem to view paintings in the corridors of the Harlem Hospital. I wasn't there with the professor, I was there with ten other students. Does that satisfy you?"

"Well, it's up to your husband to decide."

"Good God, Grace, will you get out of my marriage."

Grace's eyes widened. She walked to her desk, sat down, and leaned on her elbows, facing away from Julia. She lowered her voice. "You don't know what you are doing, Julia." She remained quiet.

Julia waited, then walked out of the room, her heart pounding.

*

Hugh heard a stampede of little feet and then a yellow blur ran past the door to his office. He slapped his knee and leaned back in his chair. "Elizabeth?"

The footsteps stopped.

"Elizabeth, come in and see me."

The footsteps started at a more measured pace and then a small hand held onto the door frame. A redheaded girl, a green ribbon in her hair, peeked around the corner and looked in with a serious face. She waited at that awkward angle.

"Sweetheart come on and sit on my lap. I'm not mad at you." Hugh turned his chair away from the desk and put out his arms.

Elizabeth came running into the room and climbed up on his lap and laid her head on his chest. Hugh rocked her back and forth for a few moments and patted her on the head. She let out a long sigh and relaxed. Then she sat up and smiled as he ran his fingers through her hair, and put her hands out on the desk on the papers.

"What's this, daddy?"

Hugh laughed. "Oh, it's just some papers I'm working on, you know, Daddy's work, so we can pay the bills."

Elizabeth sat back again and put her finger in her mouth and looked around the room, tired and bored again.

He looked down at her and picked up her little hand and held it warmly. "You know what? You know I don't care if you play with the ticker tape as long as you take it from the wastebasket. Will you do that for me?"

She nodded, her fingers still in her mouth.

He held her and made her sit up and twisted her to face him. "I have something for you. Of course, I don't have it just yet but I do have something for you. Would you like to know what it is?"

Elizabeth clapped her hands together and smiled and looked up at him.

He looked in her eyes and smiled back at her. "I love you very much, you are my wonderful little girl. You know we live just two blocks from Central Park, the best park in the whole world. And I have something there for you."

She took a deep breath and waited.

"Okay, I can see you are impatient. I'll tell you what it is. It's a pony."

She screamed and jumped up and down and wriggled on his lap and put her hands over her face and said "Oh no, where will we put it? Can I ride it now? Where is it?"

Hugh laughed and rubbed the top of her head. "It's in Central Park, Honey, we couldn't bring it here, it's too big." He gave her a hug, pulled her head down to his chest and began rocking again. "A pony can't live in a house. It needs a stable with lots of hay to eat. And oats."

Elizabeth pulled herself away and looked at him, a puzzle on her face. "What are oats, Daddy?"

"Oatmeal, Elizabeth, but uncooked. Horses love them, apples, too."

Elizabeth looked off in the distance, dreaming. "Let's take apples to the pony?"

Hugh began to recognize the children's infinite line of questioning. He picked her up and put her on the floor and held her hands and said, "Hold on a minute, my little cowgirl, we don't even have the pony yet." He also realized he didn't have a good handle on children's reaction times. "All in good time."

"When, Daddy?"

"I have to talk to the people in the Park, but I promise you next week."

Elizabeth frowned. "When?"

Hugh frowned, knowing he had put himself in an untenable position. "All right, Elizabeth, I will call tomorrow. You can ask me then. Now run along and play."

Elizabeth smiled at him and ran off trotting like her little pony.

Before she reached the door he called out, "Daddy's little girl?"

She turned back and nodded but kept on prancing out the door.

Hugh leaned back in his chair, drummed his fingers on the desk and thought, "Hmmm. Yes. My little girl."

*

The phone rang insistently. Hugh walked at a deliberate pace back to his desk. No phone call made him hurry. He sat at his desk and looked at the picture of himself, Julia and Elizabeth for a moment. His arm is around his wife's waist and she looks up at him in admiration. In between them Elizabeth stands in a rigid pose except that her head is turned up to look at her father as well as he stares directly into the camera.

Hugh picked up the phone ready for a fight. He lifted an unlit cigar up off the ashtray and put it in his mouth. He let them wait while he lit it and then he spoke. "Yes, what is it?" He said it loud to make sure they understood he had no patience today for wasting time.

"Mister Stuart, this is Elmer Griesbeck."

Hugh rolled his eyes and took the cigar out of his mouth. He put both elbows on his desk. "This better be good news Elmer. I hope you have taken care of everything."

There was a short silence on the line. "Well-Sir-I did what I could but things have gotten out of hand."

Hugh's voice rose. "Out of hand? What the hell do you mean? You said you could handle this." "Shit," he said to himself, not caring whether Elmer heard him. "Shit," he said again out loud into the telephone. "Tell me what it is Elmer that you cannot do."

"You see, Sir, a little kid died in the apartment on Orchard Street. From his burns." Elmer's voice began to shake.

"I see. I'm sorry about that. What started the fire?"

Hugh could hear Elmer breathing into the phone. "Elmer, tell me how it happened, dammit."

"We don't know exactly, Sir, just that there was a fire and the little boy was killed and a couple of other people were burned."

"What does this have to do with me?" These damn people were always trying to pass the buck.

"I'm sorry, Sir,-"

Hugh slammed his fist down on the desk. The picture jumped up and then fell down flat. "Elmer it's clear, you're not competent at this. I'll find somebody who is-"

Elmer didn't let him finish his sentence. "The fire marshal is here, Sir." There was satisfaction in Elmer's voice as he announced this. He was off the hook and Hugh was on it. "I'll put him on the line."

Hugh let out a sigh. Damn, he didn't even know where the building was. He had never been there. It was something he had inherited from his father and he had no cause to ever go down and mix with that kind of people.

A new voice came on the phone. "Mister Stuart?"

Hugh let his cigar drop into the ashtray and then let his hand fall on his thigh. "Yes, this is Hugh Stuart. With whom am I speaking?" He shook his head. He stood up as if this were going to give him some kind of leverage over the voice on the other end of the line.

The voice was much more assured and self-confident than Elmer's pusillanimous squawking. "Mister Stuart my name is Theobald Matthew. I am the fire marshal for lower Manhattan. I understand you are the owner of the building at 108 Orchard Street, is that true?"

Hugh did not know the address of the building. He had never needed to know. All he had never seen was the aggregated rent receipts. "Yes, I suppose I am," he said, his voice clearly showing his irritation.

The marshal responded with a voice that had a hard edge. "You suppose you are. Now either you are the owner or you are not, Mister Stuart. Which is it?"

Hugh sat down and leaned over his desk. He knew that he was not going to be able to intimidate the fire marshal the way he was able to intimidate his own employees. There were lawyers for that. "What I meant was that I do not manage these properties myself. The gentleman there with you is the man who is responsible for managing the property. He is the one who knows the exact house numbers."

The line went silent, and you could hear the fire marshal talking to Elmer in the background. Then the fire marshal came back online. "Well, it seems you are the responsible party Mister Stuart. I'm calling to inform you that one of your tenants has died in a fire. Several others were burned. We are in the middle of an investigation as to the cause of the fire and I am informing you now that you are a principal participant in this investigation. And by principal participant I mean you Mister Stuart, not your manager and not your secretary. Is that clear?"

Hugh had never heard an accusation like that in his entire life. He let the man wait for several seconds. Then he said, in as pleasant a voice as he could project under the circumstances, "Mister Matthew, I certainly understand my rights and my responsibilities as a property owner in the city of New York. You can have complete confidence that myself and my company will support your investigation to the fullest. We will help you find out how these tenants started this fire," and here Hugh stopped to feel for the right word for these lazy, uneducated-"and they will be assisted to learn the proper fire safety for the places where they live."

"Ah, I see," said the fire marshal, "you appear to have already made your own investigation and determined that the people who were burned are responsible for the fire. Well, Mister Stuart, we don't act so fast. We have to wait for investigators to go over the evidence and prepare a report. Then we will determine whether those poor burned people did it all by themselves, or -" and he paused for effect, "whether there were any building code violations that contributed to this unfortunate loss of life."

Hugh fumed. He gnashed his teeth. He looked at the cigar in the ashtray, at its ashes. Then he took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. He smiled as he said spoke into the telephone. "Mister Matthew, you will have our full and unimpeded assistance. We will help you in whatever way we can. Now if you would be so kind as to put my manager back on the phone, I will say the same thing to him."

"Thank you very much Mister Stuart, your cooperation is appreciated by the fire department of the city of New York, always striving to protect." Hugh heard the smile in the fire marshals voice.

Elmer Griesbeck came on the phone. He had not gained any more self-assurance. "Yes, Mister Stuart -"

"Elmer you are to give the fire marshal your complete and undivided attention to resolve this matter, is that understood?"

"Yes it is Sir."

"Then that is all for now, Elmer. Please keep me informed."

"Yes, sir."

Hugh slammed the phone down. He picked up his cigar and lit it, sucked on it, then blew out smoke toward the ceiling. He picked up the phone and dialed his lawyer.

"Good morning," came the pleasant voice, "law firm of Krause and Stone. How may I direct your call?"

"This is Hugh Stuart. Put me through to Leonard Krause."

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't be sorry young lady, just get me Leonard. Now."

"Yes, sir," she said in a shaky voice, "I will try."

"You tell him I want to speak to him now, got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now go tell him. Tell him Hugh Stuart wants to talk to him and it's important. Tell him somebody died and they want to blame me. You understand?"

"Yes, sir." Then the line went silent.

Hugh puffed on his cigar until he was surrounded by a cloud. He swiveled his chair around and looked at the gray buildings across the street.

"Hugh?"

"Leonard."

"What can I do for you? You will have to excuse me, I am with somebody in my office right now and I can't just throw them out."

"Leonard I have a problem and you had better fix it. When can you get over here?"

"To be honest with you, I just can't get away this afternoon at the moment. It's a day of emergencies. I will wrap this up and be over late this afternoon. I could have one of my associates handle this if you like."

Oh, there they go, shoving their subordinates off on me. "Hell, no. You're my lawyer."

"That's fine, I'll be there. Do me one favor, Hugh, I'm going to put someone else on the phone who can do some preliminary research on this and then I'll bring that with me."

Hugh sighed, defeated for the moment. "All right put him on."

The line went silent for several moments and then a young woman's voice came on. "Yes Mister Stuart, can you please hold on for one minute?"

Hugh shook his head in frustration. "Who the hell are you? I need a lawyer, not a secretary."

"I understand that, but Mister Krause asked me to hold the phone while he goes for one of his associates. That's all I've been asked to do, Sir."

Hugh fumed, but waited until a man's voice came on the phone.

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Stuart, this is Albert Williams. I'm taking notes on what you say, Sir."

"All right, here it is. There was a fire at one of my properties at 108 Orchard Street. The fire marshal is investigating. I want to know what is going on and what my liability is. You got that?"

"Yes Sir, I do. Thank you, Sir."

"Okay." Hugh put the phone down and then put out his cigar. I hope I don't have to do everything myself, he thought.

He straightened his vest, then went out into the hallway and listened. He heard Elizabeth at the end of the hallway in her room singing to herself. He went into the library. Nobody. He knocked on his mother's door. No answer. He went to his and Julia's bedroom. Empty. Damn!

He went back to the library and pushed the button to ring the kitchen. He poured himself a finger of Johnny Walker Black and sat in his red leather wingback chair. He sipped on the Scotch and pumped his toe up and down. When he heard the door open, he jumped up and twisted around to face Willow.

She stood quiet and mute and rigid just inside the door.

He swept his arm in a grand arc and said, "Where the hell is everybody? "

Willow answered in a mousy little voice, "I don't know, Sir."

"Is Elizabeth in there all by herself?" He frowned and took another sip of his drink.

Willow looked down at the floor. "Oh no, Sir, Mary is in with her."

"Where's my wife?"

Willow's looked up, her eyes opened wide. "I'm afraid I don't know, Sir."

"Where's my mother?"

"I don't know that either, Sir. They didn't say anything to me."

Hugh put his arm out on the chair and tapped his toe on the floor. "I see. Well then I will tell you, Willow. We're having a guest for dinner tonight. Make sure that a place is set for six thirty. What are we having?"

"I'm afraid it's just leftovers, Sir. From last night. Mrs. Stuart said that was all right. She said I should -"

Hugh shook his head in frustration. "Well, I'll tell you what, Willow, you go down to the delicatessen and you get something nice for dinner tonight. Can you do that?"

"Yes, of course I can, what should I get, Sir?"

He raised his hands up, spilling a little of his Scotch on the floor. He moved his foot out of the way, looked down, and held the glass up high is if that were going to help. "Shit!" He looked back up at her. "How the hell do I know? How long you been doing this? Just go do it."

Willow turned and went out the door, closing it without making a sound so that she could disappear.

Hugh sat back down in his chair. So, here I am, he thought. He turned his mouth down. Now I have to do the cooking. Gold is going to go through the roof. I have the opportunity of a lifetime. And I have to spend my time putting out fires. He laughed as he caught his pun, unintended or not. He finished his drink and left the library, but before he opened the door he did what he always did. He looked at his father's portrait over the fireplace. Stern, solemn, strong, demanding, George Randolph Stuart. But Hugh wasn't aware that he did it every time he entered or left the room. Or that he desperately wanted his dead father's approval.

"Why the hell do I have to do everything myself?"

*

Leonard Krause, dressed in a black pinstripe suit, with a dark red tie set off by his heavily starched white shirt, stood before the painting of Hugh's father above the mantelpiece. He swirled his single-barrel Jack Daniels around the glass, looked into the amber liquid, sipped just a little, let out a breath, then looked up at the painting. "Your father was a great man, Hugh."

Hugh nodded, looking up at the hard eyes that glared down at him. "Yes, he certainly was." In imitation of Leonard he swirled his whiskey in his glass.

Grace's voice came from behind them. "A great man in a great family," she said with admiration on her face as she looked up to the painting. .

The two men turned to face her. Leonard raised his glass to her, and smiling, said "You look beautiful as always, Grace."

Hugh, trying to catch up with his lawyer on civility, raised his glass quickly.

Grace smiled and raised her glass of white wine but looked only at Leonard. "Why thank you very much, Sir. It's Christian Dior." She smoothed the long line of the black silk skirt.

"Oh?" Leonard said. He turned toward Hugh and smiled in feigned embarrassment, "I'm afraid I don't know him." Then he swiveled back to Grace. "If it's a him. But then I don't know dress designers. Only the ones that my wife wears and she thinks I should know."

"Oh, yes, he's a new designer for Robert Piquet. I thought I would try him out for tonight."

"Well, I certainly will recommend him to Marianne. I'm sure she will be calling you about it." He looked over his glasses at her. "Probably soon after I get home."

"Who's getting home?"

At Julia's voice they all turned toward the door. She walked in with a smile and wore a bright orange floral dress with large ruffles across the top. Her blonde hair fell in long curls down to her shoulders. She carried a martini glass

Leonard gave her a broad grin. "I will be eventually, Julia. You look lovely tonight." Then he swiveled to face each of the women in turn, "You and Grace both."

Julia curtsied, one hand on her hem, the other careful to keep her cocktail glass from spilling. "Thank you, Leonard. I hope Marianne is well."

Leonard nodded. "Thank you, yes, I'll tell her you asked after her."

Grace's smile stayed on her face but it lost its luster.

The room fell silent. They all sipped.

Grace's eyes betrayed her concern at the lawyers presence in her house, but she didn't ask why. She turned to Leonard and said, "Dinner will be ready in just a little while. I have to thank my son for ordering it. We were all busy doing other things today."

Leonard laughed. "Yes, he has the burden, since he invited me to dinner tonight, with not much advance notice, I can tell you." He laughed again, leaning toward Hugh in companionable sympathy.

"Is there something special, Leonard-" Julia said.

Leonard pushed his drink toward Hugh.

Hugh shuffled his feet, then looked at his mother. "You see, Mother, it's about the property on Orchard Street."

Grace put her hand on her chest. Her fears had been justified. "Oh, I do hope it's nothing serious. I remember when your father purchased that property. I must tell you, I thought it was-what shall we say-below par, I wouldn't even go down there to see it, but he said it would pay off in the long run. Is something wrong down there?"

Hugh looked at Leonard, who remained silent, his face expressionless. Then he spoke to Grace. "It seems there's been a fire there. One of the tenants died. The Fire Commissioner wants to talk to us about it. But I'm sure we have no responsibility for the fire." He pointed his glass at the lawyer. "That's what Leonard is here to talk about, he's going to fill me in with the details. The timing couldn't be worse. I've got a meeting with Sachs tomorrow, to increase our holdings in gold, and now this has to happen." Then Hugh motioned to Leonard to continue.

Grace and Julia, both quiet but with eyes open wide, waited for Leonard's response. Grace's eyes shone with fear. Julia had started with news of the death of a tenant and now watched Hugh and Leonard with barely restrained disapproval. Why had she not been told?

Leonard shuffled his feet and gave a quick glance at Hugh before speaking. He seemed unsure how much he should reveal. "Well, as you know, this property was left in equal parts to you, Grace," he said, lifting a finger from his glass and pointing at her, "and to Hugh. So it's not just a financial matter, it's also a family responsibility. And I understand completely Hugh's situation."

"I see," Grace said. "Perhaps the three of us ought to discuss this alone." She turned to Julia. "This doesn't really concern you, My Dear."

Julia, surprised, said, "I think this definitely concerns me if it concerns my husband. I'm especially worried if a tenant has died. Do we know anything about that?"

Hugh raised his eyebrows and looked at Leonard. "That's why our friend is here this evening. I wanted him to come earlier, but we're not his only client."

Leonard finished his drink and looked for a place to put it down. Grace held out her hand and took it from him.

"Perhaps we should all sit down," he said.

When they were all seated, he spoke. "We know these people aren't careful about-", he surveyed the room, "quite frankly, about everyday life. Someone there, we don't quite know who, started a fire in their apartment. The Commissioner hasn't completed his investigation, so we are not sure of all the details yet. These buildings-"

Julia interrupted him. "Buildings? You mean more than one?"

Leonard smiled, but he kept his lips closed as he did it. "No, Julia. Only the one, and the fire was contained within the one apartment. What I was going to say-there are several buildings that were constructed at the same time, in the late 1890s. This is one of those buildings. And that's very important to our case."

Grace sat up, bewildered and afraid. "Our case? Oh my god, what does that mean?" She swiveled her gaze between Leonard and Hugh.

Leonard smiled again, and made a patting motion in the air with his hand. "No, no, Grace. I'm sorry. That's just the lawyer talking. There is no case. Not in the legal sense, anyway. I should have said 'in this instance'."

Grace relaxed and smiled at Hugh before turning to Leonard. "You were saying, about the buildings?"

Leonard continued. "The building were constructed in the late 1890s. That means they have been grandfathered."

Grace interrupted again. "Grandfathered?"

Hugh said, "Mother, it's a technical term. You have not been involved in all of this for years. Father did it all for you, and now I'm doing it. I don't want Leonard to have to explain every legal term you're not familiar with."

Grace looked ashamed, but she didn't let her point go as she glared at her son, her voice quavering. "Don't talk to me like that, Hugh. First you tell me the fire marshal is coming after me, and now you sound like you want to keep me in the dark." She sat back in her chair, satisfied that she had made her point.

Hugh nodded in deference. "Yes, Mother, of course, you are right. Leonard, will you please explain the term for all of us." He made a quick glance over to Julia and back to Leonard.

Leonard continued. "Let me explain the issue first. The fire started with the wainscoting. You know, wood paneling about three feet up the wall. It has varnish on it, and varnish is particularly flammable. Now, Grace, this has been superseded by modern building codes. But back in early 1890 building codes permitted it."

Julia spoke up. "So why didn't we change the wainscoting when the new codes came out?"

Hugh frowned at her. "First of all, this all happened before we owned the buildings. So it doesn't apply to our assets." He looked over at Leonard.

Leonard nodded. "That's right. But you see, Julia, property owners can't change everything they own every time the code changes. That would be prohibitively expensive-"

Hugh jumped in. "So, then, when new buildings are constructed, they then become subject to the new codes. Wainscoting with varnish is perfectly proper on our very old property. It was, after all, constructed in the last century."

Julia wouldn't let it go. "Yes, property, I understand." She stood up. "Varnish I understand. But this was a human life, Hugh. We can't treat a human life like property."

Leonard put his hand out and stopped Hugh from speaking. "You are of course right on this, Julia. I applaud your concern. But I'm here as your attorney. I'm here to discuss your legal situation."

"Legal? No." She stood, put her hand up to her forehead, then addressed them all with a loud voice. "This is a moral situation," she said, with an emphasis on 'moral'. She looked to Grace for support, but as soon as she saw the woman she knew there was none from her mother-in-law. She turned to Hugh, who was looking down at the floor, leaving all the defending to be done by Leonard.

Leonard sighed. "I'm sorry, but I must correct you. I'm your lawyer, not your pastor. I am not in a moral situation here. You have to work that out in your own conscience. I can't bill you for that, now, can I? And you must understand this, Julia. I have talked to the fire commissioner for Lower Manhattan. That's what I came to talk to you about. I know him, he's a fine man, but he tries to go beyond his authority. He thinks he is a one-man crusade to convince people to upgrade their property according to his modern standards. He's Irish, the tenants are Irish-well, I can tell you, he has no authority. He now knows that we won't fall for this tactic."

Grace let out an audible sigh. She leaned forward, smiled and laughed at the same time. "Thank God for that, Leonard. Can't thank you enough. Oh my goodness. What a relief. I'm up for a refill on my wine." She stood and walked over to the wall and pulled open a cabinet and picked up a rhine-shaped bottle of white wine in a silver cooler. Still smiling, she filled her glass and took a drink. "Now that's refreshing. Can I get anyone else a drink?"

Julia took a sip out of her glass while she shook her head and looked down, her lips straight. Leonard said no with a gesture. Hugh sat back in his chair, raising his eyebrows at his mother's unusual behavior.

"It's not quite over yet," Leonard said, cocking his head and looking out over his glasses.

Grace put her wine glass down on the green marble counter and turned to face the room. She sucked her lips in, switching her gaze between Hugh and Leonard.

"I don't mean to alarm you, Grace. And quite frankly, it's why I don't like to give people information outside of the office. I should have spoken to Hugh alone. Here we are in your magnificent library discussing this-trage-this mess."

Grace came back to her chair and sat down, but she sat up straight leaning forward, her hands on her knees.

"The fire marshal's investigation will show that the tenants were completely at fault. But it is still one of your properties, and you would be well advised to have your property management people pay careful attention. This property will now be on the marshal's list, his watch list. I merely want to advise you to take this opportunity to make absolutely sure that the property is up to code in all respects."

Hugh spoke up. "Yes, yes, you are right, Leonard, I will talk to Elmer in the morning and make sure it is taken care of. I can't thank you enough."

"Oh, yes, we are all grateful, Leonard," Grace said. "Now I think I'll take my wine in and get ready for dinner If you all just wait here a couple of minutes, I'll call you in." She looked toward Hugh with a glow in her eyes. "Perhaps Hugh should do this. I didn't know he was such a wonderful cook." She laughed as he left the room and uncharacteristically drank more wine as she walked.

When she had disappeared, Leonard turned to Hugh. "I'm glad I made at least one person happy."

Hugh put his hands on Leonard's shoulder. "I'll make sure that Elmer invites the fire marshal to see the apartment when the work is complete. And, I appreciate your visit, Leonard. As you have seen, Mother has been relieved of a great deal of stress. As have we all."

Julia's face darkened. She cleared her throat and the two men turned to face her, both waiting for her to say something they clearly did not want to deal with at the moment.

Hugh said, "My Dear, Mother has dinner waiting. Why don't we go in and eat. You and I can talk later?"

She straightened her spine. "No. I want to clear this up. My so-called moral situation."

"Which is-", Hugh said in an irritated voice, looking first at Leonard then back to his wife.

Julia knew this was the first time she had gotten involved in his business affairs. At the moment she wished she had done it earlier. She had just naively assumed that the business Hugh was the same as the Hugh she loved. And now she has to deal with the shock. "Which is, that you have now settle the question of the assets, but what about the people?"

Hugh raised his head back in disbelief. "The people? What do you mean by that? I will certainly have Elmer get right on top of this."

She opened her eyes wide. "No, Hugh. Not your staff. What about the person who died? What about the people who now have nowhere to live?"

Hugh waited several moments before he responded. He turned halfway toward Leonard, then came back. "Julia those people are not mine."

"But they have nowhere to live."

"Then they should have thought about that before they lit matches."

"Oh, Hugh, please. That place is a firetrap and you know it."

"Well, so is Yankee Stadium if you start fires."

"This isn't Yankee Stadium, it's your building."

"Dinner's ready, everybody." Grace's happy voice came from the dining room.

Julia folded her hands across her chest. Hugh put his hands in his pocket and looked down at the floor.

Leonard pursed his lips, then said in a quiet voice, "Why don't we go in. Grace is waiting on us." His eyes moved between Hugh and Julia.

Julia unfolded her hands and started to walk. "Yes, you're right. Let's have dinner."

Hugh gestured for Julia and Leonard to walk ahead of him. Leonard stood still to wait for Julia to go ahead of him. She smiled and moved to the door. Inside, her heart did not settle down. She walked alone to the dining room and sensed her isolation and loneliness in her moral world.

Once Leonard had left the house after dinner, not a word had passed between them. Or between Julia and Grace. Julia heard Hugh and Grace exchange a long dialogue while she got Lizzie ready for bed. When Lizzie fell asleep, Julia came in to the library and they all sat reading in silence. Hugh and Grace exchanged glances now and then.

That evening, as Julia and Hugh prepared to go to sleep, she sat on one side of the bed in her black satin nightslip, her arms hanging down between her legs, her shoulders hunched over, head bowed. Hugh sat on the other side in his blue striped pajamas and took his slippers off, pulled the covers back, slipped into the bed and turned the light off. Without saying a word. Julia turned her light off and lay down on her back, facing the ceiling, listening to Hugh breathe in and out. Grateful he didn't come over to her side.

*

When Julia opened her eyes in the morning, Hugh's side of the bed was empty. She listened, but his bathroom door stood open and no sound came from it. She didn't check the time, she just took a shower and got dressed in a beige slacks and a cream blouse. Without makeup or jewelry she went out to the dining room. Lizzie sat alone eating oatmeal. She looked up when she saw her mother, spoon still in mouth, but didn't react. Julia went to her and put a long kiss on her forehead and hugged her tight, having to be careful about cereal and milk and spoon.

"How's my baby today? Are you doing all right?"

Lizzie nodded without missing a spoonful.

Julia looked around the room and saw toast and coffee on the sideboard. She took a piece and began it eat it dry.

Lizzie dropped her spoon and said, "Mommy, today my pony."

Julia frowned but then raised her eyebrows. She spoke in a cartoon-serious kind of voice. "A pony? Hmm. I didn't know about this. When did this happen?"

"Yesterday."

"Yesterday when."

"Yesterday Daddy told me."

"Oh, he must not have been busy."

"I don't know. He said."

"And he said he would get it today?"

"Uh-huh."

"You know, Honey, he forgot to tell me. But I haven't seen him yet. He got up before me. I was a lazybones today."

Lizzie laughed. "Lazybones," she said to herself. Then she volunteered, "The Park."

"Oh, I see, you're going to ride the ponies in Central Park."

"No, my pony. In the park."

"Okay, if Daddy said that."

"Where is Daddy?"

"I don't know. He must be at work. I'll go see if I can find him. You'll wait here for Mary, okay?"

Lizzie nodded and dipped her spoon in the oatmeal.

Julia walked down the hall to Hugh's office. She heard his voice behind the closed door. She started to knock, and then held her hand back. Down the hall a sound of footsteps disturbed her. Then she knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Still no answer. She knew that inside Hugh talked to someone on the phone, and that he waited for his checks. Maybe he talked to the fire marshal, or-she realized she had just made up excuses for herself. She wasn't sure if she hesitated just because it would be an unpleasant scene to talk to Hugh, or because she didn't want to talk to him at all.

"Mommy!" Lizzie ran down the hallway to her mother and opened the door to Hugh's office. She stood with the door open, watching her father.

Hugh sat at his desk, listening to his phone. He put his hand up for Lizzie to stop. Then he motioned her to leave the room.

"My pony," she said, loud.

He shook his head and tightened his lips, pointing to the phone, but smiling.

Lizzie stood still.

Hugh noticed Julia standing in the doorway. He became serious as he moved his eyes down to his desk.

Lizzie looked back at her mother. Julia put her hand on the child's shoulder and pulled her out of the room, closing the door. She knelt down and ran her hand over Lizzie's hair. "Darling, you can see that Daddy's very busy. Now is not the time to talk to him about the pony."

"He promised."

"Of course he did, Lizzie. But can't you see he's got things on his mind."

Lizzie looked at the door, barely restraining herself from running back into Hugh's office. More footsteps came from down the hallway.

Lizzie turned as Grace came around the corner. She ran to her grandmother and grabbed her hand. "My pony. I want my pony."

Grace smiled down to the child with a face of bewilderment. "Oh my, a pony. I don't know about a pony. Is it in your room?"

"No, it's in the park."

Grace frowned and looked at Julia. "Do you know what this is about?"

Lizzie turned back to watch and listen to her mother, her eyes opened wide in anticipation.

Julia sighed. "Elizabeth said that Hugh promised her a pony today."

Grace leaned down to speak to Elizabeth. "Sweetheart, your father meant a stuffed pony. I'm sure. Why don't you go down to your room and see if that's what he meant."

Lizzie ran back to her mother. "No. A real pony. He said a real pony."

*

Hugh lifted his head up from his paper-strewn desk when he heard the knock on the door. "Yes?"

Mrs. Willow appeared, her head just inside the door, the bravest position she could muster. She said, her voice barely audible, "Mr. Kurt Walther is here to see you, Mr. Stuart. He said you expected him."

Hugh nodded. "Yes, I'm waiting for him. Bring him up here. And that will be all. He won't be staying long. Just leave the door open and show him where to go."

In a few moments, Kurt Walther walked in the door and strode confidently up to Hugh's desk. His dark brown hair was combed straight back from his face, and the large wrinkles on either side of his mouth made him appear in a permanent scowl. He held up his black leather briefcase, took out a check, and handed it to Hugh.

Hugh looked at the check, turned his head up to Kurt and nodded, then put the check on his desk. Kurt stood still.

Hugh said, without looking up, "That's all," as he put his finger on a piece of paper on his desk.

Kurt Walther pivoted and left the room.

Hugh picked up the phone and dialed. He waited. Then, "Yes, this is Hugh Stuart. Would you please inform Hans Seifert that I will be there in half an hour? He is expecting me."

"Of course, Mr. Stuart," said the heavily-accented voice. "We know you are coming. Thank you for your information."

Hugh frowned. "All right. Good-by." He hung up the phone without waiting for a reply, and then called Gibbons to bring the car around. He put the check in his inside coat pocket and walked down and out to the street. "Nassau and Wall, Timothy."

When they arrived, Hugh got out of the car and told Timothy to wait in the underground parking until a messenger came for him. With that, Hugh walked in the ornate building, with complex wrought-iron railings on the balcony in front of every window. He went up the marble steps to the second floor offices of Zurich International Bank, where he announced his appointment to the young receptionist with short curly blond hair, who showed him into a large conference room and pulled out a black leather chair for him. The long rosewood table drew the eye to the far wall with its huge color photograph of the Matterhorn. The other walls displayed photographs of skiers, picturesque towns, and trains chugging up the Alps.

"Would you like coffee, Sir?" she said, her voice cool and courteous. "Actually we have some rather excellent Black Forest cake today. May I offer you a piece?"

Hugh put his briefcase on the table and shook his head.

The woman adopted Hugh's perfunctory attitude. "Very well, Sir. Herr Seifert will be with you in just one moment." She walked with brisk steps out of the room.

Hugh removed his check from the briefcase and put it on the table and aligned it square before him. He heard the door open behind him, and turned to see a tall man wearing a black double-breasted suit, with white shirt and black tie. The man peered out from black glasses, his blond hair a perfect crew cut.

The man smiled and put out his hand. "Hello, Mr. Stuart, I'm Hans Seifert."

Behind Hans Seifert came two other men, each carrying large folders of papers.

"May I introduce Hermann Eisner and Rudolph Felber?"

The two men bowed formally to Hugh, and then all three sat opposite him.

"We understand you are prepared to purchase gold on the open market. That is what we learned from Mr. Bollinger. For five million dollars." He waited for Hugh's answer.

"Exactly. I have, as you see the check in front of me." Hugh moved the check an inch.

Seifert looked first at his colleagues before replying. "Let me first say, Mr. Stuart, that we at Zurich International Bank are very pleased that you have sought our bank to help you with this transaction. We believe we will be able to meet your requirements."

Hugh was puzzled by all this formal vocabulary. But, then, he understood these were Swiss bankers. "My requirements, as you put it, are to purchase gold. I can give you my check today. So, gentlemen, I believe the question is only as to how we can proceed."

Seifert nodded. "The first question we must resolve is then how you wished to take ownership of the gold."

Hugh frowned. "Ownership? I don't understand."

"You have two choices. You may purchase gold bullion, that is, actual bricks of gold, which will remain in the vault as your property."

"But I-"

Hans raised his index finger and continued. "The other option that is available to you is to make a bulk purchase of gold. You receive a certificate of ownership of gold in the value of five million dollars. But you do not have title to any specific gold bullion."

Hugh thought for a moment. "I see the difference between bullion and certificates, of course. But what the difference means to me, I don't see."

"So, the difference is this, Mr. Stuart. If you purchase gold bullion, you pay the money and you receive the number of bricks of gold according to the price. If the price of gold goes up, the value of your gold goes up with it. And vice versa. I assume you are purchasing the gold on your own behalf?"

"Yes, I am."

"It is, certainly, not our position to question what you intend to do with the gold, but you understand that there are many documents which must be completed for an international transaction."

"Of course," Hugh said, with some impatience. "But you have not told me about the gold certificates."

"Yes, yes, how careless of me. Okay, so the difference is this. The gold certificate is for a monetary amount. At the time of purchase, you are entitled to a certain amount of bold bullion. And the value of your gold always remains the same. It does not go up or down. If the value of gold goes up, then you are entitled to a lesser amount of bullion. And, once again, vice versa. This is useful for those who wish to hedge their risk. Gold bullion is for those who are willing to accept more risk in order to make a profit."

"I understand," Hugh said. "So I tell you I don't want to buy certificates, I want to buy real gold bullion."

"Thank you for that clarification, Mr. Stuart. That makes our procedure straightforward." He gave a little laugh. "Excuse me, an international transaction in these times is never simple, but now we know the direction our efforts will take."

"And that is-"

"Well, there are import-export documents to complete. I believe you have not done this before, is that correct?"

"No I have not. I am doing this for the first time."

"Understood. We will not need your check today. We must complete our transfer and other international documents with Zurich first. When we have identified exactly where the bullion is located, that is, the vault where it lies, et cetera, then we will communicate with you as to the next steps."

"How long with this take?"

"I shouldn't think it would be more than a week."

"And then, after that, how long before I receive the gold?"

Seifert looked once again at the two quiet men next to him. "Mr. Stuart, you cannot take possession of the gold here. It must remain in the vault in Switzerland."

Stuart cocked his head.

Seifert stared at Hugh several moments, and then continued. "I am sorry to disappoint you. I see it is another sign that you do not have experience in these transactions. We cannot transport the gold here. It is absolutely out of the question. And I will tell you that you cannot find another Swiss banker to do it. Or any other banker, for that matter. Go to Rothschild even, or whichever, they will not do it."

"I don't understand."

"Mr. Stuart, have you heard of U-boats?"

"U-boats? You mean German submarines? Of course I have heard of them."

"Then you understand the reason why we cannot ship gold across the Atlantic. We could not even get insurance for such a voyage. Not when U-boats have sunk nearly one hundred merchant ships. If that is your requirement, you will be severely disappointed."

"But the British have shipped tons of gold bullion to Canada for safekeeping."

"Oh, Sir, those are unsubstantiated rumors, nothing more." Seifert leaned across the table. "And even if they are true, the gold was guarded by large elements of the British and Canadian navies. I don't think you have a battleship at your disposal, do you? And correct me if I am wrong, but I doubt you can persuade the United States Navy to do it for you."

Hugh sighed and folded his hands on the table. "I do understand, believe me. I see my position. But, then, why do you believe my gold will be safe in Switzerland?"

Seifert laughed. "Mr. Stuart, the Swiss Federation has stood independent for a thousand years. Even Napoleon Bonaparte did not try to conquer our great confederations in the Swiss Alps. And now this little corporal and his beer hall Nazi party are not going to threaten Switzerland. When war breaks out, they will need us."

"Germany will need you?"

"Of course. They will be at war with France, Poland, and England, who knows. And just as they did in World War I, they will need Switzerland to deal with the outside world, including their enemy." Once again that sidelong glance at his partners. "We have gold now for the very reason that others, across Europe, especially in Poland and France are selling their gold to us. Still others are buying gold. It is all about Swiss gold now. And you know this too, Mr. Stuart. That's why you want gold bullion, because you hope that the value of gold will go up substantially when war breaks out. Do you think you are the only person doing this? Did you think we have been ringing cowbells in the alpine pasture until you came along?"

Hugh recognized the defensiveness. "Mr. Seifert, please believe me, I do not wish to argue history with you. I merely hope you understand my concerns."

"Oh, certainly, yes, we do. There is no question of that. But now you must make a decision. We will go ahead and make the necessary inquiries in Zurich so that we can have your documentation available to you. If you choose to withdraw from the transaction, it does not matter to us. Perhaps you will even feel better if you go to another bank, and see what answer you receive."

Hugh stood and held out his hand. "No, I do not wish to go to another bank. Luther Bollinger has complete confidence in you, and so do I. I will await further word from you. But, make no mistake, I wish to proceed." After shaking hands, Hugh left the building, sought out Gibbons, and went home.

*

Hugh answered the phone call and listened to the voice on the other end.

"Mister Stuart, this is Hans Seifert from Zurich International Bank. I have received a communication from the bank headquarters. We are able to fulfill your request for the purchase of 5 million dollars in gold bullion. The documents are ready and I suggest that I bring them to you today. This presumes of course that you wish to proceed with the transaction."

Hugh had been waiting for this phone call. He took no time thinking about his reply. "Hans, if I may call you that, now that we are business partners, you suggest the time and I shall be waiting for you in my office here at the corner of 85th and Park Avenue. It's my home so you won't have any problem getting in the building. I mean you won't have to make a choice. In fact, I should be here all afternoon and you may choose your time."

"Mister Stuart, oh yes, excuse me, of course, Hugh, I shall be there at two p.m. precisely. Good day to you, until we see each other again. For now, goodbye."

Hugh hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. Then he went in search of Grace and Julia. He found Grace in her room, at her Victorian mahogany writing table. "Mother, we have an important person coming this afternoon. I would like you to meet him, and perhaps join us in the library for sherry or something."

Grace raised her eyebrows." Oh my, I hope this isn't going to be like the last person you brought in without warning."

Hugh laughed. "No that was a semi-emergency, Mother. This is a very important business transaction."

She stood and put her pen on the table. "Well, I am quite pleased to hear that. Who is it this time?"

"Hans Seifert, from Zurich International Bank. I am buying some gold from them and he's bringing the paperwork over here."

"How convenient."

"I don't think it's a matter of convenience at all. It's a matter of treating your customer right. Anyway, I will go over the paperwork with him in my office and then we will go to the library. I will ask Julia to join us."

Grace frowned. "Is that necessary? I don't even know if she is here. She went off this morning, ran out the door saying she was going to the art league, or wherever it is she goes these days. Quite frankly, Hugh, I don't like it at all and I think you should talk to her about it."

Hugh sighed. "Mother, I want to keep to the topic at hand, please. Actually, I don't think we need to discuss this any further. Would you please advise Willow to expect him around two and have her show him up to my office immediately? I don't want him to wait any time at all."

"Of course, Darling, I think it's exciting."

Hugh went in search of Julia. Mary was with Elizabeth in the playroom looking at picture books, and said that Julia was at an art class and had said she would be back at any moment. Hugh thought about that, then gave Elizabeth a little kiss on the top of her head and started to leave."

"Daddy, where's my pony?"

Hugh turned back and smiled at his daughter. "I'm sorry, Sweetheart. Yes, your pony. I have not forgotten that. No I haven't. Here's what's going to happen. I went over there, to Central Park, to the stables. And they didn't have anything available now."

Elizabeth put her head down and began to cry. Hugh knelt down next to her, and turned her chin up. He took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "Now, my little Elizabeth, don't you worry. I have it all worked out. You know what I did?"

She rubbed her eyes and shook her head, waiting for some good news.

"I have ordered a pony from Kentucky. You know, that's where they have the thoroughbred horses, for the races. And there's one on a truck right now, coming up here for you. It will only take a few days, and it will be here. Okay?"

Elizabeth nodded, looked up at Mary, her eyes brimming, then pulled the picture book up close and pretended to concentrate on it. Hugh stood, patted her on the head, and left.

As he walked down the hallway to his office, the front door opened and Julia walked in. Her blond hair was a mess, her face hot. Hugh waited at the banister at the top of the stairs while she came up.

"Julia, you look atrocious. Why are you so sweaty?"

She looked at him in surprise. "Why? I don't know. I guess because it's warm outside."

"Where were you?"

"Where I most always am when I'm out. At the Art League. Studying. Haven't we had this conversation before?"

"My god, why don't you ever tell me where you're going?"

She looked at him in amazement, halfway up the stairs, her hand on the banister. "Oh. Maybe I will, when you start telling me."

He pulled away from the banister and half-twisted, and then turned back. "You are not presentable. A gentleman from the Zurich bank will be here in just an hour, and you are not fit to be introduced to him."

Her eyes opened wide. "Oh, Zurich bank. And you want to introduce me? What is this all about?" She finished climbing the stairs and leaned against the wall, then thought better of it. She pulled her hair away from her face.

"This is important for our future, Julia. For the family. It's a very valuable business connection. He's coming here, that shows that the bank considers us to be important partners. Now would you please go and get ready."

"Sure."

"And from now on, will you take the car when you go out. Gibbons is here for that purpose."

"The car? A limousine with a chauffeur? I'm supposed to get out in front of the Art League in a limousine? I don't think so, Hugh. I would look ridiculous. The subway's an easy ride from here." She turned and went into their room.

Hugh pounded his hand on the banister and walked down to his office.

*

In his office, Hugh looked up from his desk when he heard the doorbell ring. Rather than wait for Mrs. Willow he went down to the entrance foyer, waving her off when he saw her coming in from the kitchen. He opened the door, greeted Hans Seifert warmly, and took him up the stairs to his office.

"Please, have a seat." Hugh pointed to the red leather chair in front of his desk.

Seifert put his briefcase on the floor and spoke as he opened it and searched for documents. "Hugh, as we discussed on the phone, your transaction has been approved. Our Zurich headquarters expedited your request, which is important under the circumstances of events in Europe. We have deposited your check with our New York bank, J.P. Morgan and Company, but-"

Hugh looked surprised as he interrupted Seifert. "J.P. Morgan? That's another bank."

Seifert nodded and smiled. "Mr. Stuart, we are an international business bank, not a retail bank. By design. Is this your first international transaction?"

Hugh, humbled, responded. "No, but it's my first one for five million dollars during a time when we are headed for war."

"I see." Seifert thought for a moment. "Do you have any concerns about our bank? You did diligently study Zurich Bank before you came to us, did you not?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Luther did that for us. No problem there."

"Good, then it's just a case of first time jitters. Or rather, caution. I understand perfectly. Why don't we proceed with signing the necessary documents?"

Hugh nodded.

Seifert brought the stack of documents to Hugh's side of the desk and put them before him. "I'll go through them one by one, and we'll both sign each one at the same time. Is that satisfactory for you?"

"Certainly."

When they had finished signing the documents, Seifert gathered one set and handed it to Hugh, then walked back to his chair and put the other set in his briefcase.

Hugh put the papers in a drawer in his desk. "Can I offer you coffee, or a cigarette, or a cigar, for that matter?"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Stuart, but I don't smoke."

"How about we go to the library then, and have, say a glass of sherry or something?"

"That would be fine. I would like to see your library. You have a fine home, that much is evident."

"Wait just one minute, Hans, while I make arrangements for my wife and mother to meet us there."

"Certainly."

Hugh found both of them in the library, each quietly reading. Julia had changed to a black silk pleated dress, and her hair fell in lovely curls around her shoulder. Grace wore a Navy blue day dress with small flowers. They both looked up and smiled expectantly. "I'll be right back," he said.

Hugh ushered Hans into the library and introduced him. The women stood. Hans offered his hand with a formal Germanic bow to Grace, and kissed her hand as he looked her in the eyes, which she accepted with a wide smile. She looked over to Hugh in obvious approval. Hans turned and did the same to Julia, who also smiled, but the smile was formal and reserved.

"Hans and I have completed the transaction for the gold bullion. I hope we will be able to complete more transactions in the future."

Hans nodded. "Yes, it is my hope as well. We do have war preparations all over Europe. As you know, the Spanish civil war was concluded just last April, but the German armed forces are poised on the border with Poland, and so, matters will become very complicated. Mr. Stuart was wise to complete these transactions before war breaks out again."

Grace sat up and folded her hands on her chest, her eyes dark. "War? Surely there will not be war?"

Hans looked at Hugh for a hint of how to proceed. Hugh turned to his mother.

"Mother, you do read the papers. You know that war is likely in Europe. War is always likely in Europe. But we shall stay out of it. We learned our lesson the last time."

Hans smiled, then said, "And, as you also know, Switzerland has been a neutral country for over a thousand years. Your investment is safe with us."

Grace sat back, relieved.

Hans's eyes moved around the room, and then he made a sweeping gesture with a hand. "I see you have some lovely paintings in this room. Would you mind if I observed them more closely?" He said this to Grace, who looked at Hugh.

Hugh motioned for Hans to follow him to a wall. Together they stood before the Signac.

Hans nodded in appreciation. "Of course, I am not an art expert, but as an amateur of painting, I see you have something wonderful here." He made a movement to get closer to the painting. "May I?" After Hugh gestured, Hans took out a pair of glasses and looked closely at the painting. Then he turned to Grace. "I'm not very familiar with Signac, but this is quite beautiful. I admire your taste." Then, as if he recognized an error, he turned to Julia. "Everything in this room is lovely. We do have a painting by Paul Signac in the Kunsthaus Zurich, but I don't remember its title. So, we have something in common, then. The next time I return home I shall be certain to visit the museum."

"Are you from Zurich, Mr. Seifert?" said Grace.

"Not exactly. I am from a very small town near there. Schubelbach. It's on the road to Liechtenstein. Well, of course, that doesn't tell you much. My home, now, since I've been at the bank is in Zurich. And-"he made a bow and smile of pretend embarrassment, "Albert Einstein did his famous work in Zurich." He looked around the room, waiting for their reaction.

Grace and Hugh smiled.

Julia said, "You must have many famous paintings in the Zurich museum, Mr. Seifert."

Hans nodded. "Yes, the Kunsthaus is a major European museum. But, you know, you have your own modest museum here in your home."

Hugh said, "The-as you say-modest pieces here in the library were collected by my mother and father. In my office, you may have noticed, the walls are bare. I have not yet started collecting art." He looked over to Julia. "My wife is an art student, and perhaps one day we shall also collect something."

Hans turned to Julia. "Do you have a favorite painting, Mrs. Stuart?"

Julia noted that Hans didn't ask her about her own painting. Had Hugh already advised him that hers wasn't good enough for hanging where family and friends could see it? "I'm with you, Mr. Seifert. My favorite in this room is the Signac. But I also very much like Cross's La Terrasse Fleurie."

Hans gave a little bow. "Yes, I can see that. And my I also observe you have a beautiful French accent. Have you studied in Paris?"

Julia laughed. "Thank you. No, I haven't been that fortunate. But my mother was French, and she taught me as a child. I'm afraid I don't speak it much, but I do remember my mother's wonderful accent."

Hans looked at Hugh, then Julia. "May I make a suggestion? Hugh, you stated that you would like to put some pieces of art in your office. Did I understand you correctly?"

Hugh, puzzled, nodded and said "Yes, I would like that."

"Well, then, perhaps I could be of service to you. I have a friend, also from Zurich, who could show you some paintings you might be interested in. His name is Karl Epple. He doesn't have a gallery per se, but he has a home here in Manhattan where he has what you might call an informal gallery. You see, he has just recently established himself here in the United States. I myself was satisfied to be able to help him find suitable lodging. If you would allow me to introduce you to Karl, I would be very happy."

Hugh looked at Julia. "My Dear, what do you think?"

"Of course," she said. "We haven't as yet made any plans for acquiring art for Hugh's office. Your friend Mr. Epple would be an excellent place to start." She was startled to learn that she had suddenly become valuable to Hugh, she whose art hung in a child's bedroom.

"Naturally," Hans said. "But you see, I note that you have such fine taste, it would be very important for Karl, Mr. Epple, to have you as patrons. Oh, that may be too strong a word. Customers, shall we say? And there is no obligation. I am merely happy if I have brought people together. I can arrange it for next week if you like?"

Julia said, "Where hi-- his-informal gallery-Mr. Seifert?"

"He has a brownstone on the Upper West Side, 95th, I think. It's his home, actually."

"We would be happy to visit him. Don't you agree, Hugh?"

"Yes, we look forward to it."

*

Karl Epple stood in the hallway of the house, holding the door open, as he gestured for the three of them to enter. He was very tall and thin, with round black glasses, his impeccable black double-breasted suit offset by a European-style charcoal cravat showing around his neck. "Guten Tag, Hans," he said, then, suddenly aware he had spoken German, smiled to himself. "Please introduce our guests."

"Karl, may I introduce Hugh and Julia Stuart. Grace Stuart, Hugh's mother, you remember, I mentioned she might come, but it's not the case."

"Please, come in," Karl said. He held out his hand to Julia, and when she took it, he made a short bow and feigned kissing her hand. Then he stood straight and offered his hand to Hugh. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Hans informs me that you are connoisseurs of art."

"That's very nice of him," Julia said, arching her eyebrows at Hans. "That implies more experience than we have." She turned to Hugh to let him continue.

"I think," he said, "it's more accurate to say we appreciate art, and we understand you have some paintings available for purchase." He in turn faced Hans. "That's what we understand."

"Yes, yes, you are right. That's why Hans has brought you to my small gallery. It has only been open for several months. I am using my home, you see, because-well, you see-why don't we go into the living room and I can explain a little further." He gestured to the room open from the hallway. The long room featured white walls with black furniture, and along the walls hung several recognizable paintings.

Julia held her breath, but kept her face passive. She recognized two by Matisse and leaned closer to read the titles, Oriental Woman Seated on Floor and Woman Seated in Armchair. Then she saw Toulouse-Lautrec, even a Picasso, Standing Nude. The last painting appeared to be Manet, but she wasn't sure. She walked along the wall. Then she turned to Karl. "And these paintings are for sale, Mr. Epple, is that correct?"

He stepped forward next to her. "You seem surprised, Mrs. Stuart."

"Yes, I am. But only because Mr. Seifert didn't tell us that you had work of such great painters. We expected to find art of less distinction."

"Oh, yes, of course, I do have many such paintings. I'm sure you would find them very acceptable. I have lesser impressionists, post-impressionists, abstract expressionists, certainly, and other modern art, too. It's just that, you see, I want to display my most important works first for people to see. I have to know what your interest in. There is always the matter of the financial engagement you wish to make."

"Karl," Hans broke in. "you must not be such a salesman. Mr. and Mrs. Stuart are here at my invitation, and you should not treat them as buyers. Mrs. Stuart is an artist herself and-"

Hugh raised his hand. "Not at all. Not about being an artist, I mean. Julia is a very good artist. No, I mean we are indeed here to purchase art. But, I grant you this, we are not accustomed to choosing between lesser and greater art." He put his hand on Julia's arm. "Isn't that right, Darling?"

Julia felt uncomfortable with this display of possession, but she didn't want to react publicly. She looked up at Hugh. "I think what my husband means, if I may be very frank, we have not discussed how much we are prepared to spend, and further, we have not researched the current art market. That, you of course understand, is an important element."

"But on the other hand," Hugh said, "we do know great art when we see it. I think my wife's opinion will be helpful in choosing among some other works of art you may have. I myself would be very proud to hang one of these magnificent pieces in my office."

Karl turned to Hans, but his expression said nothing. Then he spoke. "Since you have been so frank, Mr. Stuart, let me be forthright. Are you interested in one particular piece?"

Hugh said, "Yes, as a matter of fact. It's the--", he leaned forward, "-Degas, Portrait of Gabrielle Diot." He straightened up, one arm across his chest, the other resting on it and holding his chin up, studying the pastel drawing. "It's the only one I like, I'm afraid, among all these. I would very much like to have it up on my wall." He turned to Karl in anticipation.

Karl nodded. "I see. It's my most recent acquisition. I won't pretend I am favoring you. This drawing is available for $40,000."

"Let me talk to my wife for a few moments, if you don't mind."

"Just call, we'll be in the back." Karl took Hans out of the room.

When they were gone, Hugh said, "That doesn't seem too much."

"You can certainly afford it. I honestly don't know if you're paying too much. To me, that's not the question. It's not a huge sum. It is, after all, a Degas. Maybe it's not a painting, but to me, it's clear you want it. That's what you have to think about. Do you want to try and get a Degas for less? Or go somewhere else?"

"Yes, you have it absolutely right. I know what I want. Let's call them back." He raised his voice. "We're ready out here."

Karl and Hans returned, Karl watching Hugh's face as he entered.

"We are very interested in this Degas drawing," Hugh said. "My wife agrees with me. I will leave the details of provenance and authenticity to her. For myself, I feel that the authority of Mr. Seifert in bringing us to meet you is authority enough."

"Thank you for your confidence. It's true, you are also showing confidence in Zurich International Bank. Their reputation is on the line just as much as mine. But as far as the price is concerned, may I bring to your attention that there is much talk of war in Europe. If that does happen, the art market will come to a complete stop. In that case, the price of everything will only go up substantially."

"Yes," Hugh said, "I am aware of that. But I am buying art for my own pleasure, not as a business proposition."

"I shall arrange for this drawing to be delivered tomorrow to your house, and if you wish, we shall assist you in placing it in your desired location."

"Thank you."

"Now," Karl continued, "if you would like to follow me, I have work from other artists to show you."

Karl led them out of the room and up the stairs to the next floor, to a room empty of furniture but with walls covered with paintings of all the categories Karl had mentioned before. Hugh watched as Julia went around the room observing every painting with a careful eye. When she had finished, she talked with Hugh, then selected paintings by André, Michel and Reinhold, along with several drawings. They returned downstairs and prepared to leave, but Hugh insisted on one last tour of the living room. He walked up and down and then stopped to examine The Letter by Toulouse-Lautrec. He stepped back, his face showing admiration, then he turned to Julia and said, "This one, also."

Karl walked up to Hugh and Julia. "I can see you appreciate this piece."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it reminds me of my grandmother. I did not expect to feel this way about Toulouse-Lautrec, but, there you have it. How much, Mr. Epple."

Karl did not hesitate. "It's not a Degas, of course. To me, it is worth $20,000."

Hugh smiled. "Fine. I am prepared. I will write you a check now. And you say, delivery and installation tomorrow?"

Karl nodded. Hugh walked with pride out the door, Julia holding on to his arm.

*

Hugh stood in the center of his office as Wolfgang Zinsli, the assistant from Karl Epple, unpacked the paintings and drawings. Hugh opened an envelope and found the documents related to his purchases. He handed it to Julia.

She opened it, and sat in a chair to examine them. "You know, we should have done this yesterday," she said.

"Nonsense. As they said, we have the full faith and credit of the Zurich International Bank. Hans Seifert recommended Epple. Everything's fine."

"What if we discover something's fake?"

He smiled in condescension. "Hans will make sure it's taken care of. Stop worrying."

The art works were unpacked and displayed on the floor along the wall.

"I am ready to hang them, Sir."

"Yes, well-," Hugh turned to Julia. "Where do you think?"

Julia turned slowly around the room once, looking down at the paintings, then up at the French chalked wood paneling. "Your Degas, it should go next to the door."

Hugh wrinkled his brow. "Next to the door?"

"Not because it's next to the door. Because it's directly across from your desk."

He smiled. "Yes, you're right about that." He turned left to face the fireplace. "And over there?"

"I think, the Toulouse-Lautrec. You?"

He thought for a moment, then said, "I agree. You're very good at this." Turning to Wolfgang Zinsli, he continued, "So, you have two pieces to start with." To his wife he said, "Why don't you stay here and finish the hanging. I'll be in the library. Call me when it's done." Without waiting for a reply, he left the room.

Julia smiled at the assistant. "Fine, hang the Toulouse-Lautrec over the fireplace." She went to the row of paintings and picked up the Degas, sat in the leather sofa, and looked at it. She turned it over and looked at the back and a pain jolted her stomach. In the right hand lower corner she saw a piece of paper with writing that looked German to her, she wasn't sure. But she was sure that below the writing was the stamp of a swastika.

"Wait," she said.

The assistant stopped.

"Let me see that, please, the back of it."

He held it up so she could look at the back. She searched the back of the painting, but there was no swastika on it. "Thank you. Please hang it up." She went to the other pieces and looked at each one, but none of them had a similar stamp. "You may hang the others where you find a space. Just make them-no, never mind, I'll supervise as required. I'll place the paintings under the panels where you can hang them."

"Yes, Madam. May I make a suggestion, Madam?"

"Of course. I'll be happy to listen to it."

"The lighting is not good for all these paintings. I suggest you call in a lighting expert to make the paintings visible to their best potential."

"Thank you, Mr. Zinsli, we shall take your suggestion under advisement." She turned around the room. "I see your point, however."

Julia's stomach was still unsettled, but she placed each painting as she thought appropriate. Then she picked up the envelope with the documents and took them out. She sat at Hugh's desk and organized them before her. She noted the names of the Swiss art dealers from whom Karl Epple had purchased the art.

The assistant's voice interrupted her. "I am finished with the hanging. Would you please give your approval?"

Julia put the papers down and stood and looked around the room. "Yes, they are all beautiful. Thank you very much, Mr. Zinsli."

He bowed to her, picked up his tools, and left the room.

She went back to the desk and looked down at the papers. And then, she saw the names of the previous owners of all these works. There were three: Paul Rosenberg, Solomon Blumenkranz, and Moshe Fleishmann. She knew what this meant. She held two documents in her hand when she opened the door to the library and looked for Hugh. He sat in his usual red leather wingback chair, reading the paper.

"Hugh!" The shrillness of her voice startled her, but it came from the dread in her stomach.

He turned and dropped the paper on his lap. "Why are you so loud? I can hear you. Has he finished?"

"Yes, he's finished, all right. That's not why I'm here. Did you know this was art stolen from the Jews by the Nazis? Is that why Mr. Seifert introduced us to Karl Epple, because he has the connections to Nazis?"

Hugh stood, his back stiff, the paper dropped to the floor. "My god, Julia. What do you take me for?" His lips tightened into a straight line. His voice was even but hard. "We went there to buy art. You looked at the art. You agreed to the best art and you yourself chose the secondary art. You and I, we bought this art from a reputable dealer in New York. What is this nonsense about Nazis?"

Julia put her hands on her hips. "Your Degas has a swastika stamped on the back of it. The document is even signed below the words 'Heil Hitler'. Don't 'my god' me, Hugh. That's about as Nazi as it gets."

Hugh cocked his head and frowned in disdain. "Must I repeat myself, I bought this from a reputable Swiss dealer in New York, not from some German in Munich. My transaction is backed by the Zurich International Bank. This is not about the Nazis."

She furrowed her brow. "Are you being deliberately obtuse? The previous owners of this art are all people with Jewish names. Isn't it clear to you what's gone on?"

Hugh opened his eyes wide and extended his arms. "But of course. The Jews have always been big supporters of art. My god, think of Rothschild. Music, painting, sculpture, architecture. What's so surprising here? Julia, they buy and sell art all the time. So some of that ends up in New York. There's nothing unusual about it. Stop this hysterical nonsense."

"No, I will not stop it. We have to investigate this. We must demand a full accounting of the provenance of this art."

"Don't you understand? What if it's true? What if it is all art that Jews sold because they were leaving the country? The point is, they sold the art, they were paid for it, they received a fair price, the market price. That's all you or I need to know. You cannot see sinister designs in everything."

"I will not let up on this."

"Listen to me. We have the provenance. The provenance does not tell you if someone sold their art for less. It does not tell you their intentions. We have acquired beautiful art. You of all people should be happy about it. We have purchased art from a reputable dealer with reputable support from an international bank. That is all we need to know. Now that is the end of it."

Julia folded her arms across her chest.

He noted that and said, "Let's go look at it, shall we? Now I am very proud of my office. It is every bit as good as Father's library." He went off, not waiting for Julia.

She stood still, defeated. She imagined going back to Epple, or even Seifert, to complain. But she knew what they would say. They would defend their own purchases. No, they were not stolen. Maybe one or two had been sold under duress, but that happens all the time. Businesses fail, family fortunes dwindle, and art is sold for less. She could hear Karl Epple saying, in any case, our works of art were not sold at a loss in Europe. He himself would give her his personal word on that. And, of course, he could vouch for the personal word of the Zurich International Bank and Hans Seifert, whom she could certainly call upon to verify this. Seifert and Epple. The two of them.

*

Elizabeth's screaming voice came from her room. "My pony! My pony! It's here!" Grace stood at the top of the entrance hall steps and watched the little girl bound down the steps and strain to open the front door. She set her feet, leaned back, and pulled with all her strength.

"No, Elizabeth you mustn't-"

The little girl slipped through the door and disappeared. Mary and Mrs. Willow appeared from the kitchen door, looking at Grace with eyes full of fear.

"What happened?" Mary said.

"Go get her," Grace said, "she's outside. She ran outside."

Mary ran to the door, pulled it open, and Grace saw Elizabeth looking left and right, jumping up and down, about to cross the street where a white horse with flowers stood waiting with a red carriage.

"My pony! A princess cart!" She screamed and jumped up and down.

Mary caught her just as she put her foot out in the street.

Elizabeth sat on the sidewalk and kicked at Mary. "It's my pony, go away."

Mary grabbed hold of her arms and held her tight, while Elizabeth kept kicking at the sidewalk. Mrs. Willow came down the steps and helped Mary keep Elizabeth controlled, but she broke away and turned toward the street. She ran out, a car screeched to a halt ten yards away, and Elizabeth screamed again and ran back to the sidewalk, was pushed by the two women, and then ran in the house and up to her room. She ran back out to the hallway and into her father's office, but he wasn't there. She screamed again. "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

Grace came into the room, and Elizabeth stopped screaming, then ran behind the desk, watching her grandmother. Grace stopped, smiled, and stood silent for several seconds. She took a step left, but Elizabeth moved in the opposite direction behind the desk, ready to be chased, so Grace stood where she was.

"Elizabeth, my child, that horse across the street is not yours. If you want to go for a ride in it, we can do it. Would you like that?"

Elizabeth wiped tears from her eyes and shook her head. "It's my pony. Daddy put it there."

"Your father isn't here, is he? What are we going to do, you and me?"

Elizabeth stared at her grandmother. She had no idea what they were going to do, her grandmother and her. That much was clear to Grace, who had no idea, either.

"Your mother isn't here. Your father isn't here. So I'm going to have Mary take you to your room and take care of you until your parents come home. Now, give me your hand." Grace moved toward the desk, smiling.

Elizabeth stayed where she was, shifting on her feet, ready to run. Grace backed away, then walked out to the hallway and looked down the hallway to call Mary, but was startled to see her right outside the door. She motioned her in. "You go around the right, I'll go around the left." The two women began walking around the desk, but Elizabeth moved the chair and crawled underneath the desk.

"Oh my heavens," Grace sighed. "Mary, get her out of there."

Mary got on her hands and knees and approached the cubbyhole. Elizabeth screamed "I want my Daddy!"

Mary pulled back and sat facing Elizabeth, shaking her head back and forth. "Come on, Lizzie, we'll go play, do something nice."

Silence from under the desk.

Grace sighed again and turned to look around her, as if help were coming from somewhere. Mrs. Willow craned her head in the door. Grace motioned her in and pointed to Mary sitting on the floor, waving Mrs. Willow to go over there and help out.

Mrs. Willow bent over Mary, looked down at Elizabeth, smiled, but with a hard, forced smile, that told the child she wished she weren't put in this position. "Now, Elizabeth, as soon as Mr. Stuart is home, we'll have him talk to you. He can explain everything. Why don't you let Mary take you to your room?" She held out her hand down to Elizabeth's hiding place.

Elizabeth's shoes pounded on the floor, her hands or head slammed against the wood of the desk, and her voice, growing hoarse, yelled "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

Grace watched this from the hallway through the open door to the bedroom. "Mrs. Willow," she called, "Mary".

The two women looked up at her. She waved them to come to her, and they followed her out of the room. She whispered, "She'll get tired of this. Let's just go on with our day."

Grace walked back to her room to wait for one of Elizabeth's parents to return home and discuss how to improve the child. Let alone keep her safe.

She went into her bathroom and took four aspirin, downed with a large glass of water. Then she sat on the toilet and got her breath back. Her hands were shaking. These headaches were becoming more frequent.

She went back into her room and stretched out on her chaise longue and enjoyed the quiet. Then she heard quick footsteps in the hallway, Mary's voice calling after Elizabeth, a scream from the child, then muffled noise. She put her hand on her forehead, sighed and went to the hallway and heard the noise louder coming from the library.

When she opened the door to the library, she saw Mary move toward Elizabeth and the child run in a blur behind the library table and knock over the antique Oriental vase Grace had received from her mother. It crashed to the floor and broke into pieces. Mary followed her, eyes wide open at the broken vase, trying to keep her balance, looking at Grace then away, holding on to the table and then the chair. The child did not stop, but ran past Grace out the door, Mary frantically trying to keep up.

Grace clenched her fists and put her hands on her stomach as she stared at the precious black and white pieces, the flowers now separated in the shards. She put her hand up to her mouth. This child is out of control, she thought. Absolutely out of control. My head aches, my eyes hurt. I cannot go on like this.

She went back to her room and rested, or tried to rest, for half an hour, then called Beatrice in Montreal.

"Hello?"

Grace felt relieved when she heard her daughter's voice. Someone she could commiserate with. "Beatrice, I can't stand this any longer."

"What's the matter, Mother?"

"It's Elizabeth. She just broke my Meiping vase, you know, that my mother gave to me, and before that she ran into the street and was nearly run over. Her mother pays no attention to her." Grace wiped her hand across her brow.

There was a short silence on the other end of the phone. "Have you talked to Julia about this?"

"My Dear, you have no idea how difficult she is. She is so defensive about her little girl. Elizabeth has no direction. She doesn't know what's right because her mother won't let anyone else help the child. And now Hugh has stepped in and made a mess of it."

Julia sighed. "Oh-oh, what happened?"

"You won't believe this. He promised Elizabeth she could have her own pony, and now she's throwing tantrums until she gets what she wants. She saw a horse and carriage across the street and insisted it was hers. She was nearly killed. Who is going to watch over that child?"

"Mother, calm down. Isn't that what Mary is supposed to do?"

Footsteps ran outside her doorway again.

"Oh, if that were only the case. Mary can't control her. They're running around out there now. It's giving me a headache."

"What do you want me to do?" Julia couldn't hide the exasperation in her voice.

Grace put the phone down on her knee, bent over, and just listened to herself breathing. She brought the phone back up, but waited before speaking. "I don't know, Beatrice. I'm at my wit's end."

"Mother," Beatrice said in a soft voice. "Isn't it time you thought of having them live in their own house?"

Grace let out a low grunting sound. "Oh my god, you don't mean that. How could you say such a thing? Hugh was born in this house, and I want him here when I die. Then she will have won if she takes my son and granddaughter away from me."

She put the phone down and rubbed her forehead. A vile twinge hit her gut and she felt as if she might have to go to the bathroom.

"You have to help me. I can't take this much longer. What am I going to do?"

No answer came from the other end of the line.

"Beatrice? Did you hear me?"

Beatrice's quiet voice came back. "I don't see how this ends, Mother, until you have talked to Hugh and Julia about it. I'm not the child's mother. I still don't see what you want from me. I've given you my advice."

"Perhaps if you came down to visit for a while, you could talk some sense into them. You're Julia's age, or at least close to her age, you could make her understand."

"I don't know her," Beatrice said. "We're not friends. I met her at the wedding, that was all. We have never had a private conversation." She was quiet several seconds. "I'm not even sure she likes me. Her whole relationship with Hugh happened so fast. Didn't you think so?"

"Yes," Grace said, "I suppose it did. I don't know what he ever saw in her. Do you?"

"Well, yes, I think I do, Mother. She's beautiful and she's probably great in bed."

"Oh, oh, don't talk like that, please."

"I'm sorry to be blunt, but that's the answer to your question, isn't it, why he married her? It sure wasn't for the money. Except maybe on her part. And anyway, they're doing fine, aren't they?"

"I'm not so sure," Grace said. "They can't seem to agree on the child, and Julia was absolutely horrible to our attorney, and now she's unhappy about some art that Hugh bought. No, to tell you the truth, I don't think they are doing fine. And then today, I tell you, this child is uncontrollable. This house isn't safe." Grace sat for a moment to take in with satisfaction that she had identified the problems with Julia.

"I think you've put yourself into a bad position. You won't let them leave the house and you can't live with them. I mean, where would they move to? They can find a brownstone on the West Side, that wouldn't be very far away. Yes, that's it exactly. Don't you see? Hugh could keep his office at home there with you, he could come over every day. And then you could see Elizabeth whenever you wanted, and on your own terms.

"I don't know. What if Hugh decides he wants an office over there?"

"All right, please stop now. Hugh will be happy to have an office near you, and besides it will be a place away from home. It's perfect."

Grace brought her hand up to her face and then put it down on her knee. It was a dangerous idea. The mother and child are the problem. Not her son. "I understand. How are you doing, Darling?"

"Mother, I'm just fine. I love it in Montreal. I'm even getting interested in hockey, if you can believe that."

Grace laughed, and felt relief in laughing. "Oh, my, no I don't believe that. I'm sure that's Pierre's influence."

"You may be right, but it's nice to be interested in something with him. In fact I think that's him now. I have to go. I love you."

"I love you, too." Grace hung up the phone with reluctance and once again the stomping of feet brought her headache to her attention. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, then wondered if she needed to intervene. The memory of her broken vase invaded her moment and she stood and went out to the hallway. "Mary!"

No answer. She went to Elizabeth's bedroom and opened the door. "Didn't you"-She stood in horror at the destruction of the room. Crayons, paints and teddy bears littered the floor. Elizabeth sat on the bed, eyes wide with fear, shaking.

Mary sat next to her, holding her hand. Shaking her head, she said, "I can't control her, Mrs. Stuart. I can't."

"Stay with her," Grace said, her voice calm but hard. "Until her mother or father returns. We will discuss it further then. Something will have to change. We cannot go on like this." Grace left the room without looking at Elizabeth or Mary.

At the library door she hesitated, afraid to see her vase still in pieces on the floor. But she straightened up and went in.

Mrs. Willow swept the last pieces into a long-handled dustpan. She turned and waited, then said, "Do you want to try and save it?"

Tears came to Grace's eyes. She spoke quietly, with resignation. "No, it's no use. It's been destroyed. Just throw it away."

She went back to her room, opened her bathroom cabinet, and took out a bottle of Valium. Then she lay down and observed the plaster medallions in her ceiling. At least they were safe from the child, she thought. But they meant nothing. They were not a precious vase, a wedding gift from her mother. Insurance was not going to make up for that. So Mary says she cannot control the child. And Julia is not going to control the child. And Hugh? He only wants to please Elizabeth. No, it would be up to me. I will take the steps to control the child. And I will do it alone.

Grace turned on her side. She fell asleep as she remembered the arms of George Stuart around her, the man who gave strength to his house and his family.

*

Hugh opened the door with unneeded energy and jumped up the steps to the hallway. He looked first in the library and saw his mother at the table poring over a fashion magazine. She looked up when she saw him and smiled at her son. Hugh smiled back looking up at the portrait of his father, gray hair on the temples hand on the chair ramrod straight.

"Mother," he said, "you're looking beautiful today. I love your dress."

Grace was wearing a dramatic black silk crepe swing dress with chartreuse coloring on the shoulder. She put her finger on the page to hold her place and said to him, "My, you're in a good mood today."

He nodded, and said "Yes I am. I've been Midtown to our real estate office and things are going well with that unfortunate apartment fire. The fire marshal is no longer breathing down our necks, the tenants have found lodgings elsewhere, and Elmer is repairing the damage. So that's really good news. One less hassle." He put his hands in his pockets and turned around the room observing his parents' creation, as if he were appraising it. Then he stopped when he faced his mother again. "You know, Mother, you and father have made a beautiful room. But if I may say so, I have done as well or better in my office."

Grace spoke with a voice full of irony. "Yes, Darling, but none of it has been stolen." She put her face down to the magazine to hide the smirk.

Hugh tightened the muscles on his forehead. "I don't think that's very funny."

His mother leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on her lap. "No, I suppose you're right, but I just couldn't resist."

He knew she could care less whether her son bought the art from people who were forced to sell our people who took it without asking. He moved away from her and sat in his red wingback chair and spoke without looking at her. "I also went to Irving Trust and put my bullion certificates in the safety deposit box. I am sure it will be joined by many others in the future."

"I know you will be successful, Hugh. You are every bit as good as your father, and you are standing on his shoulders. The only thing I will dare say is that he married somewhat better than you did."

"Well, since we are on a first name basis now, Grace," he said, the irony in his voice matching hers. "Let me say, that I don't think it is your prerogative to pass judgment on my marriage." He stood and twirled to face her. "It's simply not your prerogative. As you say I have done very well handling my own affairs, and that includes my relationship with my wife, Mother." He put his hands on the chair and stared at her in defiance.

"And let me tell you, I have spoken to Hans Seifert and I am going to buy some more paintings and drawings. I am going to put them all over this house and perhaps you may see your home turned into something equal to the Frick."

"Why, I think that's wonderful. As long as you don't turn my room into a public museum." She closed her magazine and stood to face him, then she moved around the table, taking her skirt in her hand and swishing it around as she came around the table. "I always knew you would come into your own man, Son. You are so much like your father. Now, if you can control your wife-"

His eyes flared. "Mother-" He stopped at that, sure she would catch the hardness in his voice. He knew he had to control his mother first. But his father's eyes in his father's face stared at him. He changed his voice to a softer tone. "Mother, did something happen today? Is there some reason why you bring up the subject?"

Grace sighed. "It's Elizabeth."

"What about Elizabeth?"

"She's uncontrollable and she's giving me headaches."

"Did you talk to Julia about it?"

Grace looked up at him in wonderment. "Didn't you tell me a few minutes ago not to mess with your marriage?"

"All right," he said, "just tell me what this is about. Why is Elizabeth giving you headaches?"

"She's giving me headaches because she is wild."

"I still don't see why you can't talk to Julia about it? She's her mother."

"I see," Grace said, "and where is Elizabeth's mother?"

"You don't know?"

Grace's voice rose. "I can well imagine, Hugh, where your wife is. What's she's doing there I have no idea."

George Randolph Stuart bore down on his son.

Grace continued. "The problem is, you don't know where she is or what she's doing. That's the problem."

Hugh nodded. He felt caught.

Grace walked to him and put her hands on his chest. "You should go over there and see for yourself. It would be good for her to know that you are taking an interest. Maybe then she would take more interest in what's happening in this house."

*

Hugh got out of the car at the Art Students League on West 57th, telling Timothy to wait for him. He went in under the blue canopy to the lobby. The absence of a receptionist frustrated him. A tall woman with messy long black hair looked at him, then away. He went to her and asked-he wasn't sure how to phrase it-asked if she knew where he might find Julia Stuart.

"Oh, Julia," she said. "Most likely on the second floor. In the gallery. Everyone's in there for Carlo De Luca's exhibition."

Hugh's stomach turned. An Italian name. There was only one Italian name that meant anything to him. He didn't remember what it was, but he remembered that he heard it from his wife. And he remembered that his mother told him it had something to do with Harlem. He went up the stairs prepared for a shock. He saw the door to the gallery and inside bright lights and white walls below semicircular windows and people who were obviously art students talking noisily, pointing, laughing.

Julia was nowhere to be seen. The people who might have been Italian were too young. A young woman in dirty beige slacks approached him with a tray of wine. He waved her away with a sneer and kept on going, looking down each panel, not seeing any art, only possible targets of his search.

He saw her. His heart beat faster. She was not alone. The man, the obvious the Italian man, was standing next to her gesturing toward some stupidly obscene abstract shit. That was the only word for it. And for the man. The man put his filthy arm on Julia's shoulder. She backed away and looked at the man in alarm. But Hugh knew better. Of course she would back away. This is a public event. Other eyes were on her. She had no choice but to make a show of rejection. This was not some place in private. This was not some apartment in the Village.

Hugh turned and returned home. In his office he lit a cigar and stepped on a glass of brandy. He turned around to making a tour of the art in his room. He nodded in satisfaction. From his childhood appeared the memory of not being able to see the top of the desk and his father sitting in his chair, a cigar in his mouth, like a god.

Then he went across the hallway to the library and stood before the painting of his father. He was grateful his mother wasn't there. But his father was always there. No, if his father was there he didn't care whether his mother was there. He looked his father in the eye and determined that he would wait for Julia.

He took the cigar out of his mouth and walked down to Elizabeth's room. She was on the floor, Mary beside her. They both looked up at him. He went down on one knee and smiled at Elizabeth. "You know what, Darling, I heard today that your pony is getting closer. I have not forgotten that, no siree. It stuck in Pennsylvania, but it is coming. Now give me a hug."

Elizabeth dropped her crayons and went to her daddy with a beaming face. "My pony."

"Your pony, that's right." Hugh patted her on the head and went back to the library for his lonely vigil.

As he waited he toured the room, noting the combination of pieces of art along the walls. Then he went to his office and made a similar tour. Back in the library, he sat in his red wingback chair, puffed his cigar and waited. Images from the Art Students League floated in his troubled consciousness and he fought them away with gestures. The phone rang in his office and he started to jump up but held himself back.

The front door opened and he started to jump up again. He calmed himself down, breathing slowly and deeply. If Julia did not come in he would go find her.

The library door opened, he turned, and faced his mother. Her face made clear that she understood his disappointment.

"So she's not back," she said, shaking her head. "You did go over there didn't you?"

Hugh stood and looked at her but spoke so his father would hear him. "Don't start with me. If you have any sense you go to your room."

Grace stared at him with wide eyes but then she nodded and left the room, closing the door with as little noise as possible.

The intrusion made to tire of waiting in the library. He went to his office and started to pick up the phone, not knowing who he was going to call, and then he put it down. He didn't want to be on the phone when she came. He picked up the fire marshal's report, open the folder, and then instead slammed it back down on the table. Cigar ashes followed. He blew them off the table. Turning, he went to the window and looked at the endless line of cabs in both directions on Park Avenue. One of them stopped in front of the house and he peered down on to the street. But could not see who was getting out of the cab. The front door opened again. He listened for the identifying sound of the footsteps. Julia's quick steps came up the stairs in a hurry.

Of course, she was coming back from an exciting rendezvous with her lover. Hughes stomach burned. He intertwined his fingers and caused the knuckles turned white. He looked down at the floor ready to pounce on her with his stare when she entered the room.

But naturally she did not. She was walking toward their room. He followed her.

Inside she stopped removing her jacket, turned and smiled when she saw him. "Hello, Darling, I'm glad to see you. I'm glad actually that you came in here to see me. Don't you think we have to put all of this behind us and start over again?" Even as she spoke her voice changed from happy to fearful. His eyes were enraged. She folded her hands in front of her and looked down from him. She waited.

"Where were you just now?"

Julia frowned. "You know where I was."

Hugh raised his eyebrows. "Oh, did you see me?"

"See you? No. I was at the art students league and you never go there how can I see you? I didn't go anyplace else."

"Well, I was there and I saw you." He pursed his mouth, then drew it in a straight line before he continued. "I saw you there with him and I saw him put his arm around you."

Julia's eyes opened in disbelief. "You saw no such thing."

Hughes voice rose in anger. "Don't lie to me. I was there. I saw it."

She put her hand on her temples and shook her head. "There was nothing to see. I was not there with him or anyone else. I went by myself and saw the gallery by myself." She looked up at him. "You're making this up."

"You're telling me he did not touch you at all?"

The pleading in her eyes showed how much she felt caught. "Yes, he did put his arm on my shoulder once. But if you were there then you would have seen that I drew away and I left him standing there. It angered me."

"Of course," he said, "that's what I expect from you. Denial. Naturally you could not be seen in public so you had to make a display of leaving him. But the real question is, why he felt free to touch you like that in public, Julia."

She sat on the bed and turned to face him. "I can't control the actions of other people. The truth is, he's ugly and obnoxious. I left his painting class, and I have nothing to do with him. This was a public gallery. I had no choice but to walk away from him in that situation. Can't you understand this, Hugh?"

Hugh stood with his hands on his hips. He looked down and then up. "I understand this, Julia - you cannot go there anymore."

She stood up. "You don't tell me where I can and cannot go. "

"I can and I do. You're not living alone, you have a husband and a daughter. You have obligations. You are skating on thin ice in this family and you have to change."

He stood facing her in silence.

Then she said, her voice asking for understanding, "If you don't trust me, what am I supposed to do? I have nowhere to go. I have no life but my life with you and Elizabeth."

"You know what, I can only trust you as far as I can see you. And right now that isn't very far. The only way you can convince me that you're not having an affair-an affair that would be devastating for this family and your child-is to give up going to that art league. You can study at home if you want."

Julia sat on the bed and looked at the floor. She was thinking.

Hugh moved to the door and opened it. He held his hand on it and said to her, "I see you don't want to commit to me." He looked down at his shoes and shuffled one foot and then looked up, "I don't pretend that your art is unimportant to you. Perhaps you can't make any immediate reply because you are stunned by my request. I can understand that. I am willing to give you time to get used to it."

Julia remained silent on the bed, her hands folded neatly on her lap, looking somewhere in the corner.

Hugh saw an opportunity to change the subject in a way that would help her come to an understanding of the problem they were facing. "Will you look at me please?"

She turned and looked at him with eyes that disappointed because they showed no tears forming. He closed the door and sat on the other side of the bed.

"You know Elizabeth is very hard to deal with."

"She's a child."

"That in itself is beside the point," he said. "She's uncontrollable, she gives Mother headaches."

Julia looked at him in disbelief. "If your mother would ignore her and let Mary and myself take care of her, she wouldn't get any headaches."

"She broke Mother's Oriental vase, and then she almost got herself killed running into the street after the pony."

"Well perhaps you shouldn't have told her she was going to get a pony and then dumped the problem on the rest of us."

"You can go on as long as you want, Julia, I am telling you there are problems at home and you are not here to attend to them."

"So you want me to be her mother and nothing else in my life."

"Listen to me, something has got to be done about Elizabeth behavior. I've talked to Mother about this, and we feel that it is in the child's interest to go away for a few days to calm down. To get out of the pressure cooker so to speak."

"And just when were you going to tell me about this?"

"I just did. You may think the timing was not very good, but in my view this is the perfect time to talk about it. Then you and I will have a few days to work out our relationship and the future."

"You aren't giving me any say in this."

"If you want a say in this, all you have to do is agree to it."

Julia let her shoulders droop in resignation. "When do you want all this to happen?"

"You can sever your relationship with the art students league over the phone. You can talk to Elizabeth about our plans. You and I can be together again, Julia. In a few days, when it's all arranged. Mother will go with her, so that Elizabeth doesn't feel alone."

*

The next morning when Julia awoke Hugh was gone again. She went out in her pajamas to the dining room but no one was there. The door to Hugh's office stood open and the room was empty. The same was true for the library. And the same was true for Elizabeth's room. Worse, the bed was made, the teddy bear was gone, and the closet door was open. I gaping hole showed that clothes had been removed.

So they had done it. Without telling her. Naturally Hugh was gone so he didn't have to face his wife. She was alone. The house was dead quiet. Even the taxis outside refrained from using their horns.

She went into the library to call Philadelphia and had the phone in her hand ready to dial when she realized she didn't know the number there. She had never wanted to. Not until now and now it was too late.

She went to her workroom and picked up her valise and took three new brushes out of a paper bag but then she stood there unsure. How defiant did she want to become? She sat on a chair feeling empty. Instead of going to the Art Students League, she put the valise and the brushes back. She went for a long walk in Central Park.

Late in the afternoon she returned to find the house still empty. She waited in the library for Hugh to return. When she heard his loud footsteps climbing the stairs she stood and walked over to open the door. When she put her hand on the knob she felt a strong pull and backed away. She walked to the center of the room and turned to face her husband.

He smiled at her.

"Where is Elizabeth?"

"You know very well, Darling. She's with Mother, visiting our relatives in Philadelphia. You knew that. Why are you making a stink about it?"

She stared at him waiting for an epiphany about how to proceed, but none came. "You kidnapped her."

He laughed and put the newspaper down on the library table before speaking to her. "Well, that won't hold up in court will it? You knew all about it, in fact you agreed to it. So don't start acting like you've been kept in the dark."

Julia's eyes narrowed and her lips formed a straight line, then she bit her lip, and then said, "You took her away from me this morning. Or last night for all I know."

Hugh put his hands in his pocket and maintained his amused composure. "As a matter of fact it was last night. I thought it much better to avoid a scene with you this morning. Much better for Elizabeth."

"Better for Elizabeth? To go away without saying goodbye to her mother?"

Hugh shook his head. He turned and looked down at the headlines in the newspaper, thinking for a moment before responding. "It was for the best, Julia. And it's for only a short period of time. By the way," he said, turning back to her, "have you called to cancel your courses?"

"I don't have to cancel the courses. I can do whatever I please."

"Yes of course that's right, you can. You can just wait until they contact you and then we will see what happens."

"For now," she said, "I'll do my work here."

*

One week later Julia waited at the top of the stairs for the door to open. When she had talked to Lizzie on the phone from Philadelphia, the child seemed distant, but she took it to be a sign that her little daughter was not alone in the room.

The door opened and Mary came in the house, followed by Elizabeth and Grace. Julia held out her hands but her daughter did not come running up the stairs. She followed dutifully behind Mary, turning once to make sure she didn't interfere with Grace's progress up the steps. When she arrived at the top she came to Julia and waited for her mother to give her a hug.

"Mommy." Then she stood still and waited until Grace stood next to her on one side and Mary on the other.

Julia crouched down until she was at Lizzie's level, gave her daughter a big smile, and kissed her on the cheek.

Elizabeth looked up at Grace and then, and only then, smiled at her mother. "Mommy, I brought something for you." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny wrapped package. She handed it to Julia and waited for her mother's reaction.

Julia stood and unwrapped the little package with great excitement. "Oh, thank you, Darling, I can't wait to see what it is." When she saw the little bronze Liberty Bell, she crouched down again and hugged her daughter. "It's beautiful, I'll keep it by my bedside."

*

The next morning Julia got out of bed early in the hope that she would be able to make breakfast for Lizzie. She dressed in her Navy blue swing sequined dress and pockets that Lizzie loved to hide things in. As she passed by the library, she saw the door open, and heard voices inside. Hugh and Grace. She stopped and listened.

"Mother, are you sure?"

"No, not me, are you sure?"

"Yes, of course, I think it will work out fine. I will deal with her."

"We will have to do this with the utmost care, Hugh. It's the best for Elizabeth, but it's the only way. As long as she's with her mother, she will never be able to control herself. She will end up hurting herself. You do see that, don't you?"

"How soon can you make the arrangements?"

"The arrangements, as you call them, are already made. You know, Mother, Elizabeth will be happier away from Julia. We've already seen it. She's a much more well-behaved child. No more tantrums."

"She will adjust, I'm sure."

"She will love having a pony nearby."

Julia's legs gave way, she fell to the floor, her stomach filled with acid, but she pulled herself up and went to their bedroom. In the second dresser drawer she found her and Lizzie's passports and her checkbook. She put them in her purse and left the house.

She arrived at Manufacturer's Trust bank and took $6,000 in American Express travelers checks from her account. She put it in her purse and took the subway to Algonquin Travel near the passenger ship terminal on the West Side.

She was surprised to see the lobby full of people. She waited two hours on a hard chair beneath a poster for the United States Lines, showing prices of $127 up for tourist and $186 up for cabin class. A huge photo of the S.S. Manhattan arriving in New York harbor was next to it. When she was finally called to the desk she sat before a man who was wearing a gray suit with a black tie that had been loosened, showing sweat on his neck and dirt on the inside of the collar. Papers of all colors and sizes covered his desk.

He smiled but he was making an effort to do his job. He pushed his glasses back on his nose. "May I help you?"

"Yes, thank you, I wish to buy passage to France."

"Yes, doesn't everybody. Except everybody else is French. Oh, excuse me, you must be French as well." He closed his lips tight and waited for her.

"No, I'm not French. I just want to go there."

"Let me explain to you, Miss--,"

"Mrs."

"You are aware that the US Ambassador in Paris has advised all Americans to leave the country."

"That doesn't concern me. I want to book passage."

"As you wish. I must do as instructed. I can't promise you anything. The SS Washington is leaving in three days and I can book you passage on that ship but it will be expensive. "

"Expensive? Why is that?" Julia wondered if he had something personal in mind.

"What I mean is the only thing available is cabin class staterooms, with living room and bedroom, the bedside telephone, and personal valet service. That will cost you $300." He sat back and waited for her rejection as he stared into her eyes."

"That's twice what's up there on your wall."

"And it will be three times tomorrow. You decide."

Carolyn didn't hesitate. Her instinct for preservation dictated her response. "There are two of us," she said, "myself and my little girl."

The man nodded. "And how old is your little girl, if I may ask?"

"She's two years old."

"That should not be a problem. You can arrange for a crib or even a small bed once you are on board. The room is certainly large enough to accommodate that."

"You said you said ship is leaving in three days. What about after that?"

He leaned forward and assumed a conspiratorial tone. "Do you know why you had to wait so long to see me?" He waited, and when she did not respond he continued. "This may be the last ship leaving to go to Europe. Certainly for France."

Julia felt the tension rise up her spine. She sat still, her hand holding hard to her purse. She thought of Lizzie back in her room playing silently and following every suggestion that Mary made.

"This is it," he said, "if you want to go to France now you need to book passage on the SS Washington. We don't know when another ship will across the Atlantic. There are none scheduled. In case you didn't know, Britain and France have declared war on Germany. It may be a phony war, but steamship companies cannot afford to take chances."

"But surely there are other ships arriving." Her voice carried a note of panic.

He raised his eyebrows. "Arriving is one thing. I cannot book passage beyond the Washington. If you want to take your chances that's up to you. But I point out to you, if you will, that all these people are here today because they don't want to take a chance. "

"Yes I will buy passage for two of us."

"Very well, I will need to see your passports."

*

Julia opened the door to Lizzie's room and found her little girl listening to Mary read her The Poky Little Puppy.

She went over to them and sat next to them on the bed. "Listen, Honey, I want you to go out with me, for a walk. Okay?"

Lizzie looked at Mary, but Mary was looking at Julia. Lizzie nodded.

"Let's get your coat on."Julia helped her put on her coat, then smoothed it out, and said, "Why don't you take your teddy bear? It can keep you company while I shop?"

Lizzie nodded and looked around the room. She picked up her bear, but then hesitated. She picked up her Raggedy Ann and held it, too.

"Oh, my, that's a lot to carry," Mary said.

"No, that's fine," Julia said. "I'll help her. It'll be fun."

Lizzie smiled and hugged the dolls tight.

Julia led her out of the room. "We'll be back in just-"

Mrs. Willow came up the stairs. "Mrs. Stuart-" she stopped, surprised, as if she caught them, "there's a man on the phone, from a travel agency. He needs to speak to you. In the library."

Julia's heart almost stopped. At first she thought it was Grace. She feared her face gave her away. But she smiled and said, "Oh-" and motioned Mary to come closer. She whispered, "it's a surprise for my husband. I'm planning a trip for us. Please don't tell him, it will ruin the surprise." She waited, looking back and forth between the two women.

Mary smiled broadly and nodded. Mrs. Willow said, without whispering, "I understand."

"Sweetheart, stay her for a minute. I won't be long." Julia went into the library and picked up the phone.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Stuart?"

"Yes."

"This is Mr. Halliday, from Algonquin Travel."

"Yes, what is it about? I'm ready to go out the door."

"Well, you know, the SS Washington is leaving today. We didn't actually hear back from you, and there is an opportunity to sell your stateroom if you are not going to make the trip. It's possible her sister ship, the SS Manhattan, will be leaving next week or so, although not guaranteed, but, you see, I'm under some pressure from my management here, there are many people who-"

"No, Mr. Halliday, you may not-" She caught herself before she said 'sell my stateroom'. She looked around the room and lowered her voice. "As I said, I'm about to go out the door. Thank you." She hung up and went back out in the hallway.

Lizzie stood between Mary and Mrs. Willow, looking unhappy. She looked up at Julia with pleading in her eyes.

"Come on, Darling, we've got shopping to do. Give me one of your dolls to carry."

Lizzie compared the two and handed her mother the teddy bear. Together they went out the door and turned right up toward 76th.

"We're going up the street a couple of blocks, Honey."

Lizzie looked up but said nothing.

When they reached 77th, Julia turned right and they walked down to Madison, where they got in a cab.

"Pier 86." Julia turned to Lizzie and handed her back the bear. "Darling, guess what. I decided to go for a ride on a boat. Would you like that?"

Lizzie nodded. An adventure.

They entered the cavernous Pier through a large door but took five minutes to get inside the walls. Julia took the bear back and held on to Lizzie and warned her to not move away. "I can't carry you-you need to hold on to me. You'll get lost." She pulled Lizzie close and forced her to look up. "Do you understand me?"

Lizzie nodded, looking around, unhappy at a dark forest of coats and legs pressing in on her. She moved in closer to her mother, facing her, making it hard for Julia to move. Julia took hold of the sleeve of Lizzie's coat.

They raised their heads as a voice came over a loudspeaker. "Passengers with who have purchased passage please move to your left and through the gate."

Julia pulled Lizzie along with the group of people moving to the left. They finally arrived at a picket fence, with people moving inside a gate and others crowded. Once inside the gate, Julia gave their passenger voucher to a man in a maritime uniform under the sign of "Bursar".

"Your luggage, Madam? Did you send it on ahead?"

Julia looked down at Lizzie. "Yes, it's already on board, they tell me."

"Oh, I see, you have a luxury cabin. Of course. Please, follow this gentleman."

"Come on, Lizzie, it's a really big boat, you'll see. We're going on board now."

Lizzie frowned. "What about Daddy? Where's Daddy?"

Julia understood that Lizzie could tell this was not a little boat around the East River. It loomed huge and black above them.

"Later, Sweetheart. Let's get on board first." They followed the man up to the edge of the pier.

"You have a choice," he said, "people like to walk up the gangplank, or you can go inside here and take an elevator."

Julia smiled at Lizzie. "Oh, let's walk up the gangplank, it's not very high up there."

They walked hand in hand up the gangplank, Lizzie looking down at the water and out at the crowds in the pier.

"May I see your voucher, please?"

Julia handed him her voucher. She spoke down to Lizzie. "Nice uniform on the man, huh?"

"I see, please follow me just down the Boat Deck. It's not far for your accommodations."

They followed him just a few feet, when he opened a door and ushered them in. Inside the hallway, he opened another door, and held it open for them to enter the stateroom. "Your luggage, Madam? It does not appear to have arrived."

She waved him off. "Oh no, that's fine. We'll get whatever we need on the ship or in France-" She looked down at Lizzie, but the little girl was trying to reach up to look out a porthole.

The steward picked up a small table and brought it over to Lizzie. "Here you are, Miss, you can use this to see out the porthole." Then he turned back to Julia. "If you'd like me to point out the amenities on the , I can-"

"No, that won't be necessary. I've read the brochure, and we do have plenty of time."

"Thank you, Madam. I'll be available on the intercom anytime during the voyage."

"Well, maybe one thing. Lizzie, shall we have a treat?"

Lizzie stepped down from the table and nodded.

"Okay, how about a chocolate soda? Or would you like strawberry? Oh, I know, we'll get both and we can have some of each." She turned to the steward. "If you wouldn't mind?"

"Certainly, Madam, I'll be back in a minute."

"Lizzie, Darling, why don't we go up to the deck and watch when the ship leaves the pier for the trip-around New York? Lots of people are there, and we can try out the deck chairs. And, they have a pool, that would be great to see. And-"

But she was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Wow, that was fast, wasn't it, Darling." Then she spoke louder. "Please come in."

The response was a louder knock. Julia went to the door and opened it. A man in a uniform with gold braid on the cuffs and shining ornaments on his shoulder stood outside.

"Mrs. Stuart?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Julia Stuart?" The man looked around her, and smiled when he saw Lizzie. "I'm First Officer Allen. Would you please remain here for-"

Before the man could finish his sentence, Hugh appeared behind him. "That's her, that's my little girl."

"Daddy! Daddy!" Lizzie ran to Hugh and he picked her up.

Behind him two uniformed policemen, one with blue sergeant's stripes, stood, their arms across their chests.

"Obviously, this is my daughter. As you can plainly see, my wife has attempted kidnapping. I'm leaving now with Elizabeth."

Julia moved forward, but the first office blocked her way. "I'm sorry, but they have a warrant."

"But I'm not going to leave my daughter," she said in panic.

"We can't keep you on this ship, Ma'am, but you will have to pick up your belongings before you-"

Hugh appeared again behind the officer. "Please, let me talk to my wife alone."

The office nodded and backed out of the way. Hugh closed the door. He glared at Julia and maintained the intensity of it, not moving his head as he spoke, eyes fixed on her. "You stay on this ship. If you attempt to leave, as soon as you are onshore, I will have you arrested and then I will have you declared criminally insane and you will be locked up for the rest of your life. Stay in this room. Don't cross me, Julia. You know I will do it."

Not giving her a chance to reply, Hugh turned quickly around and left, banging the door behind him.

Julia turned the knob, and intended to pull the door open, but then let it go and fell back on chair in hysterical tears. Her head in her hands, she rocked back and forth, sick and heavy with the knowledge of what she had done. Would she never see her little Lizzie ever again? She wiped the tears from her face and looked around the room. Nothing. Lizzie had left nothing. Everything of hers had been taken with her.

The sound of a crowd, from outside, grew. The ship was getting ready to leave. She stood, wiped her face again, and went to the porthole to look out on the pier. The window looked out on the pier below where people were waving to the ship. She left her stateroom and went up to the Boat Deck filled with passengers looking and waving, but Julia could not get close to the railing and could not see anything beyond them except the high windows of the pier. They were making it impossible for her to get a chance to see her daughter being taken away.

The passengers crowded the railing, waving and yelling, and she could not force her way. They were saying goodbye, all these people, but there was no confetti, no cheering and exaggerated screaming, no people leaning dangerously over the railing to wave a handkerchief or throw a roll of bright red confetti. No band on the pier playing jazzy music. She remembered when she and Hugh had left on the honeymoon on the Normandie, bound for Paris then, too. She felt him at her side, smiling, waving to his sister and parents. Then she shook the image away.

Finally, standing between two people, she stood on her toes to look down at the pier, and saw the policemen and Hugh, carrying Lizzie out beyond the white picket fence. She had a glimpse for one second and then they disappeared around a wall and took Julia's world with them.

Her world became dizzy as it seemed the whole wall of the pier shifted to her right, then she understood it was the ship leaving. She stood high again, knowing it was in vain, that she would not see anyone down below waving to her. The ship moved past the pier and into the channel. She stepped out of the way of people leaving the railing and let them past, then went back and leaned on it, holding it tight with both hands, looking at the skyline floating past in a bad dream, falling ever far away until the Statue of Liberty appeared small, then larger. People gathered again around her, pointing and exclaiming, as they passed the statue, waving to people on the island. Then they broke up in different directions, leaving her alone.

Julia walked along the railing of the Boat Deck until she reached the end of it, stopped by a gate with a sign that read "Danger: Ship Personnel Only." Beyond the gate were several sailors putting things into a large, square hold using giant cranes that leaned out from a mast. Beyond them lay the open sea, and there was nothing beyond the open sea.

She walked back along the Boat Deck, lost in her thoughts, oblivious to the people she passed, and entered her stateroom. In the middle of the sitting room on a coffee table was a dish with two sodas on it, one light brown, one pink, with outsized straws sticking out the top, neat white napkins next to them. Julia picked up the chocolate shake and sipped, imagining Elizabeth enjoying the taste. Then she sat in a chair and put her head down, putting her hands over her eyes so that everything was black. After a moment she sat back up and felt the loneliness creep into her bones.

Next to her on a side table was a telephone and a brochure. She opened it and noted the number for the Communications Office. How to send a cable.
Chapter 4 - 1980

The twin towers of the World Trade Center dominated the lower Manhattan skyline outside Carolyn Stuart's window as the DC-10 circled and then floated down to Idyllwild airport. She told the cab driver to take her to Park Avenue and 85th Street in Manhattan, but then said to go slow along Bushwick and then across the Williamsburg Bridge. The views of Brooklyn and the first streets of lower Manhattan excited her. As the driver expressed his frustration at the slow mid-town traffic, Carolyn enjoyed the beautiful shop windows and the old buildings. The more cars, the more people, the more buildings, the happier she became.

On Park and 85th she looked up at the red brick building with its high Dutch-looking windows and roof, and wondered why all the many times she had come to New York in the past she had never been here.

Then she thought, that wasn't really what she meant. She knew why-she hadn't known her aunt lived there. What she really wondered was why she didn't know that.

And there was one other place in New York she remembered she would also have to visit this time: her grandmother's grave in the New York City Marble Cemetery on 2nd Street.

It was the one personal thing her mother had asked her to do. It was the one personal thing she had between her mother and herself.

But for now, she gazed up at the tall house, standing alone on the corner. The windows facing the street were blocked by drapes. Carolyn had hoped to see Beatrice's face peering out, welcoming her. She walked up to the door and put her hand up to knock and the door opened. A smiling face beneath soft, straight, salt and pepper hair greeted her.

Beatrice Corbeil held her arms out and embraced Carolyn, then kissed her on both cheeks. "Hello, it has been an impossibly long time." Beatrice was small, her hair pulled tight behind her head, but her eyes were lustrous, and her skin smooth and with barely noticeable wrinkles behind the eyes. A charcoal sweater and a green and brown tartan skirt fit will on her athletically thin body. She stepped back for a moment, smiling. "You are Carolyn, right?"

Carolyn felt emotions pouring over her that she was unprepared for. She wasn't going to cry, but warmth flushed through her body. "Of course," she said. "Aunt Beatrice, it's so nice to see you. I feel like I've waited forever."

"You and me both." Beatrice reached out and took one of Carolyn 's suitcases. "Oh, here, let me take that for you."

"Oh, no, I can do it-" My mother would never had done this.

"I'm stronger than you think, young lady. I get my exercise. We New Yorkers have to walk a lot."

"Thank you."

"Come on, let's use the elevator."

Carolyn smirked. "Oh, I thought we were going to get our exercise."

Beatrice laughed as she closed the elevator door. "Yeah, well, that's for outside. In here, it's the quickest way. Hugh put it in for Mother after her heart attack. I only use it when I get lazy. " She laughed. "Or when I need to haul something upstairs."

Beatrice dragged the suitcase out the elevator door and let it stand in the hallway. "Let's leave them here for now and go into the library. When you called from the airport, I ran out to the deli and got a whole bunch of stuff. Can't have you going hungry on your first day in New York."

"That's very nice of you."

"Oh, no, I'm so excited. Let me see you again. You are so beautiful." Beatrice then suddenly changed. "I don't want to stay here. Let's go out to eat."

"But, you said you ran out to the deli already."

"I know, I did, but now that you're here, standing right before me, I'd rather go out with you. La donna e mobile. We'll have so much more fun, and the food will keep."

Carolyn smiled at the reference to opera. "It's fine with me. Either way, I don't want to put you out."

Beatrice put her hands on Carolyn's shoulders and stared into her eyes. "I'm thrilled you're here. I'm happy to have someone to eat out with as much as I want. So no party pooping from you, okay?"

Carolyn nodded. She looked around the hallway as if she expected someone new to come out from a door. "You live here alone?"

"Yes. It's just fine with me. For now. I'll probably sell it at some point and make a killing, but for now, especially with you here, I'm happy where I am. Maybe it's a big house, but it was my father's house, and my grandfather's house. So it has a lot of ghosts. Maybe you will get to know them, too."

"You're kidding, right?"

Beatrice laughed and looked at Carolyn with mock intensity. "Kidding? Did your mother say I was eccentric or something?"

"No." Carolyn understood the error of her statement. "But then, maybe there are noises at night."

Beatrice shook her head. "My grandmother saw ghosts, but then nobody took her seriously. I merely meant that it's a house with history. I think you're mother's still here and-" Beatrice hesitated and became serious. "Her mother, too, but that's a whole other story. We can talk about that sometime, but right now, I don't know about you, but my stomach's growling. I haven't time for ghosts. And I have so much to talk to you about. There's a great delicatessen just over a couple blocks. Vamoose."

After a short walk to Madison Avenue, they sat next to the window with an outsized pastrami sandwich to share.

"I've never been to San Francisco. I'm sure they have good delicatessens." Beatrice took a large bite and wiped her mouth with her napkin, bending over to keep the crumbs on her plate.

"They're like a sampling of New York delicatessens. David's on Geary is about a quarter of the size of this." Carolyn looked at the wall of menu items and the salamis hanging below. "But we have Chicago delicatessens, too, so perhaps more variety."

"I know this one well, being so close to home, but I don't eat much of this stuff, good as it is." She took another bite, then continued, "So, tell me, do you know the city?"

Carolyn sat back and looked out the window. An indistinct combination of their images puzzled her, but then a young man with tight jeans and a red tie walked past, and Carolyn saw him as a friendly neighborhood guy. A New Yorker like herself. At least that's what she wanted. And hoped she could soon become. She turned back to face Beatrice across the table. "No. I don't. Just the museums and the theaters. I guess I'm just a West Coast person. I know LA better."

Beatrice smiled to herself, then said, "That's good, actually. For me. I haven't been here long, really, but I've learned to love this city."

"You grew up here, didn't you? And you came back."

Beatrice reached out and touched the top of Carolyn's hand. "Yes, I did. From Montreal. And there's so much to tell you. But I'm just happy to finally meet you. I have no children of my own. Anything you want to know. Just ask."

Carolyn turned her hand up and wrapped her fingers around her aunt's hand. "I suppose the number one thing is why you and Mother haven't kept in contact."

Beatrice put her head down and moved her napkin around before she replied. "You're asking a very hard question. Oh, it's not hard in itself, it's just that-its-well, there's so much to go over. You know what, you're done, right? It's not a very nice place to talk. Let's go find a nice quiet bar where we can have a little drink and start our long, long conversation."

"Yes, that sounds nice. Thank you for the sandwich."

"Sure. I think we both ate rather fast."

A short cab ride later they sat in a booth in the Carnegie Bistro, surrounded by leather and dark wood. Mercifully, two large-screen sports TVs over the wall of liquor bottles were quiet. When the waiter came, Beatrice ordered single-malt Scotch whiskey for both of them. She noticed a slight frown on Carolyn's forehead. "What?"

"It's nothing. My mother likes to drink that."

"Is it a problem?"

"Not really, but-I'm starting a new life in New York. How about something more-," she looked at the waiter. "Do you have a house specialty?"

He smiled. "Too many to count. May I suggest a quintessential Upper East Side drink? The Manhattan."

"Hmm." Carolyn pursed her lips, but looked at Beatrice, realizing her aunt was at a level of sophistication higher. "Yes, that's about as local as you can get. That would be fine."

"Wait," Beatrice said. "Not just any old Manhattan. What do you use?"

"That depends on the customer. I suggest McKenzie Rye. It's from New York, the Finger Lakes region. But you could request Old Overholt, or even Jim Beam rye. If you want a real Manhattan. None of that Canadian stuff."

Beatrice stiffened and feigned annoyance.

The bartender smiled at her. "No offense. Canadian whiskey just isn't rye. You can have whatever you want."

Beatrice waited for Carolyn, then said, "It's your decision."

"McKenzie, that sounds just right."

The waiter nodded and left the table.

"Well," Carolyn continued, "that was more complicated that I expected."

Beatrice nodded. "Yes, but you've now become a New Yorker. Everything's more complicated here. And now it's your drink."

Carolyn moved her head from side to side. "I don't think I want to have my own drink. Although it is nice to be able to order something my friends back home never drink." Back home. Wish I hadn't said that.

"No, you don't have to have your own drink. But you can have one if you want. You know what's nice?" She didn't wait for Carolyn to answer. "It makes you local already."

The waiter brought their drinks and they each took a sip. Carolyn liked that. Beatrice was treating her like an independent adult. The first person ever to do that. She settled back against the leather and savored the rye whiskey and sweet vermouth. Yes, she thought, as she watched Beatrice take a drink, a local. East Coast, not West. That's what I want.

"I asked Mother why she never talked to you. She didn't have an answer."

Beatrice looked at Carolyn with sympathetic eyes. "I don't think either of us has an answer. For me, you know I lived in Montreal for twenty years, and stayed there even after my husband died five years ago. Then Hugh died and left me the house."

"Mother won't talk to me about it, " Carolyn said. She looked once again at the bar, the low amber lights, the mirror, the quietness of it all. As if they were in a protective cocoon. A flush began in her checks from the Manhattan and she felt snug and far away from home.

"I understand." Beatrice looked down and twisted her glass, stared into the dark liquid and spoke without looking up. "Her father disowned her."

"Do you know why?" Carolyn saw the bartender walk under a bright light. His face reminded her of Damian and she felt a small jab of anger.

Beatrice now looked at Carolyn and paused a moment, clearly to bring her back to the conversation. "Do you really not know why?"

Carolyn felt a brief sense of embarrassment. At being absent for a second, but there was something else in the question. That her mother had not told her the truth. Or, maybe, that she, Carolyn didn't care enough. When she replied, her voice was defensive.

"Well, yeah, I know she was pregnant with me. Girls get pregnant, but they don't get thrown out. That's kind of old country isn't it? Especially when she's a financial wizard like him. Did you ever ask him why?"

Beatrice heard Carolyn's voice as pain and she lowered her own voice and sighed before speaking. "I started to, once. But as soon as I said 'Elizabeth' he became angry and told me never to mention that name again. I did talk to Mrs. Willow, the cook. She said he had never gotten over his wife's-your grandmother's-infidelity. So he took it out on his daughter. Elizabeth's pregnancy, to him it was a bastard child. He despised her for that. To him, Elizabeth did the same thing as Julia."

Carolyn nodded sadly. The word that stood out for her was 'infidelity', but she didn't feel she could ask about it. It would have been too direct. So she changed the subject from Elizabeth to Beatrice. She leaned forward to emphasize her intimacy with her newly found aunt.

"But-you-weren't you friends with her? My grandmother, I mean." Carolyn found herself drawn in to this web of relations. Friends. Mother. Grandmother. New York aunt. She instinctively moved her hand toward Beatrice.

Beatrice looked at Carolyn and shrugged, but her voice softened more. She was also clearly learning to adapt to a new relationship. For a second time she touched Carolyn's hand. "I hardly knew her. I had left for Montreal before Hugh married her."

"Hugh-my grandfather?"

Beatrice frowned. "Yes, Hugh. Did you not know much about him? Apart from finance, I mean."

"No, of course, yes, I was just sort of repeating after you. That's really all I know. I don't really know anything personal about him."

Beatrice widened her eyes and cocked her head. "I was beginning to wonder how much Elizabeth has told you. You can learn about your family from me. I'm sorry it has to be this way, sorry for you, but it'll help you and me become closer. So, for now, it's good."

"See, I'm asking about my mother and her father, and a minute ago you were talking about my grandmother. She's just-to me-a blank. My mother was only three or four when her mother died. She didn't know her at all." Carolyn shrunk back against the booth and inside herself.

"What is it?" Beatrice said.

Carolyn spoke as if only to herself. Or to someone far away. "Oh, it's just that I'm supposed to see my grandmother's grave while I'm here. My mother says it's the only thing she has left in New York."

Beatrice smiled and raised her voice to get Carolyn's attention. "Hey, not any more. Now she's got two of us."

Carolyn raised her hand to stifle a yawn, but felt guilty interrupting the conversation.

"Mon dieu," Beatrice said. "Come on. I'm keeping you up."

"No, it's okay, I'm on West Coast time."

"Maybe, but you've had a long day." Beatrice widened her eyes. "Obviously. You need a rest. Let's get you home."

Home. The word bypassed Carolyn's brain and went straight to her heart. She looked at Beatrice as she said in a quiet voice, "Home. Wow."

When they arrived back, Beatrice opened the door and let Carolyn inside. "Come on, it's getting chilly out there."

"Aren't you kind of lonely here? This whole house all by yourself?"

Beatrice looked around the foyer, turned her mouth down and shook her head a little in thought before she smiled at Carolyn. "Oh, no. I like being by myself at night. I have a lady, Anna, who is here every other day. And I pay the doorman at the building next door to watch this house. Fred. A big bruiser. He'll stroll down the street every once in a while." She put her arm around Carolyn. "Let's go up and I'll show you to your room. I'll show you the whole house tomorrow, after you've had a good night's rest."

They walked up the stairs to the hallway. Beatrice showed Carolyn her room and said good night. "This was my mother's room."

"Grace?"

"Yes. Hugh didn't change anything, and I've left it that way, too." She sat on the bed. "I don't want to keep you up. We have so much time to talk about all this. But I've left the house the way I found it." She stood up and put both hands on her cheeks. "Oh, you know what, you should phone your mother and let her know you got in all right."

Carolyn waved it off. "She's fine. I'll call her sometime tomorrow. There's no rush."

Beatrice opened her eyes wide. "You sure? It's just a phone call."

"No, thank you, it can wait." My mother can wait a long time.

"All right, well, I'm just next door if you need anything."

"I'll just ask any passing ghost."

Beatrice laughed. "There are no noises in this house. You'll sleep like a baby." She stood and put her arms around Carolyn, pulled her in tight, and hugged her for several seconds. Then she stepped back and touched her on the cheek. "Welcome to New York. Welcome to your home."

"Thank you," Carolyn called out as Beatrice walked out the door.

Beatrice stopped and turned back. "Your mother loves you deeply, you know."

Carolyn hesitated and put her arms across her chest. "I appreciate what you say, Aunt Beatrice. But sometimes you have to show your love." She went to her aunt and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Maybe like you are."

"We have a lot to talk about, Young Lady. Good night. And skip the aunt stuff. I've always been Beatrice, never Bea or Trish, but, you know, it suits me. Maybe because in Montréal it was always Béatrice," she said, emphasizing the French accent.

Carolyn emptied her suitcases and sat down on the bed. She eyed the elegant white French-looking telephone on the ornate desk and felt a pull to call her mother. But she resisted. Not yet, she thought. When I'm settled in. When I know a bit more about this house. When I'm more in control. When I'm-but she let it go and went to bed and imagined the deli and the bistro until she fell asleep.

The next morning Carolyn awoke to a quiet house. She got out of bed, put on a beautiful white terrycloth bathrobe she found in the closet, and went out to the hallway. Beatrice hadn't shown her the house last night, so she only knew her own room and the stairway down to the front door. In contrast to the evening before, the doors on this floor were open, inviting her to explore. She turned left and looked in the first door.

A library with light wood paneling and a grand fireplace invited her in. A man who might have been J.P. Morgan or Andrew Carnegie hung majestically over the mantelpiece. Carolyn stepped in to look at the painting to see the name, assuming it was one of the Stuart ancestors. She studied the face, wanting to find herself, but couldn't see a resemblance. A sense of being lost came over her. A new consciousness that she had never felt before. As if she were entering a maze with no hope of finding a way to get out the other side. Or of finding her way back. For moment, lost in this room in her new home.

The background of the portrait didn't tell her if it might be her grandfather or great-grandfather. The look wasn't of something older than that. Her mother's father? The one who threw her out of this house?

The walls of the room were lined with books. Some had gilt lettering and designs, and might be first editions. She decided to leave them for later inspection. Large empty spaces glared. A small blond Baldwin grand piano stood in the corner.

"Good morning." Beatrice's voice came from behind. "I hope you slept well. "

"Yes, I did, thank you, Aunt-" Carolyn stopped when Beatrice cocked her head and raised her finger, although she kept smiling. "Sorry-Beatrice-I'll get the hang of it."

Beatrice carried a tray of coffee with small pastries on it. "Here's something to wake you up. Then we'll get dressed and go downtown. I have two treats for you. We'll have lunch at Windows on the World at the top of the World Trade Center, and then we'll go down to the 4th basement of the Empire State Building for a choir rehearsal."

"Oh, that sounds marvelous. You're going all out for me."

"Absolutely. Because you're going all out for me. You, Carolyn, you've travelled across the country. Sit down and have some coffee. You do drink coffee, don't you? I never asked whether you're one of those, ah, natural type of people."

"Oh, no, not me. I have my own drink, remember."

Beatrice laughed. "That's right. With New York rye. That's not quite vegan."

Carolyn gestured to the painting. "Who is that?"

Beatrice put the tray down and handed Carolyn a cup of coffee. She pointed to the pastries. "If you're hungry. Myself, I'll wait for lunch." Then she looked up at the painting. "That is my father, and Hugh's, of course, George Randolph Stuart." Turning to Carolyn, she continued, "This is your great-grandfather. He started the family fortune back at the turn of the century. Some kind of commodities baron. I guess. I never cared to know. He was never home. Not for me. Not even for a birthday."

Carolyn felt the pain in Beatrice's voice. "I'm sorry."

"Well, actually, he was home every day, in the morning, at the table, reading the paper, not even noticing me, and then he'd come back long after I'd been shuffled off to bed." Beatrice waved her thoughts away. "But that's all in the past. Life goes on. What's important is that we don't know what the future holds."

"I'm sorry you had a childhood like that. But also, I'm sorry I never met your husband," Carolyn said. "I know that's in the past, too, but I wish I could have known him."

"Thank you. I'm grateful for what we had. I have known true love in this life, and that's all I ask for. It more than makes up for my father."

"Will you tell me about him? Your husband, I mean."

"Pierre was so handsome. And fun. We did everything together. A man who will go shopping with you, that's a treasure. He worked for the CBC."

"The CBC?"

"Oh, my dear, you are from the West Coast. Canadian Broadcasting Company. He was a producer."

"Can I ask you what happened."

"Yes. But I don't want to go into it. It was quick. He went to the doctor and three months later he was gone."

"I'm so sorry. So fast. But you had forty years with him."

"Nearly. Carolyn, I'm grateful for all the years we had. That's all anyone can ever ask. I mourned for him. Actually, I will always mourn for him. I think he will always be with me. And I'm so grateful now that I have you. And Elizabeth. You know, my husband died five years ago. I probably would have stayed in Montreal if my brother hadn't left me this house. I rent out our place up there."

"You still have a home in Montreal?"

"An apartment, not a house. On the Ile des Soeurs. It's on the St. Lawrence River-" Beatrice paused in reverie, then came back. "And I used to go for wonderful long walks. I sold our home on the Plateau. It was just too big for me alone."

"You must've had a lot of friends up there. It must be lonely coming here."

"Yes, you're right. But I had to come here. To live in this house and remember everything. To kind of relive everything. Even the ghosts. I've lived in two worlds."

"Beatrice, this house, it must be bigger than the one you had in Montreal."

Beatrice laughed. "That's true, yes. And I won't stay here. Eventually, I will sell it and find someplace-I was going to say smaller, but I don't care about that. Maybe a neighborhood that has less money and more character. That's my project for the next few months. To explore this city and find my neighborhood. Maybe you could help me."

Carolyn nodded in agreement, but not with enthusiasm.

Beatrice waved her hand. "Oh, I didn't mean to drag you wholesale into my world."

"No, I didn't mean to sound like-I mean I just don't know the city so I wouldn't be any help to you."

"And you have your own agenda." Beatrice stood. "Why don't we talk about that downtown." She picked up her dishes and said, "Have you called your mother?"

Carolyn looked up at her but remained quiet.

"Oh, okay, I'll let it go."

They put the dishes away and left for the World Trade Center.

On the 106th floor, the young waiter with black hair combed back on his head seated them in the small table next to the huge window.

"Have you been here before?" Beatrice asked as she unfolded her napkin.

"No, I haven't. It's a real thrill for me. We did, a bunch of us from school, go up to the observation platform. But to sit down to lunch with a view of the two bridges-that's Williamsburg and the Brooklyn Bridge, right?"

Beatrice scanned the world below. "Uh-huh. Another view of your new world."

"My new world." Carolyn looked down and wondered where exactly her new world would be. "I don't even know where I will live."

"Oh, no, you will live with me. The longer you stay with me, the longer I delay selling it." Beatrice hesitated, to get Carolyn's attention. "The real question is what are you going to do now."

"Now."

"Yes, of course. Your next move in New York. Your first move. I understand you're here to interview at NYU. That's what your mother told me. Is that what you have in mind?"

The question forced Carolyn to look out the window once more, as if that would anchor her response in the real world. But nothing down there told her what to say. "My mother. Yes. I have the name of someone at the NYU school of business."

"Graduate school, I presume. You already have a BFA, don't you?"

The waiter came by to deliver water and bread and take their orders. They hadn't thought about it. "Is this your first time here?"

Beatrice answered for them. "No."

"May I suggest the World View of Seafood? Oysters, lobster, periwinkles?"

"Oysters-from where?" Beatrice said.

"Any coast you like. Chesapeake, Long Island, Puget Sound."

"Chesapeake," she said.

"What are periwinkles?" Carolyn said.

"They are sea snails. Very delicious. I recommend them."

Carolyn and Beatrice looked at each other and agreed.

"Sounds great", Beatrice said.

"Very well. And wine?"

"We'll take your suggestion," said.

"I can call the sommelier if you like."

"Oh no," she said, "no need to get complicated. "Why don't you bring us a couple of glasses of good white wine?"

"Certainly. Chenin blanc or pinot grigio?"

Beatrice deferred to Carolyn, who said, "I'd like the pinot." She looked at Beatrice, who nodded. "Two glasses of that."

"I'll be right back."

Beatrice continued their conversation. "So, where were we before we were so deliciously interrupted? Ah-NYU."

"NYU. My mother knows someone there. I have to set up a meeting. I have a name, but as you can tell, I'm not in a big hurry."

Beatrice smiled. "It's not me that needs you to be in a hurry. A meeting. With whom?"

Carolyn sat, quiet, not knowing what to say. "To be honest, I don't know. Somebody. Somebody in their admissions office, or-I don't know exactly."

"You must have some sort of expectation."

"That's just it. I know I can't just breeze into an MBA program. God, that would be awful anyway. So, I guess they've worked out something. Mother's been a big enough contributor, or at least she is now, that they'll find a spot for me. Some special program. Whether I like it or not."

"It sounds as if you don't like it."

The words struck home. "Yes, that's it in a nutshell." She didn't say that it's been a long time since she'd given it any thought at all.

The wine arrived. Beatrice held up her glass for a toast. "No matter what, here's to you being in New York."

Carolyn clinked her glass against Beatrice's. "Thank you. Here's to meeting you. And here's to the future."

They drank their first sips of wine in silence.

"To the future," Beatrice said. "Especially to yours. You're very young, Carolyn. You don't know what life is about. You don't know what you want."

That stung. Carolyn put her glass down. It sounded too much like words she'd heard from her mother. "I do know what I want."

"Well, yes, you wanted to get an MFA at Berkeley, I know that much. But that path isn't open to you now."

Carolyn couldn't believe-or wouldn't accept-what she heard. She had an instantaneous desire to stand and leave, but she caught herself and took a deep breath.

Beatrice held her hands up. "Sorry, you're pretty sensitive about it. I don't want to butt in where I'm not wanted."

Carolyn sighed. "No, I don't-"

The waiter appeared with a plate of shellfish and salad, red, green, yellow pieces. He cleared a place and put it down between them and gave them each a plate. Then he quickly disappeared when he saw their serious faces.

Beatrice picked up a small oyster fork and made a delicate stab at one of the oysters. "Umm, look, it's very fresh." She picked up an oyster, opened her mouth and let it slide down her throat. "Delicious. Come on, dive in."

Carolyn, grateful for the interruption, took a piece of lobster and dipped it in clarified butter, then ate it.

"I think we'll just eat off the big place," Beatrice said, speaking in a low voice inviting Carolyn to be conspiratorial.

"Suits me. I agree it's delicious. I think I'm brave enough to eat a periwinkle." She picked one of the small snails and used her oyster fork to pick it out of the shell. "More butter." She dipped the snail in the butter and put it in her mouth, then closed her eyes and chewed and swallowed in a hurry. "Okay," she said. "Not bad. Better than escargot, I think."

They finished their lunch with more comments about the quality of the seafood, paid, and left for their next appointment.

Carolyn marveled at the huge aluminum and gold mural in the lobby of the Empire State Building. Beatrice arranged for their passes and they took the elevator four floors down.

Outside the elevator Carolyn laughed and pointed to the exposed pipes and wiring of the hallway ceiling. "Oh, that doesn't give me a comfortable feeling."

They stood before doors labeled "King's College."

"It's in here," Beatrice said. She opened the door and ushered Carolyn inside a large musical practice space with a dozen folding chairs. A low stage with two narrow elevated platforms stood empty with several music stands haphazardly strewn about.

They sat in chairs in the middle of the room and waited.

Carolyn frowned at Beatrice, who leaned over and whispered, "Just be patient."

Carolyn was patient and her reward was a full hour of rehearsal for an American folk song recital later in the month. No one else came in to hear the choir. After hearing Shenandoah, Deep River, and John Corigliano's Dylan Thomas Trilogy, they applauded, sounding foolish with their meager sound.

The conductor turned around. "Thank you," he said. "And you are-"

"My friends," came a woman's voice from the back of the choir.

"So, Jenny, why don't you introduce them."

Jenny came forward. She had a huge head of light brown hair. "This is my friend Beatrice, from Montreal, on the right. The other person is-"

Beatrice stood. "My niece, Carolyn, from San Francisco."

A whoop came from somewhere else in the choir.

The conductor laughed. "They're coming out of the woodwork."

Jenny came down and shook Beatrice's hand, then turned to Carolyn. "It's nice to meet you. Maybe we'll get together again. But right now, I've got to get back to work."

"Oh, sure," Carolyn said.

"We're off," Beatrice said. "And thanks for the invitation."

"Sorry I have to leave," Jenny said.

Beatrice and Carolyn went up to the lobby.

"Thank you so much," Carolyn said. "Two treats in a row. You sure know how to show a girl a good time."

"We're not done yet," Beatrice said as she hailed a cab. "We're off again to uptown."

"The Metropolitan Museum," she said to the cab driver.

As they inched their way up 5th Avenue, Carolyn turned to Beatrice. "You don't have to do all this for me, you know."

"Do you object to me doing it?"

"No, it's wonderful. I'm having a great time. It's all a whirlwind on my second day in New York."

"That's right. For me, too. Because you are my family, now, Carolyn." Beatrice put her hand on Carolyn's forearm, held it there for a second as she said, "Do you know how amazing that is?"

Carolyn nodded. "Yes, I do. It's a total surprise for me. A month ago I was-. It's just that-at this rate-we'll have done all of New York in a week."

"No, I'm just starting you off. We have one more thing to do today."

"What's that?"

"We're going to The Cloisters. To see a marvelous tapestry, The Hunt of the Unicorn."

"Oh, I've never been there. How did you know that?"

"Maybe your mother knows a bit more about you than you think."

Mother. Carolyn pulled her arms in tight.

"Oh-oh, there I go again," Beatrice said. "I suppose you haven't called her yet, either?"

Carolyn laughed. "And when did I have time to do that?"

"I thought you might have done it before you came in for breakfast this morning."

"No. And she hasn't called yet, either. It suits me just fine." Carolyn turned away from Beatrice to stare out the window at the gray waters of the Hudson River.

"Gee, I keep getting on your wrong side."

Carolyn looked back at Beatrice with a serious face. "It's not my wrong side." She kept to herself for a moment, then said, "Yeah, it is. But it's because I haven't figured out my right side yet." She raised her eyebrows. "Maybe you'll help me do that."

Beatrice's eyes sparkled at the last few words, and her mouth widened just a little. "Help you? Do you mean that?"

"I certainly do."

Beatrice turned to face Carolyn directly and put her hand back on her arm. "Okay, I think we're on our way."

At the Cloisters a young man met them as they put their coats away and introduced himself with a Scottish accent as Gillian Macdonald, a graduate student working on The Hunt of the Unicorn. He spent an hour with them, explaining the heritage of the tapestries, the intricacies of the weaving, the connections with Stirling Castle in Scotland and The Lady and the Unicorn at the Cluny Museum in Paris. At the end he presented each of them a foot high porcelain unicorn made by Royal Doulton.

When they arrived home, exhausted, they put both their unicorns on the mantelpiece in the library and stood impressed with their good fortune.

Carolyn plopped down on the brown leather sofa in an exaggerated display of exhaustion. "I can't thank you enough. You are amazing, Beatrice."

"Let's not take this too far. I haven't enjoyed myself this much since-" she looked up toward the ceiling- "you know, since I left Montreal. How about a drink before dinner?" Beatrice said as she walked over to the corner cabinet. "Can't make your very own Manhattan, but practically anything else I've got." She pulled panel door open and flicked a switch to reveal backlit cabinet shelves with bottles of red, green, yellow, amber, and dark amber liquid.

"You know what, maybe something pretty light. I'm really hungry right now."

"Yeah," Beatrice said. "How about we just bring up yesterday's deli stuff and chow down on it?"

"Sounds great to me."

They went downstairs, heated the platters of paninis and vegetables and brought them up for the library table. "Why don't you look in the small refrigerator," Beatrice said as she walked toward the door. "Find some good beer. I'll get plates."

"Terrific," Carolyn said, jumping up with renewed energy. She opened the door of the refrigerator and found several bottles of Belgian ale. She took two and opened them.

When Beatrice came back with plates, they both sat on the sofa and ate their dinner.

"This is good," Carolyn said. "Especially for leftovers."

"More like day old donuts, but it's still good."

"Oh no, not like day old donuts at all. It's too high class for that. It's more like the day after Thanksgiving to me."

Beatrice nodded as she chewed, quickly, then said, "Still good, I agree. Makes me think of the delis in Montreal."

"Montreal, that doesn't seem like a deli kind of city."

"Oh, but it is, because it's a mix of Quebec and Ontario, French and English, and a great Jewish population."

"Yeah, like New York," Carolyn said. "Speaking of which, I think this has been the most cultured day of my life."

Beatrice sat back and sighed, wiped food particles off her hands, and took a sip if beer. "Probably for me, too. I wanted you to see what I like about New York, Carolyn. It's the city that never sleeps, as Frank Sinatra said. I think. It's the city that never stops. I miss Montreal, but there just isn't the music, the art, the films-the everything. Not like New York. You couldn't have chosen a better place to land and try your luck."

Carolyn sighed. "My luck. I'm not in a big hurry to try for it. Not yet." She stood and walked around the room. "Not to change the subject, but it kind of looks like there are places on the wall for paintings. But there aren't any."

Beatrice's voice carried a strong note of sadness. "I remember paintings. Here, and in father's office. And in Elizabeth's room down the hall."

Carolyn turned her head when she heard her mother's name. "Elizabeth? My mother?"

Beatrice stood. "Come with me," she said as she walked out to the hallway. "I promised to give you and tour and I forgot. Too busy seeing the sights, I guess."

Carolyn followed her to the next door and walked in when Beatrice opened the door. The paneled room was dark, the curtains closed. Beatrice turned on the light and the rich dark wood of the walls, the chairs and the desk blended into a wave of browns as the room came into focus.

"See," Beatrice said, there were paintings here, too. But, in the last days, they were all gone. Sold. He had cash flow problems. I think it's what killed him." She ran her hand over the desk. "Mother said he put all his and her money into gold, then had real estate problems, then he couldn't sell the gold fast enough. Because of the war. It was in Switzerland."

"But that was long before he disowned my mother because of me."

Beatrice turned sharply to Carolyn. "He didn't disown your mother because of you. It was because of your grandmother. To him, Elizabeth betrayed him just as her mother had."

Carolyn's voice became sheepish. "I know what you're saying, but still-"

"You're changing the subject. We were talking about money."

"Sorry."

"That's okay, we need to talk more about that, too. I think I'm going to be your family historian. Anyway, it's true, his financial problems started way before you came along. It meant he didn't have enough to fall back on. He lost the real estate and began speculating in the stock market." Beatrice stopped for a moment, put her arms across her chest, and looked down, absorbed. When she spoke again, her eyes were wet with tears. "He did well for a long time, but he lost so much in the downturn of 1960. That's when he began selling the paintings."

"He had valuable paintings?"

"Oh yes. How about Degas. Toulouse-Lautrec. Ostade."

Carolyn remembered back to her last art history class at Mills. "Ostade? That wouldn't be so valuable, would it?"

"Please, don't get all art-dealer on me. Whatever they were, they lasted a year maybe, and then they were all gone, sold. My point is, the empty spaces on the wall show you where they were, his last chance, and then, shortly after your mother went back to California, he just kind of gave up. Mother had died a year before, and then Elizabeth broke his heart."

"Broke his heart?"

Beatrice sat in the chair behind the desk. "I see I'm going to have a hard time with you. When he talked to me, yes, his heart was broken."

Carolyn sat in one of the ornate chairs in front of the desk. "A broken heart. I never heard that from Mother."

"Look," Beatrice said, leaning forward and putting her arms on the desk, "your mother, as far as I know, went back to Stanford and made her own way in the world. She is very, very successful. She did it on her own. And you're right, it wasn't she who broke my brother's heart. It was her mother. But Elizabeth broke it again."

Carolyn stood, put her hands behind her back, and turned to look around the room. "You're saying my grandmother, Julia, broke his heart."

"Oh, Carolyn, I'm saying that when he talked to me, after Elizabeth left, his heart was broken. Do we care to try and think through all the details? I don't want to. Sure, I want to help you understand, but I don't want to relive all that heartbreak. It was terrible talking to my mother and brother all those years. Pierre used to tell me I was fortunate to be living in Canada, away from all this."

Carolyn pursed her lips and thought for a moment. "You and I have different views on all this. I was always on the outside and far away. But you, you were here."

Beatrice shook her head. "No, you're wrong there. I wasn't here. I was in Montreal, married, living a different life. For me, everything happened on the phone. After the fact." She stood. "Come on, let me show you Elizabeth's room."

They went down the hall. When they entered, Carolyn was disappointed. There was a simple bed and a nightstand with an plain lamp on it, a small desk with a chair and another plain lamp.

"What's wrong?" Beatrice asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Funny, I was expecting a little girls' room, but that's not what it is at all. It's just a-a-a college girl, maybe a high school girl's room. You know, not even a girl's room particularly." She opened the drawer in the desk, and found a cup with a Trinity School logo. She picked it up and turned it around.

Beatrice smiled. "Ah, Trinity School. We all went there, Hugh, myself, Elizabeth."

"Where is it?"

"Upper West Side."

"It's still here?"

Beatrice laughed. "What do you mean? Of course it's still here. Why would you ever ask that?"

Carolyn laughed, too. "Sorry. It's just that I automatically think that about my mother-that there's nothing to relate to. You know, like Gertrude Stein, there's no there there."

"Yeah, I understand, more than you know. You know what I think? When Elizabeth left, she probably took anything that made it personal to her, and the room hasn't been used since. Nobody has paid any attention to it."

Carolyn thought to herself for half a minute as she surveyed the room. She went to the window and pulled back the dark red drapes. "A nice view of Park Avenue," she said.

"Yes. This was my room before it was Elizabeth's. I remember waiting endlessly, looking out this window, waiting for ticker tape parade. But it never came. It was over on Fifth Avenue." She chuckled to herself.

"Beatrice-," Carolyn stopped for a moment, then said, "Do you think he kept it this way for my mother, for Elizabeth his daughter?" Clearly that's what Carolyn wanted to believe. Something that made her mother and grandfather closer together.

"To be honest, I don't really know. If you want to think of it that way, that's fine with me."

"But you don't think so."

"I would say I never thought about it. It's pure speculation."

"Thank you, Beatrice, anyway, for showing me this. Remember, yesterday, you spoke of this being my home. Now I'm beginning to feel a little bit like it's-um-like I'm at home." She put her arms around Beatrice and held her tight. "I -thank you for welcoming me."

Beatrice's eyes gleamed. "I'm so happy you came. I think we both are going to gain from this. And speaking of your mother-" She raised her eyebrows.

Carolyn frowned. "No. Not yet."

"You're so conflicted. You seem to want to know all about your mother-and the rest of your family-but you don't want to call home. She's the only other family you've got."

"I know, but, I'm not ready to call her yet. This is my new home."

"You know what I mean, Carolyn. You have to call her up at some point. Don't you think she's worried about you?"

"Worried? No, I don't. She's worried about Lehman Brother and Goldman Sachs."

"Oh, come on, that can't be true. The only reason you're here is because she sent you. That makes her pretty wonderful in my estimation."

"All right, yes, I see that side of it. And I haven't forgotten it, either. But I'm just not ready. I don't want to talk to her when all I've learned is that there's a cup in a drawer from high school."

Beatrice sighed. "Hey, it's just your second day in town. I don't mean to rush you."

"Thank you." Carolyn yawned.

"Know what," Beatrice said, "I kind of assumed you'd have something lined up like your mother spoke of, some interview at NYU or-but you don't seem in a hurry. Which is fine with me, and I won't push the point. Why don't you settle down for the night, and I'll put the dishes away."

Carolyn stood. "Thank you again. But I'll help you with the dishes. I'd rather, if you don't mind."

"Good."

The next morning Carolyn awoke, took a shower, and went downstairs when she heard the familiar sounds coming from a room she'd seen when she entered the house. Beatrice was finishing a table setting for the two of them.

Beatrice smiled when she saw Carolyn turn the corner around the banister and come toward the room. "Good Morning! I thought we'd just have a couple of croissants and then be off."

"Be off? Again? Really?"

"Yeah, can't stay home when I've got a traveling companion with me. I had a friend sneak us a couple of free tickets to a rehearsal at the Met. Lulu. I could have told you all this in advance, but it's more fun this way."

"Lulu?"

"You don't know it? Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to talk that way. You're into art, not music. I've only heard it once. But I don't want to pass up a chance. Not when it's for free, and just fits for our time together, you and me. It's Alban Berg. Pretty modern, I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? Of course I don't mind. But you're right. I don't know opera very well. And certainly not modern pieces. I get the feeling you're not going to quit until I'm educated."

"Oh, don't look at it that way. It's not education, it's you and me in New York. Anybody can go see Puccini, but this is really challenging."

"I'm up for it. I think."

"It's very modern music, not that saccharin Italian stuff."

"You don't like Italian opera? How can that be?"

Beatrice rolled her eyes. "I can see, it's really good you left the small town and came to metropolis. You need to hone your satirical skills. Of course I love Puccini, Rossini, Donizetti. I cry every time I hear the fat girl dying in La Bohème, or that poor Japanese girl having the lieutenant's baby. I'm surprised you've never heard of Lulu, though."

"No, I did, I've heard of it. I'm sure in one of my But I haven't gone much to the opera. I did see La Bohème with some friends at the Orpheum in San Francisco. And, yeah, we went to Madame Butterfly at the San Francisco opera. That's about it. I'm not the crying kind, I think. Probably got that from my mother. The problem is you have to wait too long between arias. "

"Right. But this is different. Lulu, wow! It's degenerate. It's like punk rock for opera. You may not like it, but it'll up your sophistication for sure."

Four hours later, Beatrice and Carolyn left Lincoln Center and arrived home.

Sitting on the sofa in the library with a Coke, Carolyn waved her head back and forth. "Amazing. What an opera! Death at the hand of Jack the Ripper. That's better than the devil."

"I see you liked it." Beatrice was clearly happy.

"I'm not sure yet I like the music." She focused her eyes on nowhere in front of her with a puzzled look. "That may take some time. But the story, it's just-it's-more than amazing. It's a movie. A gangster movie. I never thought that music-an opera-could-convey the same thing. I think it showed her feeling more than any classical opera could." She wrinkled up her face in a sneer. "It kind of makes me sick." Carolyn sat back as if exhausted.

Beatrice sat and stared at this transformation. She let her hands fall loosely on her lap.

Carolyn looked over to Beatrice with a smile. "I think I can't thank you enough. This has been a learning experience I didn't think I would ever have."

"I'm not sure what you mean." Her eyes squinted, with an impish gleam.

Carolyn stood and moved with the drink in one hand and gestured with the other, as if she were lecturing. "What I mean is-" She stopped moving "-That-I didn't expect-"She turned to Beatrice and caught her attention. "-to learn so much from music." She sat down in an easy chair and placed her hands on the arms of the chair. "This was a really nasty story, you know."

Beatrice nodded and smiled knowingly. "Uh-huh."

"Well, it meant I paid more attention. I've seen bloody Shakespeare, but I've always avoided chainsaw massacre movies. This was so different. The high art kind of sucked up the blood and guts and made them-I don't know what. I'm not sure what I know any more."

Carolyn's eyes became heavy. She put the drink down on the table and sank back in the chair, felt comfortable, and warm, and let herself fall into an easy blank state.

When she opened her eyes, she was covered by a green and brown afghan, the room was bathed in amber light, and everything was quiet. Through the open door she could see it was late afternoon or early evening. She remained in the moment of the silence and the stillness and the drifted off again into sleep.

A nudge on her shoulder wakened her, still in the chair, still warm.

Beatrice's face hovered over her. "How're you doing, Sweetheart?"

Sweetheart? Carolyn stared sleepily at Beatrice.

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to get sentimental. That just came out." Beatrice smiled. "But you looked so peaceful. Beautiful, actually. Like a little girl."

Carolyn pushed the afghan off and rubbed her eyes. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to doze off."

"Do you want to sleep some more?"

Carolyn looked around the room, trying to figure out what she felt like. "No. Not at all. That was-just what I needed-I think."

"Good. Then go freshen up. We're going to Madison Square Garden?"

Carolyn sat up, then stood. "What? Tonight?"

"We don't have to, if you don't want to."

"Are you kidding? I'm up for anything. I just meant-oh, I don't know what I meant. Still sleepy. It won't take long. Just let me get ready."

"Good. We'll eat there. You'll like it. I hope."

"Oh-yes- anything, you've been marvelous-Aunt-oops, sorry. Beatrice. I'm still in a daze, I think. I've only been here one day, and already I feel like a New Yorker. And I didn't think there was anything more to see in the city. But I trust you. It'll be fun."

An hour later, Carolyn stepped out of the cab in front of the Garden and saw the marquee and laughed. "Oh my god. Hockey? I've never seen a hockey game. This is a surprise. Very unexpected."

"Yeah, I know. I'm not a great hockey fan, but-my husband was-so I kind of like to go when the Canadiens are here. And I pay for good seats, I can't stand sitting way up high."

They muscled their way into the arena and down to their seats in front of the glass. Carolyn found herself facing huge men in front of the glass and people surrounding her speaking French. "Wow!" she said, laughing, to Beatrice. "Big guys. And we need that glass?" She could hardly hear her own voice.

Beatrice leaned over. "Yeah," she said, cupping her hands over Carolyn's ears. "Hockey players have to be brutal. The puck would kill you if it hit you in the head."

"Oh my gosh!"

"Don't worry, we're safe."

A large man with a full day's beard touched Beatrice on the shoulder. "'Allo, ma Cherie. C'est longtemps."

Beatrice stood and hugged the man. They carried on a long animated conversation in French, then Beatrice introduced Carolyn.

"This is my niece from San Francisco."

"Okay, mes amis," he said, "why don't you join us after the game. We're going to go to Frontenac, down in the Village. It's been a long time, Beatrice. I didn't know you were in New York. Did you come down just for the game? We could have come together, you know."

"No, I live here now, Alain."

"Well, I see they are getting ready to play. Will you come down to the Village with us."

"I know the Frontenac. We'll be there."

"Bien alors. Au revoir."

"Au revoir," said Carolyn.

When he left, Beatrice turned to Carolyn. "How's your French?"

"Not bad. I did spend half a year in Paris in school. But it's been a while and I haven't had a chance to speak it."

"Not to worry, these guys all half speak English anyway. Montreal is not like Quebec. Oh!"

The crowd roared as the puck nearly missed the goal. Two players grappled with each other just inside the window and cries erupted around them of "Allez! Frappez!"

One of the Montreal players slammed into the window in front of them and Carolyn held on tight to Beatrice. "My god, they're killing him."

Beatrice laughed. "Exciting, no?"

"Do you go often?"

"No, only when the Canadiens are in town and I'm not busy. It keeps Pierre close to me. We had season tickets in Montreal. I suppose you like football?"

"Me? No. Nothing, actually. Mills didn't do much. Tennis and swimming, but I'm just not athletic. So this is my first professional game and it's-well, it's-gruesome."

"Yeah, hockey is an acquired taste."

Two hours later they got out of a taxi in the West Village and entered Chateau Frontenac. An oversized black and white photo of the chateau overlooking Quebec City dominated the room. An animated conversation in French came from one corner of the room. Carolyn recognized Alain from the game.

He saw them and motioned them over, then introduced them to the small group.

Carolyn stood next to a young man who didn't look very much older than her. She was impressed with how well her French held up, how easy it became.

"You are all from Quebec?" she said to the man who had introduced himself as Robert.

Robert had a dazzling smile underneath his unruly black hair that covered his ears. His eyes were a clear hazel. "Quebec is a big place. I don't know everyone. I just know Alain. He works for a Canadian film company."

"Are you in-films-I almost said 'the movies' in English."

"Sort of. I am a filmmaker, yes. But I am making my own small film here in New York. Robert is helping me with production ideas. He invited me here tonight, and then he shows up with all these hockey fans, so I haven't had a chance to talk to him."

"You weren't at the game?"

"Me? Hockey? I'm not into blood sports. Are you?"

"No, I've never been to a game. My aunt invited me. It is exciting, for sure. But to be honest, I don't really mind the violence. It's just hard to follow the action, it all happens so fast."

"I agree with you." He picked up his drink and motioned her to follow him to a table away from the group.

Carolyn followed him and sat down, taking her coat off.

"What kind of film are you making?"

"Do you know the film The Last Metro? It's the latest film by François Truffaut?"

"No, I don't. But I know Truffaut. Maybe that's too strong. Day For Night, I've seen. We studied it in film class. And Jules and Jim, that's pretty famous. And don't forget Fahrenheit 451."

"Of course, but there you see, Fahrenheit 451 is a screenplay from a famous writer, Ray Bradbury, and Truffaut didn't write the book, and so he's not a creative writer here."

"You are going way over my head, Robert. I see your point about creating everything from scratch-"

"No, really, I don't think so. I mean, not over your head. I'm impressed. You had a film class? Where?"

"At school. Mills College. It wasn't a whole course, just part of the French classes. A week on French cinema. So your film is-what?"

Robert pursed his lips. "It is set in New York, but I'm filming in Montreal. I'm just here setting up the exteriors."

"That I don't get." Carolyn frowned.

"It's too expensive to film here. The actors, the crew, the permissions. Do you know how much they charge in New York to block off a street for a couple of hours? It's astronomical. In Montreal they do it for nothing."

"I see, that certainly makes sense. But what is your film about?"

"It's about two people searching for each other in the subways."

"Doesn't Montreal have subways?"

"Yes, of course, but it only has 3 lines, and New York, I think it's infinite. So I found it easier to imagine complications for my story. And you, Carolyn, what do you do in New York?"

"Now that's a very good question. I've only been here two days."

He laughed. "Oh, now I see. Where did you come from?"

"San Francisco. The famous Golden Gate bridge. "

"Unfortunately, I've never been there. But, of course, the famous Vertigo, Hitchcock, that was filmed there, am I not correct?"

"Yes, that's true."

"A great film. Ah, but nothing like The Conversation, Gene Hackman, that's almost French. It's damn good."

"You are up on your films."

"You are right, Carolyn. It's my life, you see. We in Quebec are sort of caught between America and France. But you can look at it in another way. We are the convergence of two great filmmaking worlds. Steve McQueen and Alain Delon. It's a great time and a great place. But I don't mean to bore you with movie details. You didn't really tell me what you are doing here."

Carolyn was at a loss. She didn't know what to say. Because she didn't know herself what she was doing here. Not that she could tell someone who has in total command of his life and his plans.

Robert's face showed that he had asked the wrong question. "You don't have to tell me what you are doing here. I didn't mean to pry."

Carolyn nodded. "No, you aren't prying. I didn't reply because I'm not sure what I'm doing here."

"Okay, you are mysterious. But you speak excellent French, and you're accent, it's very good. Where did that come from?"

"Thank you, you're very nice to say so. From school. I spent a semester in Paris. At the Louvre, actually. I remember, there were many students in Paris from the University of Montreal."

"And what did you study there?"

"Art history. But really it was just studying the paintings in the Louvre. An infinite resource. We got to study with the people who work in the Louvre. We even got to work alongside them."

"What," he laughed, "you restored the Mona Lisa?"

Now Carolyn, for the first time, laughed comfortably with Robert. "Oh no, can you tell? Is it that obvious? I tried to sign my name alongside Da Vinci's but they wouldn't let me." She noticed him staring intently. "I'm kidding, you know that, huh?"

"Maybe I'm just noticing that you have a nice Mona Lisa smile."

She waved him off. "We did get to catalog recent research. But now I'm thinking the whole thing was a mistake."

"A mistake? How? This is interesting?"

"They don't do modern art."

"No, you're right. For that there's Musée d'Orsay and le Pompidou. But still, why is it a mistake?"

"Because my art is more modern."

Robert widened his eyes in surprise. "Ah. Now there's the first really interesting thing you've said all evening. Your art. Tell me about your art."

Carolyn felt pressure for the first time in New York. She hadn't given any thought to what had happened to her art career. Images flashed in her mind of the rejection at the Art Institute, of Damian in bed with the woman, of the restless sea below Sea Cliff. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up at Robert, who looked at her with sympathetic but intense eyes.

She sighed. "My art is in a shambles right now. No, the Louvre was wonderful, educational, very interesting. But it was the Northern Renaissance, van Eyck, Memling, Weyden."

He nodded thoughtfully. "And your art is-." He waited for her with his eyes wide open.

The pressure to respond unsettled her. "My art is nothing." She took a long drink of light creamy wine.

"Nothing. That's not believable. You sound like you can't take what someone's said about your art. I hope it wasn't you yourself. Tell me what you really mean."

"I mean, I'm disappointed."

"With your work? Tell me-, tell me what is your work."

Carolyn looked over to Beatrice, who was laughing in response to something Alain had just told her. "That's just it. I don't know what my work is."

"You mean, you don't know the medium, or you don't know the style?"

"Or, I don't know what it's all about. Medium. Style. Content."

"That all sounds very academic. Painting isn't a theory, painting is action."

"Oh yes, I can pick up a brush and put some color on a canvas. I-"

He didn't let her finish. "Right, it's an image, something to see. Same as in filmmaking. The problem is you don't like what you see."

She shook her head. "No, sadly the problem is not me. Others don't like what I paint."

"Who, please, tell me."

She didn't want to tell him that a major school had dismissed her work. That her mentor had given her a mediocre review.

"Okay," he said. "I can see you want to keep that to yourself. But you must remember, you yourself are the only important art critic."

The wine started to work on her. "Ah, there you go. You're more academic than I am. What kind of movies do you make? Are they cartoons?"

He drew his lips in a tight line and spilled a little drop of whiskey on the table. "No. You have a thin skin, mademoiselle." He stood and walked to the bar and motioned for more whiskey.

Carolyn turned and saw Beatrice looking at her with some concern. Now I have another minder.

Beatrice excused herself to her table with a gesture and came over to Carolyn. She glanced quickly to the bar and then back. "I don't mean to intrude. I just hope you're having a good time. We can go whenever you like. I don't know the guy you're with."

Carolyn smiled patiently at Beatrice. "No, don't worry. I can take care of myself. I'm having a good time, I promise you."

Beatrice nodded with the same exaggerated impatience. "That's great. But, if you find out he's-"

"I'm okay, thanks." This time patience was replaced with irritation.

Beatrice patted Carolyn on the shoulder and went back to her table.

Robert returned with his whiskey. And one for Carolyn. His was dark amber. Hers was dark red.

"What's this?" she asked, not impressed with his attempt to decide what she would drink.

"It's your favorite. A Manhattan."

"What's it made with?"

He frowned and cocked his head. "What?"

"My drink. The Manhattan. What's in it?"

"I don't know. Whiskey and-some other stuff."

"I don't want it." Carolyn pushed the drink away, spilling some.

"Oh. And why not?"

"Let me tell you, Robert. I didn't ask for it and I don't want it. Is that hard for you to understand?"

"Well, now you are not being very polite."

Carolyn pinched her lips tight and held them for a second, then said, "Who are you to tell me what to drink? Is that some kind of French-Canadian macho crap?"

He smiled to himself, then looked at her. "You know what this is? It's some kind of American spoiled child crap. You don't know what your art is so you reject my friendly offer of a drink."

She contemplated picking the whisky glass up and throwing it in his face, but didn't want to do it in front of Beatrice. "Why did you get me a Manhattan anyway? I'm just curious."

"Okay, so I asked Beatrice if there was something special you like to drink. What's wrong with that?"

She laughed dismissively. "If you don't mind, next time, just ask me if I want something to drink. I don't need my aunt to do it for me."

Robert held up both hands in defense. "All right, Carolyn, I get the picture. You're a big girl in a big city with a big problem. Sorry. I did not mean to offend you." He looked to his right.

Beatrice, Alain, and the others had stopped talking and were watching them.

Carolyn looked at her aunt, hesitated, then walked over to her. She smiled and said, "What do you think? I'd like to go back. Could you give me a key to the house? I think travel fatigue has finally set in. If it's all right."

Alain looked at Beatrice and nodded, saying, "Beatrice, I think you should take her home. You and I can catch up some other time."

Carolyn felt a sudden hot rush of embarrassment. "No," she said in a loud voice that startled even herself. "Just let me have the key. As Robert said, I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. You should stay here and continue your conversation." She stopped, almost out of breath and waited for Beatrice.

Beatrice took a quick sip of her drink and took her coat and said good-bye to them all. She led Carolyn out the door.

Carolyn breathed in and then let it out with an exaggerated sigh. She felt pressure behind her eyes as she spoke to her aunt. "You could have given me the key."

Beatrice stopped and made Carolyn look at her. She spoke with a soft voice. "I should have given you a key, sure. Sorry I didn't think of it. But I couldn't stay very long anyway. It wouldn't be fair to wake you up."

"Oh, I would have let you in."

"Yes, I know, you and I are good friends. We should have worked this out before. But we didn't. I didn't want to have to go to the doorman next door and ask for the spare key."

Carolyn looked down at the sidewalk.

"So," Beatrice said, "you should show a little patience."

Carolyn looked back up and nodded. "Yeah, I'm sorry, I just was so irritated by that jerk, and I really didn't want to bother you."

Beatrice started walking. "Let's take the subway home. It'll be fun. It's just on up to 96th and a short walk."

Carolyn felt sheepish. "I'm really sorry, Beatrice. I didn't mean to take you away from your friends."

"I know you are. It was really nice to connect with Alain again, but at the moment I'm kind of like you. I'm not interested in men from Quebec. Alain is married, and he's just a little too friendly to me right now. He thinks maybe he's the grieving widow's answer. So you gave me the perfect excuse."

"But Alain said you should take me home."

"He did. But he wasn't sincere. He expected me to give you the key."

"Anyway, thank you once more."

Inside the subway, Beatrice motioned Carolyn inside the #4. "We'll get off at 86th and take the 6. This is the express, but it doesn't stop at 96th." At the top of the stairway to the street they walked in silence two blocks over to Park and down to the house.

Once inside, and upstairs, Beatrice took her coat off and said, "Now, it's late and we're both tired and we've gone nonstop for a couple of days. Tomorrow is R&R for us. Just taking it easy."

"You know what I'd like to do, is go see grandmother's grave. I promised Mother I would do it. It's not hard to get to, is it?"

Beatrice hugged Carolyn. "You know, I haven't ever been there. Julia, you know, died in Europe, during the war. I didn't even know it until it was all over. Mom wrote to me that Hugh heard from some commission over there, and he had her body brought back and interred here. I don't know the name of the place. And I've never been there. You must know where it is, if you have plans to go there."

Carolyn's face brightened. "I do. Did you know Mother goes there when she comes to New York?"

Beatrice winced. "I do now. But all these years I didn't. There's so much that's going to change. So, that's settled for tomorrow. We'll go there and it will be a joyful discovery for both of us." She put her hands up to her face. "I'm sorry. It's not joy."

Carolyn came to Beatrice and pulled her close, then held her at arms length and said, "It is joy. I think you're right. I have to learn to trust your instincts. I haven't learned yet to trust my own, but you, my Aunt Beatrice, you are someone I can trust."

She pulled away and said, "Until tomorrow," and walked to her room.

"Good night." Beatrice said, smiling.

The phone rang in the room as Carolyn was undressing. She waited for Beatrice to answer it somewhere else in the house, but it just kept on ringing. A knock on the door indicated clearly that wasn't going to happen.

"Come in," she said, putting on her bathrobe. The phone rang.

Beatrice's head appeared inside the door. "Mom had her own phone line in here. I think this call is for you."

The phone rang.

"I am very sure it's for you. And you know who's calling."

Carolyn sighed and nodded in defeat. "I see. She's going to let it ring all night. I wonder how she found out I have this phone number in my room?"

Beatrice smiled and raised her eyebrows. "How hard could it be?" She pulled her head back and closed the door.

The phone rang louder.

Carolyn went to the ornate desk and looked at the phone, a beautiful ivory-and-silver replica of something 19th century. She picked it up and cupped the earpiece while her subconscious mind made its decision. When she spoke, she had no thought of how she wanted the conversation to go, then, as soon as she said, "Mother?" she knew she would talk about their plans for tomorrow.

"Carolyn? Is that really you? I thought maybe Beatrice was making you up."

That cool monotone voice. With its sarcastic tone. At this distance across the country Carolyn thought of the woman on the phone as Elizabeth, not as Mother.

"Yes, it's really me. Who did you think it was?"

Silence on the other end, broken by, "I know you're avoiding me, but I don't really think I should have to hear all the news secondhand."

Carolyn wondered about "news". "What news? I've only been here two days. There is no news."

Elizabeth's voice came back with a sharpened tone. "Then that is the news, isn't it. Have you forgotten why you went to New York?"

Carolyn put one leg on top of another. "No, Mother. I have not forgotten why I came here. As I just said, it's just two days. Why are you so impatient with me? Should I run down to Goldman Sachs and apply tonight?" Carolyn bounced her leg up and down in frustration.

"Carolyn, can you please be serious with me."

"Serious? Serious about what? Why do I have to be in such a hurry? Beatrice has been wonderful to me. I've been to the Metropolitan museum and opera. I've been to a hockey game, for god's sake. And I met a French-Canadian filmmaker."

Elizabeth sighed on the other end of the line. "You met whom? You think what you need right now is another boyfriend? Didn't you learn anything in Berkeley?"

Carolyn held the phone in her hand. She looked around the room as if something would suddenly jump out at her to respond to her mother.

Her mother's voice came from the phone. "Carolyn?-"

Silence. Carolyn waited, unable to reply.

"Are you there?"

She bit her lip, then put the phone back up to her head. "Yes, I'm still here."

"Then why won't you answer me?"

"Mother, I didn't say a word about a boyfriend. Why do you have to misinterpret what I say?"

"I don't think it's a misinterpretation at all. It's too soon for you to start up with someone else. It takes time to get over these things. You should only be thinking of your career."

"For the last time, I don't have a boyfriend."

"Then who were you meeting in a bar?"

"God. This is unbelievable. I didn't meet anybody in a bar. I went with Beatrice and some friends of her."

"One of whom makes films and is going to make you a star."

Carolyn could not stand this line of conversation. She wanted to slam the receiver down. She decided to make her voice low and calm. "Mother-we're going to do something entirely different tomorrow. We're going to grandmother's grave."

Elizabeth remained silent for a time on the other end of the line. "Where are you going?"

What is this, a test? "What do you mean? It's where you told me. The New York City Marble Cemetery on 2nd Avenue."

"Who is the we?"

Carolyn's voice rose and became sharp. "Who? Your sister-in-law and me. Mother!"

"Well, thank you, Carolyn. Just be sure you don't mix it up with the other one."

A line formed between Carolyn's brows. "What other one?"

"The one on 2nd Street. It's around the corner. You want the one that has a long iron fence on the street. And has "City" in its name. And Carolyn-."

Carolyn waited for her mother to continue, curious.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"And Carolyn, for me, will you just kneel down on the ground and touch the stone. I know, you're a modern child. It's not fair of me to ask."

Carolyn sighed. "Sure, Mother. Of course I will."

Carolyn hung up the phone and went to her bed, took off the robe, and lay back, exhausted. She lay still and felt her chest go up and down in slow rhythm. Images of New York floated through her consciousness until she fell asleep.

The next morning Carolyn and Beatrice walked up out of the Bleecker Street station, headed across Bowery and along 2nd Street. When they reached 2nd Avenue, Carolyn stopped, confused.

"I think it's here. 2nd Street. Or avenue. I'm not sure which. Let's go up here." She turned left on 2nd Avenue and walked along, looking for anything that she could recognize as a cemetery. "These are just apartments," she said, frustrated. "And that's an Italian restaurant. You would think we could see headstones. Mother said there was an iron fence, but I don't see anything like that-wait, that plaque, there-well, that's a gate, not a fence." She walked up to the gate and read "New York Marble Cemetery."

Beatrice came up behind her. "You said the name had "City" in it."

"I know, but this gate could be a fence."

"This isn't it, Carolyn. Let's go back down to 2nd Street and go down at least a block, and if there's nothing there, we'll go in here." Beatrice scanned the street, but said nothing.

Carolyn followed her look and said, "Wait, let me go in here, first. Maybe somebody can help us. Look, there are flowers on the gate."

She read the brass plaque. "It says the names are on the walls. It's funny, that's not what Mother said." She entered the gate and followed the narrow alleyway along the old brick walls. At the end was a large green expanse with trees and bushes, the whole thing surrounded by modern New York apartment buildings.

An old woman sat on a green lawn chair in the middle, knitting something in the early stages. Carolyn approached her.

"Hello."

The woman patiently put her knitting needle and red yarn down. She shaded her face with her eyes and said, "Yes, can I help you?"

"I thought this was the New York City Marble Cemetery, but it is something different out front."

The woman laughed. "Yes," she said, with half a sigh. "A common mistake. The other one is what you want. Across the street on 2nd Street."

"There are two of them?"

"Yes. Just like twins, but not identical."

"I'm looking for my grandmother, but my mother said the gravestone is on the ground."

"Oh, then you mean the other one."

"Do you have someone buried here?"

"Oh no," the woman said, smiling. "It's just a lovely park to me. No one's ever in here. It's been so long since anyone has been buried here."

Carolyn and Beatrice left the cemetery and walked across 2nd Avenue and went a few feet to 2nd Street.

"This has to be it," Beatrice said.

They walked along 2nd past nondescript buildings and a fat couple walking their little lap dogs, until halfway down the tree-lined street they saw the iron fence with a cemetery behind it.

"Must be somewhere here," Carolyn said. "Let's just keep going." Inside the fence a few gravestones were scattered on the lawn, along with several obelisks, some looking like they were twelve feet high. "I can see why the old lady liked the other one. This one is much more public."

In the middle of the block, opposite a gray-stone church, they found the entrance.

"New York City Marble Cemetery." This has got to be it," Beatrice said.

She pushed open the gates. "Did Elizabeth say where the gravestone was?"

"Yes. She said it was on the left as you go in, toward the end, under a tree."

They walked slowly along the grass between gravestones and obelisks.

"Not very old for around here," Beatrice said. "1888, 1854. That's almost modern. Maybe another section is older. Oh, look, here's 1958."

Carolyn walked ahead of her, not listening. She neared a tree made up of several trunks grown together. On the ground ten feet in front of this tree she saw the gravestone. "Julia Marie Stuart."

She turned and called, "Beatrice," but found her aunt only a few feet away.

"Is that it?"

"Yes." Carolyn read it out loud. "Julia Marie Stuart. May 23, 1920, Lewiston, Maine-September 4, 1943, Versailles, France. Wow. That's amazing. Mother didn't say she died in France."

Beatrice looked at Carolyn, but didn't say anything, obviously waiting for more reaction from her niece.

"France? How did she get to France? Why did she go there?" Questions swirled around in Carolyn's mind. They tugged at her, but she didn't know which way they led. She turned to look directly at Beatrice, then back at the gravestone. "Did you know she died in France?"

Beatrice shook her head slowly. "I'm not the one you should ask."

Carolyn felt a sudden distance from her aunt. "But you were here, she was your brother's wife, you must have known something." There was a sudden sense of urgency in Carolyn's voice. It shocked her.

"No, remember, I wasn't here. I was in Canada. And I wasn't close to my brother, or, to tell the truth, really, not with my mother either."

Carolyn moved back from the gravestone and took her aunt's arm. Together they walked to the exit of the New York City Marble Cemetery. Carolyn turned back and felt the gravestone receding and drawing her back at the same time. As they closed the gate behind them, Carolyn stood for a moment and put her hand on the iron grill. Then they walked toward Second Avenue. When they arrived at the end of the cemetery fence, Carolyn stopped again and looked inside, focusing on the grave a few feet inside next to the tree. She felt it pulling on her from the past. She looked at Beatrice in silence and then continued walking.

Her voice had a quality of pleading to it which surprised her. "Beatrice, tell me what you did know."

Beatrice looked at Carolyn with intense sympathy in her eyes. "I knew that Julia had left Hugh and her daughter and went off on her own. She disappeared. My mother told me that she believed that Julia ran off with an Italian man. You have to remember something else, my dear. There was a war on and Canadians were in the war before the Americans were. This was 1940 and Canada was in the war alongside the British and the French from September of 1939. There was a mobilization and my husband was called up and sent overseas. That was uppermost in my mind. Not what happened to my brother and his failed marriage."

Carolyn touched Beatrice on the shoulder. "I do understand. I don't mean to be unsympathetic to what happened to you during the war. There is so much more I want to learn about it, about you, about Pierre. See, this is something you didn't tell me before. Now I have learned about your suffering, and it helps me to feel closer to you. I came here to get away from my mother, but now I'm finding there is more here for me than I ever thought possible."

They crossed Second Avenue on their way to the Bleecker Street subway station. Carolyn said, "look there," pointing down the street. "There's another Marble Cemetery. We almost lost our way." She looked down and spoke is if she were speaking only to herself. "I almost lost my way."

They continued walking in silence but Carolyn held on tighter to Beatrice's arm as they continued on to this subway and back home.

Once in the house, they went into the library together and sat on the arm chairs facing the cold fireplace.

A long minute of silence hung between them and then Carolyn said, "Your husband was in the war in Europe?" She felt now the closeness to Beatrice deeper than before. She knew something of how her aunt had suffered. She realized that it seemed as if her mother Elizabeth had never suffered. She had never talked of suffering. Because she had always just been too tough for that.

"Yes," Beatrice said, placing her arms on her knee and folding her hands. She looked down at them for a moment of thought and then said, "He was gone for five long years. I went to England to visit him and spent a year there, and wanted to volunteer for the ambulance corps, but he objected. He said it made it tougher on him if I was also in the war. I believed him. When he went to the continent I came back home." She stood and walked around the room. "You know, everything of his and mine is still back up in Montréal. That tells you something doesn't it. I haven't made up my mind where I'm going to live."

She sat back down and leaned forward to look Carolyn directly in the eye. "That is, until now. You have helped me make up my mind. My future is here, whether in this house or not."

Carolyn shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She had found a new interest in learning about her grandmother and why she went to France, but now that led to learning about Beatrice's life. Her own loneliness merged with that of her aunt. "Tell me about Pierre. What did he do in the war?"

"He was in the infantry for the invasion of Sicily and he fought through to the capture of Rome. He was lucky, or at least I felt he was, because he worked for division headquarters doing reporting back to the war office. He himself was disappointed, and he volunteered for patrols, but they wouldn't let him go. That's what he said in his letters."

The idea of the letters hit home with Carolyn. Something tangible, to hold in your hands. To read and understand. "You have those letters?"

Beatrice thought for a moment. "Somewhere, I'm sure. Back home. In the attic." She looked up as if she had made a discovery, and her eyes brightened.

"What is it?" Carolyn felt her own spirits lift in response to Beatrice's eyes.

"The attic. I've never been in the attic."

"But you said that's where your letters are."

Beatrice shook her head and looked down at the floor, and nowhere in particular. "I'm confusing you about New York and Montreal. No, I mean I've never looked up in the attic here, in New York. Who knows what's up there. I've no idea. When I got here this place was full of furniture, but all the personal things were gone, all the clothes, the paintings on the wall, the paperwork. For the most part. I have never wanted to really explore the house."

Carolyn stood, pushed her hair back, and looked at Beatrice, biting her lip, waiting, her heart suddenly beating a little faster.

Beatrice, seeing Carolyn ready and excited, stood. "What are we waiting for."

"Will we need a key?"

Beatrice said, "Oh-oh. I don't know. Let's find out. I doubt it." She started to walk, then stopped. "You know, honestly, I've never gone through all the drawers in here or in Hugh's office." He put her head in her hands and said, "My god, I've not moved in at all. It's like it's just been a hotel for me." She went out the door.

Carolyn followed her to the end of the hall. They passed Hugh's office on the right, and just before they arrived at Elizabeth's room at the end, Beatrice turned left into a small alcove and opened a door.

"Here we go," Beatrice said as she placed one foot on the stairway, which led up to a small landing and door at the top. "We'll see. I've never been up there. Alice, my cleaning lady, said she went up there once and didn't think it was out of the ordinary. I think she was hoping the paintings were all stored there." She looked up and grasped the handrail as she went up the steps.

At the top, Beatrice opened the door. "Oh, see, not to worry. Now I feel stupid. Alice would have told me if it was locked." She went in.

Carolyn followed behind her. "Oh, my," she said. "This isn't an attic, it's just the top floor."

"Yes," Beatrice said. "Alice has kept this perfectly clean. I must thank her for that. It's a room." She turned left and looked, then pointed. "And there's another hallway with a couple of doors. Well, this is a surprise. I'm sorry I didn't come up here sooner."

Carolyn looked left where Beatrice pointed, then back to the room they had just entered. The room seemed long, the empty walls a faded white, almost becoming gray. No signs of anything ever hanging there. Two large quarter-circle windows at the end of the house looked out across Park Avenue. "I remember those, when I arrived. I thought they were beautiful. I feel like you can see the world from here." On their right were two dormer windows. Carolyn walked over to them and opened one up. It slid easily. She peeked out to the street. "A nice view." She closed the window and stepped back to take in the whole room. "But the room is empty. What was it when you were a child?"

"Oh, we weren't allowed up here. It was always Grandfather's room, and then Dad's room, and I did come up here a couple of times, there were bookshelves, and a table and chairs. I remember at the time I thought it was kind of like a dining room, but it would have just been a place for them to be alone."

Carolyn inhaled. "It smells like disinfectant. Your housekeeper does a thorough job."

"Yeah, I kind of wished she hadn't. It's my fault for telling her to come up here. But it takes away-I don't know-," Beatrice put her fingers up to her lips-"I wish I could have smelled it, the history, whatever it was like up here."

"It would be a great place for kids up here. So high, they could put a train up here, or have a room full of doll furniture." Carolyn laughed. "Or ghosts. Lots of room for them." She stood quiet. "Listen. The wind. You can hear it up here. It's like you're closer to nature up here at the top of the house than you are near the ground. I love it."

Beatrice walked to the other half of the room, to the hallway. There were doors on either side. She opened the door on the right. Carolyn followed her, putting her hand on the knob on the left.

"Well," Beatrice said, "nothing in here. Wait, a trunk, kind of hidden behind the door."

Carolyn, here interest heightened, followed Beatrice into the room. Beatrice lifted the lid of the trunk.

"Women's clothes," she said.

"Let me see," Carolyn said, her eyes widening. "Oh, there's that mothball smell. At least something up here has a smell to it."

Beatrice lifted clothes out of the box. "All dresses. All very nice, really." She held one up to herself. A black velvet and lace dress. "About my size." Let me see you. She held it up against Carolyn. "Yes, would work for you, too. And the label is-Anna Miller. Don't know that. But this is really nice. I'm impressed. See if you can find one." Beatrice twirled herself around the room near the windows to let the light show off the dress.

Carolyn picked up several dresses, then took one out. "Oh, my, this is absolutely beautiful." It was a black dress with bright red ribbon designs accented with red and white stylized chrysanthemums. "Look, the shoulders, so 1930s, the three-quarter arms. I've got to try it on." She put the dress back on top of the trunk, took her sweater and jeans off, and put the dress on. "Look at me, I'm Debbie Harry before she was rich. The original Blondie. I'll have to get cowboy boots to go along with it." She laughed. "Just kidding. What a treasure this all is."

Beatrice said, "Well, I'm not going to go that far." She held up the black dress again. "Oh, how beautiful. It's a sweetheart bodice. Amazing. And look-," she took a lace train out of the trunk, -this lace, and the velvet." She held the dress against her body as she ran her hand over her thigh, luxuriating in the material.

Carolyn shook her head and smiled. "This gives a whole different view of Julia. If it's Julia's clothes."

"Oh, it must be. Mother would not have worn these things. I wonder who kept these? We'll have to go through the whole trunk and pick out a couple of things to keep. Well, leave them all here for now. These are so marvelous. I never thought I could feel like a runway model, but I do today. I think I'll have Alice, my cleaning lady, put them all on hangers to all air out. I bet a vintage clothing store somewhere in the Village would love to have these."

"Oh, great idea." Carolyn studied the dress, feeling herself in it, moving around, noticing the way the skirt of the dress moved with her. "This is the lady that went to France. I feel like I'm her. So somebody kept all this, just the beautiful dresses. Somebody who cared about her. Do you have any idea?"

Beatrice thought for a moment. "No. There were only Mrs. Willow, and then Mary, the girl who watched after Elizabeth. Hugh had left Mrs. Willow some money. After his funeral, she went away. We never corresponded. There was something, later on, a few months after Hugh died, a letter to her, and returned no forwarding address, so I never pursued it. And, Carolyn-don't get your hopes up about Julia. I mean, we don't know the whole story-but-maybe she's an angel-and maybe she's not. We may never know."

Carolyn looked around the room, as if searching for an answer. "No, I know, I'm looking for something-someone- who's probably not there. But-do you understand-until now, I had only my mother, and we didn't get along at all, and now I have you-and so I want Julia, too, even if it's just fantasy for now."

Beatrice put the black velvet dress back in the trunk and closed the lid.

Carolyn felt sheepish still wearing her floral dress, so she took it off and put it back in the trunk.

"You don't have to do that," Beatrice said.

"It's okay, maybe later. Let's wait until they're all hanging up, then look at them again."

"Right. Well, we will have another room left. Still a chance for the ghosts to show up."

"I think we found a pretty nice ghost right in this room. We should stay up here some night and see if the trunk lid opens and they float around the room."

Beatrice laughed. They went out and across the hall.

"Oh. Wow." Beatrice said as she looked into the room.

"What?" Carolyn said, touching her on the shoulder as she came up close to look in the room.

"Look at this."

The room was flooded with light from a huge skylight in the roof.

"Yeah," Carolyn said, "you can't even see this from the street. And look at that." She felt a strange flush through her body. She put her hands up on her cheeks.

In the corner, opposite the two dormer windows that looked at the row of windows in the building across the street, was a painting, half finished. It was a man, the head and shoulders, with a background of paintings on a wall which were undefined. The man looked out at the viewer with sympathetic eyes.

"Oh my god!" Beatrice gasped. "I don't believe it. It's Hugh."

Carolyn stood silent, shocked. "Hugh. My grandfather? Him? This is a painting by my grandmother? Unbelievable." She examined the painting closely. "And it's oil, too." She stood back and stared at it for a moment. "Nice brushwork. I'm impressed. With her work, not just the subject."

Beatrice nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on the painting. "Yes. Him. What a surprise. I'm afraid I don't know much about the details of painting."

"This is amazing," Carolyn said. "You said all the paintings had been sold, but this one. Who did it?"

"This-yes-this is Julia. I'm sure of it. Well, not absolutely, but I think so. I'll bet you Hugh didn't even know this was up here. Of course not, or he would have had it destroyed."

"I must ask Mother if she knew about this."

"That's a very interesting question. Your mother was in this house for twenty years before-," Beatrice slumped into herself-, "before she went away."

"You mean when my grandfather threw her out."

Beatrice looked at Carolyn, her eyes misting up. "Yes. That."

"But surely, Mother would have come up here and seen this. All those years, her whole childhood."

"I presume she didn't mention it to you-or you'd know."

Carolyn shook her head. "All she ever had from here was the picture of herself as a child with her parents. She certainly never mentioned anything at all about this house. Of course, she wouldn't talk about anything at all. She wouldn't even tell me where this house was."

Carolyn scanned the small room. It was empty except, behind the easel was a wooden box on the floor. "Oh, look, it's-a box of paints, I think." She went around the easel and picked the box up. "It's heavy enough, I think the paints must still be in it. All dried up, I'm sure." She held the box in one arm and opened it. "Oh-oh-yes, the paints are-but look, there are some letters or something."

She turned and showed Beatrice the box. Beatrice lifted the letters out of the box. Carolyn glanced at the rest of the contents in the box and then put it down. There were several light blue Aerogramme letters, wrinkled and folded, a telegram yellow with age, and a ragged piece of notepaper with gray lines that looked as if it had been torn off in haste.

"Letters? Whose letters would they be?"

"Let's see," Beatrice said. "There's a note. From Mrs. Willow."

"Who's that?"

"It says-she was the housekeeper, remember, the one who I last saw at the funeral-it says, 'I wanted to save these. I took them from the trash bin.' It's signed 'Margaret Willow'. Funny, I never knew what her first name was, until Hugh's death, I saw it on a few documents."

She sorted through the letters. "Look, there are four of them. One's a telegram, from the SS Washington, and three letters, see, aerogrammes. All addressed to Hugh. Come on, let's go down to the library and see what we have here."

When they were in the library, they sat at the table. Beatrice put the four envelopes down and sorted through them by postmark.

Carolyn couldn't wait. "The telegram, what does it say?"

Beatrice looked at her in excitement and turned to the yellow piece of paper and showed it to Carolyn:

SS WASHINGTON URGENT=

HUGH STUART 40 E 85th ST NY NY

Hugh I'm sorry I've made a huge mistake will

return as soon as possible

cable me on board ship

love julia

The two women stared at the telegram.

Carolyn felt a surge of pain run through her chest. "Can you imagine? Sending a telegram like that? How old was she?"

"Well, let me think, I don't know exactly, but she was very young when she married Hugh, around twenty, I remember Mother was dead set against it. She thought Julia was a gold digger. But then she didn't like my husband, either."

"It says she made a huge mistake? What was that? It must mean going away, don't you think?"

"Yes, you're probably right. Let's look at the other letters." Beatrice spread the three letters on the table. "They're all in 1940. May, then June, then August." She turned to Carolyn. "That's all there were in the box?"

"Yes, I'm sure, I looked very carefully."

"I'm almost afraid to look at them."

"I can't wait, read the first one."

Beatrice unfolded the first aerogramme and read it out loud.

My dear Hugh, during my time on the ship, I've come to see what a mistake I've made. I miss you and Lizzie so much. I was upset and not thinking straight. If I can I will take a plane home, from Lisbon, or a ship if I have to. You know I love you and Lizzie and I want us to be together as a family. She needs a mother and you need a wife. I will do anything to make that possible. I know what I did was wrong. I misunderstood and thought you were going to take Lizzie away from me, but I was terribly wrong to think that. I will be home as soon as I can, Darling. I'll send you a cable when I've made arrangements. With all my love - your Julia

"Such lovely handwriting," Carolyn said. "How sad. And she called Mother 'Lizzie', isn't that something. I bet mother never knew that. She said her mother was just someone in a picture that she'd rather forget." Carolyn's heart was beating fast and her eyes started to mist.

Beatrice put her hand on Carolyn's arm. "Ready for another one?"

Dear Hugh, I'm so terrified. I beg of you to get me home. I had a ticket for Lisbon but on the way our train was bombed by German planes. I escaped, but some others didn't. Now my exit visa is no good. Could you please send a letter, or better yet a telegram to the American Embassy in Paris so they will know who I am and can expedite my exit visa. I know, it seems crazy to get a visa to go home, but the Germans have taken over Paris and are making everything difficult. I can't call or cable. I'm so scared, Hugh. Please do this right away. Here is a picture for Lizzie. Love, Julia

"A picture? Oh no. There wasn't a picture?" Carolyn's voice rose.

Beatrice looked through the papers. "No. Maybe in the box still?"

Carolyn stood, saying, "I'm going to find out" and ran out the door to the hallway. In the attic room she picked up the box and went through it, picking up each tube of paint, disappointment making her hot. Then she saw it, wedged in the inside top of the box. She ran excitedly back down to Beatrice.

"Look, I found it. Isn't she beautiful? Yes, just like the picture Mother has of her and grandfather. There she is, in Paris. I wonder what street that is. You can't make it out. But there's a restaurant on the corner. It's just so small. I wish I knew what restaurant that was. I mean, I wonder if it's still there."

Beatrice looked at the picture, but then showed the third letter to Carolyn, who read the letter, but then stopped and wiped tears from her eyes.

Dear Hugh, I can't believe what has happened. I don't understand why you haven't contacted the embassy. They don't believe me because I said you would write them and then you haven't. Some Americans are being placed in a camp outside of Paris. Hugh, it's a camp run by the Germans. They have interrogated me. They want to know who my parents are. Even my grandparents. I have nowhere to turn. You can't forget how much I love you and Lizzie. Hugh, you are my only chance for survival. Please help me, if not for me, then for our poor daughter. With all my love -Please-Julia

Carolyn looked at Beatrice in disbelief. "She died, in 1943, in France. Maybe it wasn't France. Maybe it was actually in Germany. Maybe my grandmother died in a concentration camp. I saw documentary film about it at school. It was awful. It made me sick. But she is buried here. Hugh must have had the body brought back after the war. There would be records-".

Beatrice put her hands around Carolyn. "No, I can tell you that, whatever papers Hugh had, there weren't many and I went through all of them. There was nothing about that."

"So we're left with nothing?" Carolyn felt a world opening and closing at the same time. A flush permeated her whole body.

"We have these letters, and the picture, and the painting and clothes upstairs."

Carolyn's voice rose in panic. "Letters? Clothes? That's not my grandmother!"

"Carolyn, listen to me. This was during the war. Millions of people were killed. Millions of people don't know what happened to their families."

Carolyn calmed down. "I know, I know, but this is all such a sudden shock."

"At least, now, maybe you have something to tell your mother. Something to help you understand her a little. Something to bring you closer together."

Carolyn stared at the picture, then stood. "I could go over there. Try and find out what happened. They have records."

Beatrice nodded. "Yes, they do. And perhaps you could find out. But perhaps not. My husband lost a cousin and they never knew. He was missing and there was never anything more after that. You don't have to go over there right now. You can go anytime. You should finish what you came here to do."

"For now, I'm going to go upstairs. I want to see her paints, study the painting. That will make me feel close to her."

"All right, if that's what you want to do."

"It is." Carolyn left the room and went back up to the attic room. Standing inside, she noted the broad light from the ceiling skylights combined with the side lights from the dormer windows. Perfect, she thought. You can have as much or as little light as you want. And all alone up here on top of the world.

She looked again at the half-finished painting. As she studied the colors, dominated by brown and blue, she thought immediately of the combinations of tube colors and whites that made these particular hues, and the composition, how the figure of the man stood out against the background, she felt almost faint. So close and yet so far. She became weak, she fell to the floor and sat there, her legs pulled up close and saw the light on the painting and now she smelt the familiar scent of oil paint from the box.

She picked the box up and looked at the brushes and the tubes of paint. Some had never been opened, but the brown, blue, green, yellow, white and red, the colors used in the painting, these tubes were pressed inward by Julia Stuart's hand. The same kind of impression that Carolyn's hands had made on paint tubes.

There were four brushes of varying width in the box. Someone had cleaned them nicely. They were still supple. She picked one up and moved her finger back and forth over the bristle and imagined it was Julia's hand. Standing up, she took the brush in her hand and as if guided by an invisible hand she moved it over the painting, seeing the striations that told her trained eye how the brush had been originally moved on the canvas, and she re-painted the canvas, slowly, lovingly, seeing the hand of Julia in front of her creating the original painting.

Why had Julia stopped? Was she interrupted suddenly? Did she have to drop everything and run away? Why did she think they would take her child away from her? Why did she have to go to such desperate lengths? And why wasn't the child, Elizabeth, Carolyn's mother, why wasn't she with Julia? Is this the reason Elizabeth was never sympathetic, never really sympathetic to Carolyn's art?

Would the questions never end? Did her mother know more than she was letting on? Surely over those more than twenty years with her father, Hugh, Elizabeth would have asked many times about her mother.

What about Margaret Willow. She saved the letters, she saved the painting. She wanted someone to see them.

Carolyn went back down to the library, where she found Beatrice sitting at the table, re-reading the letters.

When Carolyn entered the room, Beatrice turned her head. "How did you feel up there?"

"Different from down here. These letters, I know they have some amazing story contained in them. But it's the paper, it's so thin, it's just like tissue paper. Upstairs, the paint, the painting, they're all so substantial compared to paper. So I felt closer to her up there. I felt her presence with me, here. The letters, they're just frightening. But they speak to me, too, Beatrice. They tell me something else. That the answer is somewhere in Europe."

"What could you possibly expect to find out? What? What she died of? Does that matter?" Beatrice's voice showed exasperation. "She didn't leave any legacy up there. Her legacy, what there is, is here, in this house, upstairs."

"I can find out what happened-".

She was interrupted by the phone. The sound of the ring pierced the air as an unwanted intruder. Beatrice and Carolyn looked at each other, but Beatrice answered the call.

"Hello?" She listened a long time in silence.

Carolyn shifted in her chair.

Beatrice cupped her hand over the black phone's receiver.

Carolyn looked at her in anticipation.

"Carolyn, it's a Mrs. Devlin. She says she's from the NYU business school. She wants to talk to you." Beatrice held the phone out to Carolyn.

Carolyn hesitated and frowned, startled to realize she had hoped it was Robert, but took the phone from Beatrice.

"Hello?"

"Carolyn Stuart?"

"Yes."

"I'm Sharon Devlin from NYU. I'm calling to talk to you about your program here at NYU. Is this a convenient time?"

Carolyn looked at Beatrice, her brows furrowed, not wanting to interrupt their conversation about Julia. "Not exactly. What is this about?"

"I've been talking to your mother, Elizabeth. We have worked out a program for you. It's a combination of art and business. If you could come down here, we'd like to discuss it with you."

"A program? What kind of program?"

"We've been able to put together an individual study program for you between the Tisch art department and the business school. It would lead to a Professional Certificate in Art Dealership. It's quite unique."

"My mother worked this out with you?"

"Well, now, I wouldn't put it that way. Your mother has been a generous supporter of NYU for many years. In essence, she has saved you a great deal of time by laying the groundwork, so to speak."

"But my mother made these arrangements with you, is that right?"

"Are you not aware of this? We were explicitly informed that you would be calling us to work out details of your program. Since we have not heard from you, and since your mother is obviously interested in working this out, we decided to call you and get things moving. There's a class starting, which would be a very good introduction for you-"

Carolyn took the phone away from her ear and held it tight, as if the machine were the source of her frustration, then she sighed and put it back up to her ear. "I see. I'm afraid my mother and I have different expectations about the timeline for this. I wasn't ready to start classes just now. I've only been in New York a few days."

"Certainly, Ms. Stuart, that's up to you. It's just that, it's not a private study program, a tutorial or something. You have a large opportunity to design the program, but some classes would be required, minimal perhaps, but still it has to start sometime. And the professional certificate is a valuable educational achievement.:

"A certificate? That's what the achievement is?"

"Well, yes. It's not a degree program."

"No, I can see that. If you will excuse me, I appreciate your calling. I have some details to work out and then-then I will call you back. I might not be able to fit in with your class structure right now. I will have to think about it."

"Certainly. I just wanted to let you know that the University has requirements it must adhere to, and to help you fit within that structure."

Carolyn rolled her eyes. "I understand. Thank you very much for your call. Good-bye." Carolyn put the phone down and looked at Beatrice.

"So. Mother has worked it all out and given them a ton of money no doubt so I can go back to school and fit right in with their curriculum. And do you know what I get out of this?:"

Beatrice waited patiently.

"A certificate. A damn certificate. I have a BFA and now I'm going to get a certificate."

"It's not for me to say, Carolyn, but it does look like your mother has gone to some trouble, and some expense, to try and help you out. Can't you look at it that way?"

Carolyn sat down. "Yes. I can. But I just discovered my family. I'm not interested in going to school."

"I honestly don't see why the two are incompatible."

"But I want to go now. I want to find out about my grandmother now. Mother will just have to give me the money. I'll do that first, and do my art later."

"That's a funny way to talk."

"Why do you say that?"

"Your mother giving you the money. Why don't you use your own trust fund?"

"Trust fund? What trust fund? What are you talking about?"

"The trust fund that Hugh left for you."

"For me? My grandfather left me a trust fund?"

"Why of course. Oh god, don't you know about it? Didn't Elizabeth ever-"

"Tell me? Oh, hell, do you mean my mother didn't tell me?" The indignation and disappointment in Carolyn's voice came from deep within. "Considering she's never told me much of anything, why should I be surprised? I just need to find out where my money is and I'm out of here."

One week later, Carolyn sat in the front row window seat of the Air France Concorde and watched the screen at the front of the airplane as the speed of the plane changed to Mach 2.0. The passengers applauded, but Carolyn did not join them. Her mind was filled of thoughts of landing in Paris and being free to find her own way in life without having to cater to anyone else's wishes.

Part V - 1940

Julia sent her cable to Hugh and asked the Communications Officer if she could be notified when they received the reply. His light blue eyes, underneath black hair cut short like the military, seemed sympathetic and kind underneath his black officer's cap. He told Julia that they would check the recipient's name against the passenger list and deliver the cable reply to her room, sliding it under the door if no one answers.

If she wished, he told her, they would call the stateroom first, but usually it was hard to find people there, so they almost always just call and deliver at the same time. Every crossing there's always a pest that sticks around the communications office, but he was sorry, he didn't mean to imply that she was one of those, just that they were hardly out of New York harbor when she came up to the window.

His face showed concern when he realized what he had just said, and his voice became softer and more considerate. He noted that her stateroom was not far, and he was sure she would want to see the cable right away, so he would make sure it was brought to her the moment it arrived. Also, she could be paged, but there were a lot of decks and lounges and that could take time. But if she desired it, the ship would be happy to do that.

She thanked him, telling him she would be willing to let them deliver it to the room. She left the window believing that this man held the possibility of her happiness in his hands for the next six days until they reached the other side of the Atlantic. No, not six days. Hugh would be home in an hour, the telegram would arrive in the afternoon, and he could reply right away. She would receive his reply this very day. She had the six days across the Atlantic, and then she would have six more days on the return voyage. People said the ocean was lonely, but no one knew how lonely it would be for her. But then she would be reunited with her beloved Lizzie. Maybe Hugh would arrange for a flight back and she could see them in just two or three days instead of almost two weeks.

The sea air whipped past her face as she walked along the Sun Deck, even if there was no sun, just unrelenting wind and white-topped choppy seas. She held her coat tight around her with one arm and let her other arm hold on to the railing. The ship was going the wrong way, and all that empty gray water lay between her and her reunion.

She passed a window to a lounge with several people sitting around the table drinking wine. Two women, two men. None of them were laughing, but an elderly gentleman with a white mustache and a pipe billowing smoke above him looked at her and smiled. Feeling invited by both his smile and his age, she went inside and over to the table. There was an empty chair, so she stood beside it and asked them if she could join in. Anything to keep her from thinking about what she had lost while she waited for time to pass until she could go back to her cabin and check for the telegram from Hugh. She imagined reading it with the last line sending love from Lizzie.

"Certainly," said the gentleman with a deep, sympathetic voice in a French accent. "I'm sure a waiter will come by and get you something to drink."

Julia looked around the large room dominated by a mural of Christopher Columbus standing at the front of one of his ships. Other tables were also filled with groups of people who seemed to know each other. Julia wondered if she was the only one alone. She certainly was the only one visible at her age.

As they introduced themselves, Julia came to realize that all the others had French accents. And when she spoke, they all stopped drinking, or smoking or looking around, and paid close attention to her.

A woman, the only one close to Julia's age, but maybe ten years older at 30 or so, sitting on Julia's right, took her round glasses off and asked Julia why she was going to Europe.

Julia was surprised by the question. Of course, it was an obvious question for a ship crossing the ocean, but it seemed so direct, and the woman's voice had a low pitch to it, too, and that unnerved her. "Why I'm going? To tell you the truth, I don't know. Could I ask you the same question? You all seem to know each other."

The elderly gentleman took his pipe out of his mouth and looked around the little group before he spoke. "Well, then, perhaps when you have heard our stories, young lady, you will know what your story is. We're always nervous about someone who has a secret to hide. My name, by the way is Roger."

They all looked at each other and to Julia it seemed odd that they seemed reticent to answer her question. A man, sitting on her left side, dressed in a grey suit with a black tie, with a large head and strong features, black hair greased back, flicked ashes from his cigarette off his trousers, then spoke.

"I am André." He reached over to shake her hand.

Julia was momentarily unsure what to do, but then realized she looked foolish to the others so she took the man's hand and responded with a feeble handshake.

"We don't know each other at all. Except that we are all going the wrong way." He looked around at the group to see if anyone was going to contradict him. " There are four of us you see here, excluding yourself, and two are Swiss and two are French. We have just begun to ask that very question among ourselves and now I think we don't know what we are going back to. This isn't a vacation for us. I will speak for myself, and the others can talk if they wish. I am going back to France to join the French army to keep Hitler out of our country. He will not get past the Maginot Line, but last time he went through Belgium, and we have to be there to stop him. I am an artillery officer, which is just what is needed."

The elderly man raised his eyebrows. "You are an officer? And you are not in the army now?" He leaned forward and made his question serious with his voice. "Are you a deserter?"

André laughed and shook his head. "No, I am not a deserter, Monsieur. I don't believe I would have gotten on this ship if that were the case."

The elderly man leaned forward to make his point. "You can get off the ship before we get to France. In Ireland or England." He leaned back again, satisfied that all the others would know that the artillery officer was not to be trusted.

André ignored him. "I meant that as my previous rank. I am sure I will have no trouble joining the fight once I announce my presence to the military authorities." He looked at the elderly gentleman with an air of defiance, adjusting his jacket to announce he had finished.

The elderly man did not give up. "Why aren't you in uniform then?" He glared at André.

André sighed, weary of the argument. "Surely you aren't that ignorant. I must first reach Paris and then make contact with my old regiment, and from there I will make my way to the front, once they have reinstated me with my old rank. Captain, if you must know."

The elderly man snapped back. "Don't call me ignorant. I am Swiss and we stay out of wars."

Julia nodded and looked at the others as they all remained silent. To join the army. That put this voyage in an entirely different light. Putting your life on the line.

The woman on her right, with blond hair bangs rolled back over the head, and big soft curls down to the neck, wore bright red lipstick. Her black long-sleeve blouse had oversized shoulder pads. She turned to Julia and looked at her with sympathetic hazel eyes when she spoke. "I'm not going to join the army, I can tell you that." She leaned forward and laughed, but her laughter did not seem sincere. Her deep-set hazel eyes did not laugh, and the others did not change their serious expressions. "I live in Paris, I was visiting family in New Jersey when Hitler invaded Poland. So now France is at war with Germany, and I have family in Paris. I'm going back to them to face the future with all of them." She looked André in the eye. "Maginot Line or not."

Julia felt immediately sympathetic to the woman. Not for her view of the military, just for her bravery in going home to face danger. She realized she had never thought of this in her life. For herself. Even the paintings that Hugh had bought, from Jews fleeing for their life, she felt the deep immorality of this thievery, and it had made her heart beat fast in anger, but it didn't make her feel like she was personally in danger. A quick shot of pain ran through her chest as she realized what she was hearing. She had put herself and Lizzie in danger without even thinking about it. She wanted to leave, but was unable to move.

Julia felt she should wait to hear the other two, one a large man, young but much older than she, and the final person, a woman of middle age with no makeup and a wrinkled gray suit speckled with dust or hair or debris of some sort.

The woman , whose light brown hair was parted in the middle and fell on either side, spoke up. "I tell you, this is a voyage of the damned. We are going back to Europe that is on fire. I am Swiss, but my husband is Jewish." She stopped and looked around her in defiance. "So I don't care if all of you are Gestapo already. He has been interned, but I am going to go back and get him out. If any of you can help me, please let me know. I am a member of the International Red Cross. I have connections." She shook her head and seemed to be talking to herself or whoever she had in mind in Paris or Berlin or Zurich. "I told him to come with me, but he wouldn't and now I have to go back and get him out of those Nazi clutches. And after that I'm through with him." She sat forward and her voice rose. "I don't care who knows it."

Julia wished at that moment that she had not brought the subject up. She thought she should just speak up but she didn't have any idea what to say. How could she tell them, she was only a few years beyond her teens, and she had done the most foolish thing imaginable. It didn't take any Nazis to lose her daughter. What should she say? That she was running away from home into a war zone?

Before she could speak, the remaining man spoke with the voice of caution, but his voice was tired. "I see. There are deep emotions here. Well, first of all I don't think you should have to worry about any of us being members of the Gestapo, Mademoiselle. We are all poor lost souls going back home. I'm not in the military, and I'm not in the Red Cross. I'm just a business man, a négociant trying to arrange the purchase of French wines in America. But I made a rather unfortunate error in timing. Now that France has declared war on Germany, even if there is no fighting, even if France is protected by the Maginot Line, even if there's a Red Cross, it's going to be impossible to ship wines across the ocean. There will be U-Boats everywhere looking for French cargo ships, and the insurance has gone sky high, and we had better drink up all the wine before those Bosch take it all away."

Julia was terrified as they all turned in silence to look at her, waiting patiently with cigarette and pipe smoke and upturned glasses of dark red wine. Not one of their faces was sympathetic.

"I'm going to Paris to study art," she said as it popped into her head unprepared. What could she say? I've run away from home and now have lost my child and I don't know what to do and I hope that Hugh will forgive me and send me a telegram back today? She smiled as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The woman on her right, the one with the bright red lipstick who was returning home to be with her family became sympathetic. "Well, I admit that is a rather ambitious plan for these times. But we all know there is no better place to study art than Paris."

The elderly man sniffed out his view. "But, of course, there is also Florence, they have a little art there." He exhaled smoke and coughed, giving himself a small thump on the chest. One of the Swiss with no army but willing to fight battles with everyone.

The woman sighed and said, "Listen, I didn't mean to get into competition with anybody. This-, " she turned to Julia and touched her on the arm-, "what did you say your name is?"

"I didn't," Julia said, happy to have someone make this a little bit more personal. "It's Julia."

"Julia," the woman said, "I'm Isabelle. Pleased to meet you." Isabelle turned back to the elderly man. "Let's be a little more gracious, shall we? Anyone who wants to study art while the Germans are destroying art is somebody we should respect."

André said, "Germans may destroy their own art, but they will never destroy French art. The French military is the strongest in the world. We are not weak like the Poles. Julia, you will be able to study art in Paris as long as you like." He turned to the elderly man. "As for Florence, you are correct as far as it goes. But Mussolini has joined with Hitler, so it's not going to be a good place for foreigners to study." He nodded his head in a little triumphant debating point.

The elderly man did not want to give up. He looked at Julia again and said, "You are very young. Are your parents not on this ship?-Nor your husband-," then he directed his gaze to the ring on her finger so that everyone could see where he was looking-, "Madam?"

Julia felt caught. "My husband?" She unconsciously covered the ring with her right hand. "No, my husband is not on this ship. He has business to take care of. He will be coming over later." She thought of André's statement. "He's not in the wine business. Real estate, mostly, in New York, so he won't be directly affected by what happens in France." She knew by the look in their eyes that she had closed one box and opened another.

"What will he do while you study art?" the elderly man said, sounding like a prosecutor.

Julia realized that she was in a den of Europeans who would not stop until they forced her to admit something. At the very least, that she should not be on this ship with the real people who are going to where they belong and she does not.

She stood and looked at them all. "I'm sorry, I don't feel comfortable discussing my career plans with you." She turned to the elderly gentleman. "Thank you, Sir, for inviting me to sit with you. If you'll excuse me, I have something important to do."

The woman in the dirty gray suit said, "I'm sure you do, my dear, and it's probably better than listen to us tear each other apart. I wish you luck. You will need it."

Julia started to smile, but stopped and felt her mouth straighten and close. She turned, but felt a hand on her arm, and turning back she saw Isabelle's friendly face.

"Julia, let me go with you. I think there are many things to do on this ship." She stood and moved close to Julia, but waited until Julia moved away from the chairs.

"Thank you," Julia said. "I really didn't want to be rude."

"Oh no, not at all." Isabelle's voice was conspiratorial. "That old man had found a convenient group to show off with."

They left the lounge and out on the Sun Deck, Isabelle held out her hand. "Perhaps we can see each other again. We have a long way to go."

"I'd like that," Julia said. She shook the woman's hand, then waved and turned into the hall leading to her cabin. But she stopped, retreated back out onto the deck as Isabelle was passing by. "I would like that," she said, holding her hand out to touch Isabelle's arm.

Isabelle smiled warmly. "Well, then, at least you see we are not all devastated by events."

Julia took her hand off Isabelle's arm but kept her gaze on the woman while she opened the door again, then said, "We should walk together," and went back inside. But one more time she came back out.

Isabelle was walking farther along on the deck.

"Let's meet for dinner," Julia called out. "In fact, why don't you come to my cabin around five?"

"Julia turned back and laughed. "Sure. What cabin is it?"

"Oh. I don't know. Wait." Julia opened her purse and took out her ticket. "It's on A-Deck, A100."

"Oh my, that's certainly first class. I can't wait to see it. See you then."

Julia turned once again and waved good-bye and smiled to see Isabelle waiting for her to make sure she was really gone this time. But once inside, her mind turned to the telegram she hoped-believed desperately- was waiting for her inside her cabin.

When she opened the door she looked down at the floor and her heart sank to see nothing had been slipped into the room. She stared at the dark wood blaming it for being empty. She wanted to go back down to the communications room to see if it was there, but with a sigh she knew the answers she would get. The look on the officer's face as he shook his head told her in her imagination that she did not want to see it.

The four people in the conversation in the lounge hovered around her like ghosts. She wondered if the entire ship was full of people going back to face the terrible fate. Isabelle, at least gave her hope that she wouldn't be totally alone across the Atlantic Ocean.

The diamond watch on her hand, a gift from Hugh during their honeymoon, at Hermès on rue George V in Paris, told her that she had a long enough time before Isabelle returned for dinner. And dinner reminded her that she had no clothes except what she was wearing. She opened the brochure on the coffee table and found the location of the small shopping arcade.

The arcade consisted of a jewelry store, bookstore with postcards and other souvenirs, a drugstore, and the clothing store, and then several cosmetic parlors. Inside the clothing store she was disappointed with the selection and then felt disappointed with herself for thinking she would have more to choose from. This was the North Atlantic and heavy outdoor clothes dominated the room. But she did find two decent blouses, one white and the other light blue, and was grateful to find two pair of slacks, gray and brown, but the brown pair did not fit her, being too large. The young woman who managed the store told Julia they had a seamstress on board and she could have the pair of slacks dropped to her cabin tomorrow at noon. Julia was satisfied with that and took her clothes back to her room. Looking in the mirror at her tired dress, she realized that she had nothing to wear for dinner in first-class and that she didn't give a damn. She was certain that Isabelle would feel the same way.

For a moment she thought back to the strange set of people in the lounge. Her group of art students were totally different from these people. Maybe they had worries like these people, whose lives were dominated by fear of war, but they didn't let politics become their veneer. Oh, she said to herself, what am I saying? There's no war in New York.

The stateroom surrounded her in emptiness. The sofa, the two over cushioned armchairs, the empty coffee table and side tables, they made her feel shrunk to the size of little Lizzie. Lizzie, who was now alone with Hugh and Grace and nursemaids who couldn't give her the love she could only get from her mother. Julia put her head down and cradled it in her hands and felt the gentle rocking of the boat in the sea.

Footsteps fell outside her door and she sat up, startled, waiting for the knock. None came. The footsteps took her hope with them down the hall. She sighed and went into the bathroom to clean up and learned that she had come on board with nothing. Not only had she lost her daughter, she knew every day there would be some reminder that she had lost everything else, too.

Back to the arcade she went, and purchased a toothbrush and paste and some soap. When she arrived back in her stateroom, she took her dress off and filled the tub with hot water.

As she tried to relax in the tub, she lay back and felt the warmth cover her, but it didn't help her as she had hoped it would. The water rolled in a long gentle wave over her. Her mind filled with the contrast between New York and Park Avenue, the large house, and this isolation in a small room out to the center of the ocean. Knowing she would not get the soothing help she wanted from the bath, she got out of the tub and dried herself off, looking for a bathrobe, seeing she didn't have one, and quick putting the light blue blouse and gray slacks on.

Her shoes were ridiculous medium heels, suitable for a dress, but not for slacks on a ship. So, once again, she put them on and went back to the shopping arcade and found herself once again limited by the options available to her. The woman behind the counter pointed out that they have only a limited selection because it's what they sell. People don't bring dance shoes, and they don't bring walking shoes, so there's your choice.

Julia tried on some white peep-toe mesh shoes, but they seemed too glamorous or happy, so she selected a pair of black oxfords, thinking they'll last until she gets back to New York. The woman told her she'll enjoy dancing in those, great for swing, and Julia gave her a look that made it clear she wasn't going to be doing any dancing. The woman sheepishly made change for Julia and gave her the shoes without looking at her.

Back in her room, once again, Julia wished she hadn't reacted so negatively. The woman behind the counter wasn't the one who had run off without thinking it through. Dancing? Not with this somber group of people. Not without her little daughter. Not without her husband.

The two clocks on the far wall told her the time in New York and Paris. It was close enough to dinner and Isabelle would arrive soon. She picked up her purse to check her lipstick and saw the envelope with nearly $6,000 in it, just minus the few small purchases she had made on board. It wasn't safe to carry that kind of money around with her the ship. She hurried down the hallway again and found the bursar's office, where she deposited almost all the money in a safe deposit box, keeping only 100 dollars for the trip. Until the next time she found what it was that was essential and she had ignored.

She hurried back to her stateroom to wait for Isabelle. She had not been gone long and she was sure that Isabelle would have waited for her. Once inside, she left the door open to make it more inviting for her friend.

It did not take long and the knock on the door announced Isabelle's arrival.

"Please come in."

Isabelle smiled and was obviously impressed with the size of the room. "These rooms are even nicer than I thought, "she said as she caught herself and put her hand up to her mouth, "I'm sorry, it's none of my business how you go across the ocean."

Julia brushed it off. "It's not what I would have taken for myself, but I bought my passage very late." She sensed that Isabelle was being polite but was indeed in awe of Julia's accommodations. Something else that hadn't occurred to Julia, that a newfound friend onboard a ship heading to Europe could feel like some of the students at the art league who made it clear they didn't care for the beautiful rich girl playing at art. She saw that Isabelle nodded at the remark. "Yes, it's much too big for me, but I'm out the money, so there's nothing to do. It's true, they were going to give it to someone else if I didn't pay for it right away. They even called me at home."

Isabelle waved her off, "No, I'm sorry, I was just momentarily caught off guard. Where I'm staying is small, but it's very nice, too."

Julia picked up her coat. "Yes, I'm going on too much as well. Shall we go to dinner? I admit to being very hungry."

The two women went to dinner, but as they reached the stairwell Julia turned left to go out to the deck and Isabelle turned right to go down to the third class deck. Julia held the door open for Isabelle, and was startled to see her going down.

"Isabelle, where you going?"

"Oh, I see, I didn't think about it, I guess my stomach just got the better of me and I was going down to dinner on our deck."

Julia beckoned her to come out. "That's nonsense, you're coming to dinner as my guest. That's it."

"Thank you very much, that's very kind of you." Backspace

Julia held the door open for Isabelle and the two walked down to the Mayflower Café. Inside they were given a table beneath a huge mural of the landing at Plymouth rock.

After they ordered, Isabelle sat back in her chair and studied Julia for a moment. Then she leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "Julia, -" then she hesitated a moment looked down and back up before continuing to speak, "I have to ask you something, if you don't mind."

Julia was surprised by the intimacy of Isabelle's conversation. "No, I don't mind." She gave out a little laugh. "I'll have to wait in here with your question is I suppose."

Isabelle smiled and said, "It's none of my business but you've been very kind to me. But when you came on board ship I saw you and a little girl-".

Julia was shocked. What was Isabelle doing, watching her come on board?

Isabelle said, "I'm sorry, I have upset you and I didn't mean to do that. I had no right, please forgive me." She put her napkin on the table and pushed her chair back.

"No, don't go. You didn't really upset me, that's not what it is, I mean I'm already upset and I'm actually glad to have somebody to talk to." Julia picked up her wine and took a small sip but kept the glass in her lips and she tasted the Burgundy. "I don't know what to say. It's you who have been kind to me." She looked at Isabel's eyes and saw the mixture of sympathy and curiosity in the dark brown. "I did come on board with my little daughter. We were going to Paris together." Julia wanted to be careful, she didn't want to tell Isabelle, who was after all a stranger, everything that happened to her. It wasn't only that there was so much to explain, and she didn't know how deep Isabelle's sympathies went, she didn't know herself how she should really explain this to somebody. "My husband came and took her back at the last minute."

Isabelle nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry, Julia. I really am. I know this must be really hard for you. If there's anything at all I can do to help you, I'"

"Yes, I know you would. But we are out on the ocean now, and there is nothing anybody could do." She looked around the room at the people coming in and going and in various stages of eating and was glad that none of them paid any attention to her. "I'll just have to wait until the ship arrives in France, and then see what I can do. I mean, see how fast I can get back."

"So you're not going to study art in Paris?"

" You don't know me, Isabelle, but my little girl was everything to me. It was a complete surprise when my husband took her away." Julia knew now that she had to keep her secret to herself, because it was herself she was afraid of. "It was supposed to be a vacation, for me, and Lizzie, but it didn't turn out that way."

"Lizzie?" Isabelle seemed much more interested when she heard the name of the little girl. "Your little girl? How old is she?"

"She's two years old, going on 10." Julia laughed for the first time in a week.

"I'm sorry that you don't have your little girl with you. I would have taken care of her while you were in school."

"Yes, I know you're that kind of person. I wasn't going to go to school full-time, I just thought I would find somebody to take care of her for an hour or two. While I went to museums. The concierge, most likely. I figured I could just work that out when we got there." When she heard herself say the word "we", Julia felt her eyes well up. She put her head down and spent a longer time than necessary adjusting her napkin.

"Have you tried to contact them, your husband I mean?"

Julia understood this conversation is getting too close. She looked at Isabelle without saying anything and saw that recognition in Isabelle's face, that this was as far as this particular conversation was going to go. She decided to find a way to talk about something else, although she really wanted to talk about nothing at all. "Yes as a matter of fact, I have sent a telegram and I'm hoping to hear back soon. But you know my daughter is probably very upset and he can very well have taken her on a trip somewhere or even to the park and who knows when they will get back home. Now if you don't mind I would really like to change the subject. I have to wait and I have to wait by myself and no one can help me."

Isabelle nodded. "All right, perhaps now it is time for me to go. I think I've overstayed my welcome in your generosity."

Julia shook her head. "No. I still don't want you to go, Isabelle. I just don't want to go on talking about something beyond my control."

"I think I am finished, but you might want some dessert."

"No, I am too." Julia stood up and turned to leave the table, but waited for Isabelle to come with her. "Shall we explore the ship?" Julia was very glad now to have someone to talk to. She didn't want to be by herself while she waited for the telegram from Hugh. She knew she could not wish it into happening. It might never come. And she would then be on her own on the other side of the Atlantic, and after what she heard from the group in the lounge earlier, she faced an uncertain arrival. Isabelle could help her understand what was going on. She didn't think there was going to be a war.

Julia went out to the deck, followed by Isabelle. A strong wind blew Julia's hair up. She held it down with her hands, then decided to just let it go. She laughed at Isabelle, who seemed unconcerned about the sea air and what it did to her appearance. Julia took notice of that. Isabelle didn't seem to care how she looked. She was attractive enough, but her dress was very ordinary. But at that moment Julia realized it didn't matter to her, either. They walked along the deck past people in deck chairs, a mother standing over a basket with a little baby in it, two men in their maritime uniforms walking just in front of them. One of the men tipped his hat to Julia, who ignored him.

"Well you won't be ignored on board ship, Julia," Isabelle said, with an impish smile on her face.

Julia wasn't interested in whether sailors paid attention to her. She hadn't even noticed whether they were looking at her. "Isabelle, tell me about your family. You said you were visiting New Jersey?"

Isabelle nodded, her face lighting up when asked. "Yes, New Jersey. My brother is there. He has a wife and two children. He's been there a long time. It's not my first trip."

"So you were just there to see them?"

"Yes, you might say that. To tell you the truth, I'm not so sure that everything will be okay in Europe. So I decided to go see Daniel before anything happens."

"But you left your family behind in France?"

"Yes, but I'm not married. There's just my mother. My father died in the first war."

Julia touched Isabelle on the arm. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're not-," Julia hesitated, then thought better of it, "married, I was going to say. Please now forgive me for my indiscretion."

Isabelle smiled at her and leaned in closer. "No, not at all. I think it's very sympathetic of you. But no, I've never been married. I'm not really sure why. Maybe it's French men. If they could all be as nice as Daniel, maybe. But, to tell you the truth, I don't miss it."

"I understand," Julia said, her voice carrying her concern. "You noticed my daughter, so to me that meant you liked children."

"Ah, that, yes, it's true. I adore Daniel's children. But for me, I think it will never happen. Now it's too late for me." Isabelle turned and looked intensely into Julia's eyes as she continued. "I must stay home and take care of my mother. She is not well."

Julia stepped away for a moment, a small shiver going through her. "Oh, but how could you leave her?"

"That was my feeling, too. But she was the one who insisted on it. Julia, she lived through the war once, it was terrible. She lost the man who gave meaning to her life. She had nothing, and then there were only Daniel and me. She was the one who told Daniel to get out of France. He was going to try to live in Switzerland, but she forbade even that. My mother told him to go to America, where there's no war. That was ten years ago. But now, when Germany attacked Poland, she was terrified. She said I must go to America to see Daniel and give him her love."

"But who took care of her?"

"She has friends around her. You know, people in France, they have been suffering together for a long time."

"But you must be worried about her?" Julia had for a few moments forgotten about her absent daughter. Here was a woman who was torn between her brother and her mother. She thought of her own mother, now long dead, living her short life in peaceful upstate Maine without the world turning everything upside down.

"Yes, of course I am, Julia. Just like you are worried about your little Lizzie. And that is why I am going back home. I have seen Daniel, and now I will go back to my mother."

Julia stepped out past the end of the covered deck and into an area with people playing shuffleboard while dressed in long overcoats. Ahead of them were cranes tied down and a huge anchor up against the outside wall. A steel fence prevented them from going that far. She pulled her coat tight against the cold.

"Isabelle, why don't you bring your mother back with you to New Jersey? Then she can be with both you and Daniel."

Isabelle thought for a long moment, which seemed strange to Julia, who thought it was a simple straightforward idea.

"I have tried. I argued with her. Daniel wants her to come and live with him, too. But she's so stubborn, Julia. She doesn't want to leave her little corner of Paris. She won't find friends, she says, or won't leave her friends. But most of all, I think, she wants to go to the cemetery on Toussaint, All Saints Day, and put flowers down for her husband, and her cousin's husband and her friends' husbands. They all go."

"I think I understand that," Julia said. "For her, that's what her life has been all about. But that's not the way I would be. I love my family more than my friends."

"Ah, but really, my mother, she loves my father. He was gassed in the war, you know, and my mother took care of him for months until he died. Actually, she died with him. And that's why. I think she kind of thought I would stay in America. But I love her, too. Maybe she doesn't understand that well enough."

Julia frowned at Isabelle. "Oh, come on, you know she understands that. But she has terrible choices. Your mother has been afraid for a very long time. She wants you and Daniel to have a life she could not."

"So, do you think I should just stay on the ship and come back, like you?" Isabelle's voice betrayed a change in her feeling. Now she seemed to be drawing away from Julia.

Julia worried she might lose a friendship she had just made. "Please don't look at it that way."

"But what would you do if you were me, Julia. Tell me, I would like to hear it." There was more of a sincere pleading in her voice now.

Julia stopped and sat in an empty deck chair. She waited for Isabelle to join her.

"To be honest, I would do what you would do."

"Well, that's not a very good answer."

"Of course, because only you can answer your question. You are going back now, and there's no way you're going to stay on this ship and turn around with it. You're already on the way to your mother. You have to first make it to Paris, then see your mother, then make up your mind. And now I know the answer to that."

"You do?" Isabelle appeared to be genuinely surprised.

"It's obvious. And you've already said it. Once you are there with your mother, you are not going to leave her while there's a war going on, even if it's a phony one."

Isabelle sat up and touched Julia on the arm. "You must come with me and meet my mother."

Julia shook her head. "You know that's impossible. I have to go home. If I don't get a telegram from Hugh, my husband, I will go back on my own." She leaned toward Isabelle. "Wait, no, you're right. I will go to Paris and fly back home from there. That's faster than the ship anyway. So, it's settled. For both of us. For now."

Isabelle for a few moments didn't quite comprehend what had been settled. She nodded and said, "For now. That's not a very long time. But I am happy you will meet my mother. Oh, she's a wonderful cook. She will make you boeuf bourguignon, and champignons, we shall go pick them ourselves in the Bois de Boulogne and-"

"Wow, that sounds wonderful, Isabelle. But remember, I'm just staying long enough to get a flight out. No, I do want to meet your mother, maybe I can convince her to go to New York with us, and we'll all go to New Jersey." Isabelle couldn't believe the lighthearted way she just said all that. "No, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

That evening, Julia turned out the lights in her cabin and listened to the humming of the ship as it rolled gently across the ocean. She wondered what Lizzie was hearing as she lay in her bed. Was she thinking about her mom? Have they already moved her out of the house and to Philadelphia. Someone walked by outside her cabin door and no sooner had the footsteps disappeared then she realized with the sinking of her heart that it wasn't somebody with a telegram.

She believed that tomorrow was still a possibility. It was a new day for Hugh and Grace. They would realize what they had done, they would look at little Lizzie and see how sullen she was, probably crying, refusing to come out of her room. And so tomorrow was the logical day when they would send a telegram back saying they understood, it was a mistake, and could be remedied in a few days.

She focused her attention on Lizzie's face, at the intense fear in the little child's eyes when she was carried out of the cabin and out to the deck. As she lay in the dark, she told the little girl to not give up hope, just wait for me and your mother will come back to you and we will be together as a family. She repeated that several times each time with more intensity, and each time she felt the relief that passed over.

In the morning she walked down to the communications room and asked if a telegram arrived, politely saying she knew that if you had one you would bring it to me, but I'm waiting and this helps me wait. The officer showed great sympathy toward her but he had nothing to show her. She thanked him very much and left, trying to display a sense that it wasn't as important as she knew it's was inside.

At the end of the day she knew that the time was over when she was going to receive a telegram back to say they were waiting for her to come home. She knew she had to go home on her own, but that once she arrived there would be a reunion because Hugh and Grace did not want Lizzie to suffer without her mother.

As the ship passed the nautical miles ever closer to France Julia came closer to realizing that it was Lizzie and only Lizzie that was the glue that held her marriage together. It was the family that made the marriage possible.

When the ship was on its last day of the cold voyage across the cold North Atlantic Julia went to the bursar's office. Inside sat a young officer organizing paperwork, preparing for the end of the crossing. He was intent at making notes. When she came in he looked up at her and smiled, obviously happy to be nearing land again.

"How can I help you?" He leaned back in his chair and pointed to a wall of safety deposit boxes. "You must be the last person to pick up your belongings."

Julia realized she hadn't even thought about her money. That wasn't why she had come to the bursar's office. "Why yes you're right."

He didn't wait for her to speak any further. "Julia Stuart isn't it? It kind of has to be in because you're the last one. Everyone else came in early. Do you have your key?"

Julia felt foolish and opened her purse and found the key. "Here it is," she said, as if she had to make the announcement to overcome her lack of preparation. She waited until the young man had given her money back in its envelope. She had an impulse to count it but she couldn't do that in front of him. "Well, actually, I'm here about something else as well." She looked down to avoid his eyes as she thought about what she was going to say. Then she looked up and said, "I'm here to inquire about passage back to New York."

He looked up at her in surprise. And then he thought for a moment is if it weren't straightforward. "I have to tell you, I'm sorry," he said and then looked down at his desk to find her name again. "That's not possible. We have not been informed by the United States Line where we are to go from here."

Julia's heart sank. "Oh, I had no idea. Aren't you going back?"

The young man nodded, his face showing consternation. "I have no idea. We shall stay here for a day, I guess, because we need to refuel and take on supplies for the crew. But I am not prepared to accept new passengers. Normally at this point we would have a cable with the number of passengers, and whether we're moving on to Hamburg or Southampton."

Julia couldn't let it go. "Don't people ever go back?"

He smiled and sympathy. "Of course they do," he said. "People always arrive and then have many reasons why they have to go back right away. But not this trip. You're not the only person who wanted to go back with us. The situation here, you know," and then he intertwined his fingers in front of him as if he were going to pray. "It doesn't matter. We're not going anywhere. It's not up to me."

Julia shrunk inside herself. She held up her hand in a meek wave of goodbye and left the room. And as she walked back to her cabin she felt guilty, as if she had betrayed Isabelle. Now she had no choice but to go to Paris. At first she had thought she had to wait until the ship had docked and then she could go on shore and book passage in the ship companies offices. But it was clear from what the bursar had said, that it would be a waste of time.

She had nothing to do until they arrived in port. She couldn't leave the ship without finding Isabelle. She had made no plans beyond walking down the gangplank. She walked once around the deck. There were half as many people as usual, and no one was playing shuffleboard or any of the other activities she usually saw every day. Of course, they were all packing their suitcases and putting dresses back into trunks. She went down to the C deck and found Isabelle in her small cabin, with the door open, closing the lid on a large suitcase.

Isabelle looked up when she heard Julia's voice saying hello. She stood and smiled, then said, "Oh I'm so glad you came down here. I'm afraid I waited too long to start packing, and then I was going to go look for you. But you saved me the trouble."

Julia waved off the apology. "I must admit the thought just occurred to me that maybe it would work for us to go to Paris together, and I hadn't made any arrangements for myself. And then of course I wanted to say goodbye if that were the case."

Isabelle looked hurt for a moment and then said, "Oh no, it's all set. I sent my mother a telegram. She is waiting for us. She knows you're coming. She didn't cable me back but I know my mother. She loves company. She knows you're an American and that really excites her I'm sure."

"Well, that sets my mind at rest."

"Julia," Isabelle said, frowning, "you didn't really think I was going to leave you at the dock, did you?"

"You know, it's just the way I am. When the ship arrives then the voyage is over and I start a new voyage. I'm just nervous, you know my real goal is to get back to my little Lizzie. You understand that don't you?"

Isabelle came over to her and put her hands on her shoulders and held them there for a moment before letting them fall at her side. "I do, of course I do. As soon as we are at home and you're settled in I will go with you to the airline office and we'll arrange for your tickets home."

Julia let out a sigh of relief, and felt tears behind her eyes. "I can't thank you enough Isabelle. I don't mean to rely on you. You just make everything so much easier. I feel funny right now. I feel like I want to stay and get to know you and your mother and Paris, but of course I also want to go home and be with my family. But think of this, you will always have a friend in America, and I will always have a friend in France. This has been an amazing voyage. I never gave any thought to this kind of thing ever happening to me. Bless you."

Isabelle laughed, then immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to make fun of you. I am not religious. I am very French in that regard. I didn't mean to do something like that. I am very happy if you want to bless me, my friend."

Julia smiled, "To tell you the truth, I'm not very religious either. Even though I went to a Catholic school. Let's forget it, it just came out like that."

"I'll meet you on the dock. Just stay as close as you can to the gangplank and I'll be able to find you. I look for you don't you look for me."

Julia went back to her cabin and picked the few things that she had and put them into the sacks that she had received at the store. When she arrived at the deck for departure, she found it jammed full of exasperated people, some of them with luggage on the deck, all looking around to see why the line was not making any progress.

Julia asked the woman in front of her, who was holding the arm of a man on one side and a small boy on the other, "Do you know what's happened?"

The woman smiled, clearly irritated that Julia had chosen her to solve the problem. "I believe it's because they're searching everyone's luggage. There are police down there alongside the customs officials."

Julia frowned, "They didn't tell us this would happen."

"I'm afraid they did. That's what the bursar told me. No one took it seriously."

Julia tried to remember back, but couldn't come up with any time during the trip when she was made aware of this. "I don't think so. I didn't hear about it."

The woman smiled again and turned away from Julia. Moments later Isabelle came through the door out to the deck and pushed her way next to Julia.

"Oh, there you are," Julia said. "I didn't expect this."

Isabelle sighed. "I guess I should have told you. Some people know it and some don't."

"But why are they taking so long?"

Isabelle looked at Julia with a quick movement of her head back and forth, her eyes showing impatience with Julia's lack of understanding. "It's customs."

"Yes, I know that, but it went quickly last time I was here."

"My dear," Isabelle said, "have you forgotten? There's a war here."

"Yes, I know that, but there's no fighting, and there's certainly no war near here. And the lady in front of me said there's police here, not only customs officers. They are going through everyone's luggage."

"I am not surprised," Isabelle said, with a weary look on her face. "You know who they're looking for?"

"Me? Are you kidding? How should I know? German spies I should guess."

"Ah, yes, that, too, but they are looking for communists, for people smuggling weapons into the country. You know, from an innocent country like the United States."

"I see," Julia said, "that makes sense, now I feel foolish. We're just going to have to wait. I think it's going to take a long time."

Isabelle excused herself to people near them, making her way to the railing. She looked down a long while, surveying the whole scene, looking more serious the longer she inspected the wharf. Back at Julia's side, she said, "There aren't many of them, so this is going to take a very long time. Listen, you aren't in a hurry are you?"

Julia looked at her in surprise. "Yeah, actually, I think I am. I want to get to Paris so I can go back home."

Isabelle laughed, "Oh, you're thinking more long term. I mean, why don't we just go back inside and sit down in the lounge and wait for the line to become smaller."

Julia thought for a moment. "I see. Maybe. But I like being out here. Look, there's Le Havre, there's France. Don't you like seeing it?"

"Well, of course, but it's getting colder and the line isn't moving and I would like a glass of wine." She pointed behind them. "See, we're almost at the end of the line anyway."

"Oh, on this deck," Julia said, "but there are other decks below us. You came up two decks just to be with me. And I thank you for that. It was very nice of you. Now you are probably delayed because of me."

"Fine, who cares. Come on, let's go wait where it's comfortable and service. We can always come back out when the line gets smaller. That's what will happen. Everybody will wait here, and then things will start to move fast and that's when we will come out longer."

"All right."

They went back inside and sat down in the Mayflower Café. Unfortunately, service had been discontinued, but there were glasses of water made available by some thoughtful staff, so they sat down just inside the windows. Soon they were joined at other tables by people who had been in line close to them. Eventually the line started to move and there was no one outside the window. Isabelle stood and looked along the deck and motioned Julia to go with her. They made their slow way down the gangplank and onto the wharf and were directed to a table with a customs officer seated behind it and a police officer behind him. And behind them stood a third man in an overcoat who surveyed the scene with suspicious eyes.

The customs officer motioned them forward. "Bonjour. Welcome to France. Your passports, please. Are you traveling together?"

Simultaneously, Julia said no and Isabelle said yes, and they looked at each other in surprise. The officer raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner and looked back and forth between them, then leaned back as if to bring the police officer into the situation. The third man adjusted his stance and narrowed his field of vision to Julia and Isabelle.

"Well, now, which is it, ladies. Are you together or not."

Isabelle spoke up first. "We're both right, Sir. She said no because we did not come on the ship together. I said yes because we met on the ship and now she's coming to Paris with me to meet my mother."

The customs officer kept his lips tight as he thought of the proper reaction. Then he nodded, "I see." He looked down at their passports. He took Julia's passport, but gave the other one to the policeman. He looked at Julia then down at the passport, and flipped through the pages. "Madame, do you speak French."

"Oui, Monsieur." Then Julia decided to give a longer answer to impress on him that she knew more than was in a guide book. "You can see that I have been to France before."

The policeman motioned for Isabelle to follow him off to the side. She smiled at Julia and said, "I'll be right back."

Julia nodded, but frowned.

The customs officer noticed it and said, "Don't worry, it's just routine. She's French, you are not. So, where is your luggage?"

Julia had forgotten that she had none. She felt foolish, not having any luggage and not having any reason. "I don't have any."

The officer sat back in his chair and looked around as if he was being made a fool of himself. "I see. You come all the way across the ocean, here you are, and you have no clothes. And do you expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth. That's all I can tell you."

"And why should I believe you? You are not a very ordinary tourist, Madame."

"I have no other answer."

He stood up and glowered at her. "Well, you had better come up with a better answer than that or you are in serious trouble young lady." He stood, leaning on the table, close to her face.

Julia stepped back. "I'm sorry. The fact is I ran away from home and I did it in a hurry and I couldn't give myself away by packing my suitcase. I had my little girl with me-"

"Your little girl?" The man almost shouted out. He feigned looking around and under the table. "And where is she, your little girl?" He opened his eyes wide to make sure she understood he was losing patience with her.

"Here," she said, opening her purse, and handing him her ticket. "It says right on the ticket. But my husband came and took her away. You can ask the crew, there was an officer on the ship who was with him. You can ask them." For the first time Julia understood the seriousness of the situation. She looked over at the police officer talking to Julia. "You can ask her, too, Monsieur, she saw it. I mean she saw me come on with my daughter. You must ask the ship's officer about my husband."

The customs officer appeared satisfied with this response. He had someone he could give the problem to. "One moment," he said, his voice more sympathetic. He went to the police officer and talked to him and Isabelle for a moment. Then he came back and nodded to Julia. "She corroborates your story. Or at least part of it. You wait here. I will find someone on the ship who can help me with the other part of it." He pointed to the chair.

Julia sat and watched him walk away to the ship and up the gangplank, disappearing on the deck. Isabelle came back and joined her.

"Are you all right?" Isabelle said, touching Julia's arm. "Where's he going?"

"He's going to ask an officer on the ship to verify that my husband took my daughter away. Are you all right, Isabelle?"

"Yes, the police was just suspicious because we gave contrary answers at first, and the customs officer dealt with you because you are not French. But it's all right. They asked me to tell them all I knew about you on the boat, and if you were alone, and when I told them about little Lizzie, the customs officer was satisfied, and so they, I think they stopped worrying about us. But now we're in their little book."

"Oh? What do you mean by that?"

"As I said, Julia, it's wartime, even if it's only a phony ware. They have duly noted that we came off the boat together, and whatever else they want. Eventually it will make its way to Paris and we will be famous." Isabelle reacted to Julia's concern at the last remark. "Oh don't worry, they can't possibly remember us. There are so many people coming and going. It's good, you see. All the information goes to Paris and then nobody can ever find it. Thank god for Napoleon, at least this once."

The customs officer returned and became his normal perfunctory self. He stamped her passport, checked that Isabelle's travel permit had been stamped by the police, then returned the documents to them. The police officer then stepped forward and produced two more documents and handed them to the customs officer, who handed one each to the two women. He held on to the pieces of paper, saying, "You may go now, ladies. These permits will allow you to travel to Paris, but you will of course, report to the district office in your arrondissement within two days, won't you?" He then let the pieces of paper go.

"Yes, sir," Julia said. She put her hand out to him.

He was surprised, but then smiled and shook her hand. "Madame. Enjoy Paris."

"Thank you," Julia said.

Isabelle moved from the table without saying a word. Julia followed her and, a few feet away, she turned back and saw the three men laughing among themselves, the police officer pointing at her and Isabelle, making a hand gesture that could have only been lewd. She felt a sickness in her stomach. Welcome to France.

They moved out from the pier and into the bus station just outside on Quai Atlantique. At the Le Havre train station, they had a short wait for the train to Paris. As they traveled south, Isabelle reassured Julia that their interviews back on the pier were nothing to be worried about.

"Julia, is everything all right? Are you still concerned about what happened back there?"

"No, not really. Yes, but not because they asked us those questions." She was deeply concerned that they had not asked her to empty her purse with all the money in it. She moved her head back and forth, looking down. She had thought of nothing of all this. She looked up again, at Isabelle. "It's, you know, oh, I don't know. Oh, yes I do. There I was in front of customs and I had no luggage. It must have looked suspicious to them."

"Okay, Julia, maybe at first. I tell you what's a good sign. The customs officer went himself up to the ship to find out. That means that he really trusted you. You're only in trouble when the police go looking. There's nothing going on. So don't be worried. Let's go up to the snack car and get something to eat, and enjoy our couple of hours to Paris."

Julia nodded and felt better, but still not completely secure. She knew she would not feel that until she got home in New York and was playing with Lizzie in Central Park.

Part VI - 1980

Three and a half hours after taking off from New York, the Air France Concorde jet landed smoothly at Charles de Gaulle airport just after noon. Carolyn took the RoissyBus for the hour long trip to the Arc de Triomphe at the center of Paris. She then walked up the avenue de Friedland to the Hotel Napoleon, still within sight of the grand arch and it's circular traffic. As she walked in the lobby she remembered why she wanted to stay here. The hotel was originally built by a Russian merchant as a gift to his new love, an art student. Above the bar just to the right of the entrance hung pictures of Errol Flynn, Orson Welles and Josephine Baker. She felt already like it was her home away from home, her pied à terre, even if she was only going to stay long enough to find a place to live. And that place would be on the Left Bank near the Sorbonne.

Carolyn relaxed in her room that afternoon. She took a long hot bath, luxuriating in the French soap. After she was out and dry, she called the hotel salon, and was able to get her hair styled immediately. She had them cut her long hair off, then had them cut it more until she was satisfied with the Paris gamine look, with a part on the left side. Very French. Totally non New York. Non California.

Back in her room as the scene outside her window darkened with sunset she watched the Eiffel Tower light up in the distance. She walked out and down a few blocks to the Champs Élysées for dinner.

The next morning she walked back to the Champs Élysées to the Banque National de Paris, where she wrote a check for $50,000 from her fund at the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York. She received 17, 280 francs in cash and a passbook noting 200,000 French francs in her account. And a promise she could pick up her new ParisCard in a week. As she walked back out to the street she silently spoke to herself. Thanks Mother. You managed so well. That at least you could do for me. Now I can do everything for myself in French francs.

That afternoon she took her map, her address book, and Le Monde to a table in front of Shakespeare & Co just opposite the magnificent Notre-Dame cathedral. She spent the long afternoon hours on a search for a place to live. She first thought about where she had lived as a student, in the Left Bank, behind where she was right now, near the Sorbonne University, while she worked as a researcher in the Louvre. She was familiar with the area, and thought that was the most important quality she was looking for.

But when she arrived at the first address on her list, and the concierge asked her a barrage of insulting questions, like what school she attended, was her mother taking care of her, did she have noisy boyfriends, her face flushed immediately. She realized that being taken for a college student, among the thousands of Americans in Paris, was not what she had expected. She thanked the concierge, but not politely, and headed away from the Left Bank.

Feeling very stupid for not remembering what Parisian landlords were like, she went back to the Champs-Élysées and took her map and address book to Stella Maris near the Arc de Triomphe.

Outside the bar, traffic passing by, elegant men and women walking down the street, Carolyn opened her address book and searched for familiar names from her time as an exchange student. The first name that caught her eye was that of Nathalie Rameau, the woman who supervised her studies on the Northern Renaissance at the Louvre. Perfect, she thought. Nathalie was 30 years old, married with children, but still, almost a friend as well as advisor. Carolyn felt that this woman would understand her predicament.

Well, it wasn't exactly a predicament. She just wanted to be practical about her decision where to live. Someone to think it through with her as well as give her expert advice as only a Parisian could do.

She quickly drank the small espresso and walked three blocks back to the Hotel Napoleon. This time as she noted the photos of American actors over the bar she felt the now familiar reminder that she wasn't as French as she would like to be.

Yet, as she passed the registration desk dominated by the huge portrait of Napoleon III and nodded to the clerk, she remembered that her accent was so good that no one spoke to her in English, even in a hotel that prided itself on old movie stars.

In her room, kneeling on the sofa and looking out the window at the Eifel Tower in the distance, Carolyn knew this was her new home. An urge to call Beatrice prompted her arm to move to the small table with the phone on it, but she resisted. Not yet. Not until she was settled in her new home in Paris, in whatever arrondissement that would be.

The phone number in Carolyn's address book still worked and in just a few moment she breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't had to go through the maze of departments of the Louvre museum administration to reach Nathalie.

"Bonjour."

"Bonjour, Nathalie, it's me, Carolyn Stuart. Your assistant from two years ago."

"Carolyn-," Nathalie pronounced the name in her favored fashion as car-o-leen, although her English was perfect from her research time at Harvard. "How are you? Where are you calling from? Are you in Paris?"

The charm and warmth of Nathalie's voice brought back memories of laughing among the hidden workrooms of the great museum. Carolyn smiled to herself and felt a confidence she had thought long escaped her. "Yes, I am as a matter of fact."

Nathalie did not wait to hear what Carolyn's call was about. "Are you alone? Are you traveling? Tell me, what's going on? I have missed you."

Now Carolyn felt a sense of guilt for not having kept contact with her mentor. "Oh, thank you, Nathalie. Well, actually, I just arrived yesterday, and today I went to look for where I'm going to live."

"To live? You are going to live in Paris? But you must just have finished college, isn't that true? I thought you wanted to go to Berkeley?"

Now Carolyn crossed her legs defensively, and felt the small bite of regret that she was still not much beyond a student. Still, she felt a sense of relief in knowing that Nathalie didn't really think of her that way.

"Yes, I did graduate. But I'm not going to Berkeley. I need to be somewhere new. That's why I'm in Paris."

"Are you going to study-," Nathalie stopped herself. "Listen, Carolyn, you know this isn't a good time for me, this very moment, I'm in the middle of something. Why don't you come to my house for dinner tonight? Bernard will certainly be happy to see you, and the girls, well, I think they may or may not remember you. They're a lot older now. What do you say?"

Carolyn received Nathalie's invitation as a relief, the taking of a burden off her shoulders. She was glad she had phoned Nathalie first and hunched forward with a sigh. "That's so nice of you. So, the girls, when I was there Anne was-," she laughed, "there was only Anne. Who else do you have?"

"Little Marie is just now past her first birthday."

"Oh wow, congratulations. I don't want to put you out. Little kids are a lot of work." Carolyn remembered that Nathalie put in long hours at the Louvre, and now with a family things would be that much harder. And with a French husband, more so.

"Oh don't worry, you don't put us out. You get to eat what we do, and I remember you as a very generous girl, so it won't make any difference to you. Shall we say, then, about eight? You're going to have to learn again to eat later in the evening." Natalie gave a short, but light laugh. "Do you remember where we live?"

"Of course I remember where you live. You had me over so many times. Numero 8, rue Gavarni. It's the Passy metro stop. A lovely neighborhood. It will be really good to be there again. Thank you for the invitation. Can I bring something?"

"Oh no, just come and be with us. I'll take advantage of you to entertain the children while I put dinner together. Bernard is usually very good at that. He's a good cook himself, a gourmet chef you might even say, so when he hears that you're coming, he might feel inspired."

"Nathalie, now you make me feel like I'm really putting you out, just showing up like this."

"Nonsense. If Bernard is inspired, it's because he's inspired, not because there's company for dinner. Besides, I never know what time he gets home anyway. Okay then, see you at eight. Or before then. Why not? The nanny will be there with the children, you can just come in."

"Are you sure I can't bring anything?"

"Carolyn, please. I tell you what, if you feel you must, Bernard loves his brandy. Of course, French brandy for him. Or anything. Don't go out of your way. It's you we are interested in. Look, I have to run. See you tonight."

"Thanks. Bye."

Carolyn hung up the phone and sat back on the sofa and felt a weight lifted off her shoulders. Now she could look forward to a great French dinner with great French people. She decided to take a shower and get ready, then remembered she had to go out and find something special for Bernard. And flowers for Nathalie. And maybe little gifts for the kids.

But first she just enjoyed relaxation, then, after a few minutes, the quiet of the room made her feel too alone, too unprepared, so she went out. The tall clerk with round-rimmed glasses at the front desk gave her an strained look and in response to her question about buying cognac said the closest store was Nicolas, not far from the hotel, on the corner of rue Beaujon and Wagram. Americans find their favorite whiskies there, he offered. When she heard that, Carolyn tensed up. Did she look like a business traveler to this guy? Well, that was better than being insulted for sounding like a typical American college student studying abroad.

She remained polite and tried to keep her emotion hidden. She smiled, and perhaps her smile was forced, but as she went out the door, she didn't care any longer. She wasn't going to buy any damn whiskey.

As she turned the corner from the hotel, she decided she wasn't going to any American hangout either, but then with a sigh she looked at her watch and decided it wasn't worth the search beyond the immediate neighborhood. At Nicolas she simply said she wanted cognac, and the man, short and pudgy with pasty skin and a black double breasted suit, and an air of superiority, put his arm up and showed her a wall with every possible brand and cost. He didn't seem arrogant to her, so she solicited his help in choosing something a little different, that Bernard might not have. He recommended Armagnac or Salignac. She selected Salignac. And because she knew it had some elegance and she didn't have to worry about making a mistake with the wrong kind of stuff.

After she paid for the bottle, she learned from the man the location of a neighborhood flower shop. It was close enough to the metro to leave for later when she left for dinner. She wanted to buy a couple of toys for the kids, but knew she didn't have time for that, unless there was something in the hotel. And there was, sort of. The woman at the concierge desk, young, typically French petite, with curly dark hair radiating out from either side of a part in the middle, and the conspiratorial voice of the helpful attendant, told Carolyn that there was a drugstore very close where they would have children's toys, at least something suitable for bringing to a home for a visit.

So the problem of gifts was solved quickly. The Grande Pharmacie was close by. And she had time to take a bath, a luxurious bath in a beautiful French bathtub, relaxing with a glass of white Mouton-Cadet, feeling completely Gallic, extended, unhurried, warm, content.

Then she was leaving the metro at the Passy station, up to the street. The rain was falling softly and putting a reflective sheen on the street and sidewalk. Just two short streets and she was on rue Gavarni, now becoming familiar with its yellow buildings and narrow streets. As she turned left around the building she knew was number 8, she smiled at the recognition of the small chic Hotel Gavarni across the street from Nathalie's house. And then, just beyond the house the fabulous Sushi Passy, and beyond that Axel Brixe in dark red paint around the windows, with the very expensive but always fashionable women's clothes. And then the Auto École that kind of ruined the upper-class appearance of the street.

Oh, she had forgotten, Maison de la Presse, she could have bought something for the kids there. And down at the end of the street, the funny hot pink Lollipops sign. She could barely make out the items in the store window, they had to be the same as they were before, purses of all sizes, but always hot pink.

Nathalie's house was much plainer than the rest, a dull grey house whose upper stories had more the look of a cheap New Orleans street rather than this elegant Paris arrondissement.

But, Carolyn sighed, as she adjusted the brandy, flowers and toys to ring the bell, this is more like the real heart of Paris. Easy to get to, easy to live in. Away from the university, away from students. Most important, away from prying landladies.

"Carolyn!" came the sound of a child's voice from up above.

She looked up to the second floor, and saw little Anne-it had to be her. Surely she didn't remember Carolyn? The girl continued waving to her. Carolyn smiled with pleasure and waved back. "Bonjour Anne."

The little girl squealed and disappeared and at the same time the buzzer on the door allowed Carolyn to push it open. When she entered the foyer, Anne was already at the bottom of the curved staircase and running toward her.

"Bonjour Caroleen."

Carolyn wanted to lean down and hug her, but her packages made that impossible. Anne pushed the elevator button and squirmed in excitement.

"It's nice to see you again," Carolyn said.

"Merci," Anne said. "I have a little baby sister. Are those flowers for us?"

"Yes they are." The elevator door opened and they squeezed inside the small space. Carolyn managed to get the flowers into Anne's hand. "A baby sister? Isn't that wonderful. How old is she?"

"One year. We just had a birthday party for her."

The elevator door opened on the second floor and Anne took hold of Carolyn's arm and pulled her into the open door to the apartment. "Mama!" the little girl cried with a wide smile on her face. "We're here," Anne said, as if they had been on a long trip.

Nathalie appeared holding a little baby in her arms. She brushed her dark brown hair back from her face and put her arm around Carolyn's neck. "Bonjour." She pulled back and let Carolyn see the baby. "This is little Marie. Say hello to your Aunt Carolyn." Nathalie took the baby's arm and made a little wave, but the baby turned her head to hide in her mother's neck."

"She's your sister?" Anne said, her eyes wide in surprise that Carolyn was going to be family.

Nathalie laughed and put her hand on Anne's head. "Oh my, you are grown up. I didn't think you understood that. No, not really, she's just a friend from work, it's just a way of making her feel at home. Go find papa, my little girl, and tell him Carolyn is here."

"But the flowers, Mama." Anne waited in hope she could be part of this grown-up scene. She held up the bouquet of red daylilies and green leaves interspersed with small sunflowers to her mother.

"They are beautiful," Nathalie said, leaning down to smell the bouquet.

"But wait, I have this too," Carolyn said. She handed a small kit of beads to Anne.

Anne took the flowers and beads, turned to go, then stopped and said thank you, then ran out of the room calling, "Papa."

Carolyn gave Marie a rattle, and the baby warmed up to her, then she followed Nathalie down the narrow hallway to the living room. She remembered the back wall behind the sofa full of books. So European, she thought.

"Oh you know," Nathalie said, "she's daddy's little girl."

"If I remember correctly, she's a lucky little girl."

At that moment, a tall thin man entered the room, holding Anne's hand. His smile showed a row of perfect white teeth. He was dressed in his dark Navy uniform. He came to Carolyn and kissed her on both cheeks.

So thin, so French, Carolyn thought. She offered him the bottle of Salignac, saying, "Oh, mon capitaine, I see you have silver bars on your epaulets."

He laughed, "And you, I see you pay attention to military rank. Yes, capitaine de frigate, just two months now. I believe you would say Commander." He held the bottle of brandy out before him and made a face of appraisal and approval. "This Salignac is fit for an admiral. Thank you. I will take it on board and impress the junior officers."

"Bernard is getting ready to go to sea," Nathalie said. She looked at her husband, and showed perhaps not real worry, but some concern.

"Oh?" Carolyn felt unsure how to react. She raised her eyebrows as something noncommittal.

Bernard looked at Nathalie. It was clear there had been a conversation about this. "Yes, you know Tito just died, and so to help calm international nerves, my little ship is going to go tour the Greek isles to show the French flag in the Adriatic sea. There's nothing dangerous about it." He looked at his wife again in reassurance.

Nathalie showed she did not take that reassurance well. "It's never dangerous until it is."

Bernard's voice showed some irritation. "Come on, now, it's not like there's fighting going on anyplace. And Tito doesn't have a navy, anyway, so the worst that could happen is we have to chase a cruise ship for fun."

Nathalie laughed at the last remark, a sign that she believed Bernard. "And then, after that, he comes home for a few weeks and he's off to the Caribbean. I tell you, the Navy is the best."

Bernard shook his head, but smiled at Nathalie and took her hand. "Yes, it's a lovely place. But we're going to bring relief supplies to Guadeloupe and Martinique. They've been hit rather hard by the recent hurricane."

Anne came running up and held her father's other hand. "Papa is going to be admiral some day."

Carolyn showed exaggerated happiness as she responded. "Oh, I'm sure that's going to happen soon. You must be very proud."

Anne nodded and smiled.

Nathalie gave the baby Marie to Bernard and stood. "Carolyn, come into the kitchen and help me a little with dinner. Bernard is happy with the girls."

"Oh, all right, please excuse me," she said to Anne and Bernard as she got up. She patted the baby on the head, and the little girl laughed.

Anne followed them into the kitchen, waiting for attention.

"Oh, of course, my petite, will you help me too?" Nathalie gave Carolyn a conspiratorial look. "But nothing hot, all right. Will you bring the bread in?"

Anne nodded seriously and took the basket with large pieces of baguette in it, walking carefully to make sure nothing fell out.

"There's not much," Nathalie said. "just leftover couscous and chicken. If I remember correctly you eat anything."

"That's right. And I'm hungry, so especially so tonight."

"Did you have any problems finding the place?"

"Oh, no, it's so easy, just across rue Passy and you're practically there. I did like seeing the old stores I remember from before."

Nathalie handed Carolyn the bowl of couscous and took the plate of chicken and a bowl of salad and pointed out to the dining room.

Once they were seated and plates filled with food, Nathalie began the conversation. "Okay, Carolyn, you must tell us what you are doing here. Bernard wondered when I could not tell him what you were doing back in Paris so soon. Unless you're just on vacation. You graduated recently, right? I thought Americans sent everyone graduation announcements."

Carolyn knew his was why she had come to visit Nathalie, and maybe even her husband. Bernard was a Navy officer of some rank, and to her that signaled a capability of judgment, but also of rational decision making that she needed right now. An Nathalie, who was a world-class expert on art of the Northern Renaissance, had befriended Carolyn during her junior semester abroad. More than befriended, Nathalie had shown great warmth to Carolyn. They had even become close friends.

"Announcements? Oh, yeah, well, I must say, that's something I learned in Paris. French students don't have this big fancy ceremony where everyone walks across the stage and gets cheered, and I thought, that's all right for me. So, no I didn't send out any announcements." She frowned. "I hope you weren't expecting one."

"Well, yes," Nathalie said, "kind of, I did. But it's all right you know. It looks like you're making the announcement in person."

"Carolyn," Bernard interrupted, with a smile of intrigue, "you did have a graduation, didn't you? Americans love those big academic celebrations." He shook his head in amusement. "Even when I was visiting Annapolis I thought they loved those displays. But, then, not more than us."

"We did, at school, you know, the big thing in the stadium." She looked down to align her silverware a moment, then continued. "My mother came. It was very nice. But afterwards she had something to go to in the City, so she couldn't stay."

Bernard missed the implication in her remark. "But of course you remember my graduation."

Carolyn smiled. "Oh, who could forget that. On the Champs-Élysées. That was quite impressive. But it wasn't college, was it? I mean, I forget what the graduation was for, for you, I mean. To be honest, I was most impressed with the Foreign Legion."

"Yeah," he said, "the French do a great job with pomp and circumstance. The École Polytechnique, that was my group, the red pants. I had just finished a command and staff semester, so they made us march with the others. Then we all mingle together in the stadium. It was like a war from the nineteenth century mixed in with commandos of the twentieth. I found it exciting myself."

"Yes, I do remember you with your gold epaulets. And now I remember, too, that Spanish person right next to you. It's great isn't it, Europe, the European Union."

"Yes," Bernard said, "it's something for the future, I think, when we will all have the same laws and the same money and the same government. But for now, I'm skeptic."

Nathalie looked at him in mock dismissal. "Too conservative, I think. We need to all have the Euro first."

Bernard shook his head, but smiled. "The Euro is a fantasy for the future. People will never give up the franc."

Nathalie pursed her mouth as if she would say nothing more. She wiped the face of Marie, who was scraping pieces of cookie off her high chair. "You arrived just yesterday, Carolyn?"

Carolyn was glad the conversation turned away from European politics. She was uncomfortably aware that her education in that area was sorely neglected and she resolved to start reading Le Monde every day and watching France2 news at night. "It was wonderful. I flew on the Concorde. Amazing. So high up, it's true you can see the curvature of the earth."

"Wow," Bernard said. "That's not cheap."

Carolyn heard his remark as a reminder to be more careful about what she said to other people, especially since all Europeans think Americans have money to burn. "No, I splurged on that. So unfortunately I have to make up for it in other areas. It will be a while before I can afford a car." She made that last remark up on the spot, and felt somewhat guilty for doing it. "But there's an example of British and French entrepreneurship, if you ask me." Then she thought of something she heard just a few weeks back that would show them her attention to French history. "I understand Sartre just died. Now that's an end to an era."

Bernard and Nathalie looked at each other.

"Yes, that's right," Nathalie said. "You know, in that respect I think we're all the same. We all read Being and Nothingness in college and then quickly forgot about it."

Bernard nodded in agreement about this change in tone of the conversation. "Philosophy is still a major subject for the baccalaureat, but once you're out of school, unless you're a professional philosopher, it's not widely studied. Same as in the States, I suspect."

Carolyn put her knife and fork on her plate in a sign that she was finished. "I think you're right. It's like music. People used to have a piano in the home and kids used to study it, but now we have the Sony Walkman, and you carry your music with you."

"That's right," Nathalie said, "I see kids now. They are even thinking of a way to bring them into the museum, so you can take one with you and listen to a painter while you look at his pictures." Then she laughed. "Not in my area, though. There's nobody around anymore. Speaking of art, Carolyn, do you know what you are going to do? Are you going to study painting at the Sorbonne?"

Carolyn had hoped that she could have this conversation in private with Nathalie. Not that Bernard wouldn't be sympathetic, but with his military uniform he seemed like someone who made her feel ashamed at the speed with which she had left San Francisco and then New York. She had no plan and no explanation for why not. If she didn't understand herself, what was there to say? She decided to just be honest.

"No I don't. I know I don't want to just look at art."

"It is art you are interested in, then?" Bernard said.

Carolyn was puzzled by the question.

Bernard sensed it, and said, "I mean, you studied art with Nathalie, and you just graduated with an arts degree, I think. So it is logical."

Logical. That's Bernard.

Nathalie shook her head. "Not necessarily. She could be studying business or-" She stopped herself. "Or anything. I'm sorry, Carolyn, we shouldn't be pestering you like this."

Carolyn sat back in her chair. She looked at Anne playing around with the food on her plate. "I think we're probably pestering Anne more than anybody."

Anne looked up at the mention of her name and smiled, obviously wondering if she was supposed to say something. She squirmed in her seat and went back to eating.

Carolyn continued. "No, actually, I called you because I wanted to talk to you. I think you could help me more than anybody decide on what I want to do." There. She said it. She said it more to herself than them. She needed help and she needed clear thinking and not just the empathy she had been seeking back home.

Bernard crossed his arms over his chest. "You said you don't want to just look at art. What did you mean by that?"

"I mean I'm not just on vacation. I haven't figured everything out yet. I—of course I just got here. But I'm not going to just visit museums and see the Loire Valley. I plan on living here for the foreseeable future."

Bernard leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "I take it you have enough money for that?"

"Bernard." Nathalie shot him a look of strong disapproval.

It seemed strange to her, but Carolyn was not bothered by his remark. "No, it's perfectly all right. It is why I came here tonight. Yes," she said, nodding, "I do have enough money. For now. For a few months. If I can't find a way to make a living, eventually I will have to go home." She was surprised at how easy she spoke this lie, having enough money to last the rest of her life if she wasn't extravagant. "I can stay in Paris meanwhile. And I know too, that I want to do something with art, but I just haven't figured it out yet."

Nathalie touched Bernard's arm, but kept on looking at Carolyn. "What about your own art. I remember you did some nice things while you were here. You did a very nice watercolor of Notre Dame from across the Seine. And I liked especially your portraits. Remember the one you did of Anne? I think you are talented."

"Yes," Anne said, excited. "You painted me. I remember it. Maman, where is it?"

Nathalie looked embarrassed. "We have it stored away, somewhere. We'll find it and put it up, don't you think?"

Anne nodded. "Oh, yes, it's in my art gallery."

Carolyn frowned playfully. "Your gallery."

"Yes, I have a box with my paintings and I'm sure yours will be in there, too."

"We'll find it first thing tomorrow after school," Nathalie said.

Carolyn was grateful for Nathalie's personal comment. It was so like her, to think of Carolyn's feelings. But it came mixed with the painful realization that she had failed to get into the school of her choice.

"My own art?" Carolyn looked at both Bernard and Nathalie as she tried to think of what she should say. "My own art is on hold, I'm afraid."

Nathalie frowned, but did so sympathetically. "I don't understand you."

Carolyn sighed. "I mean, I found out that the problem with school is that, well, you're in school. It's more figures, more drawing, more experimenting with all the different media. I need to settle on something that I can develop. That's my own art. And I don't know what that is. That's why I came to Paris, someplace completely different from California."

"But not for you," Bernard said. "If I remember, you fit into Paris very well. Your French is almost perfect. You could just say you're from Quebec and nobody would question you. And you ate all that stuff we wouldn't touch. I remember andouillette sausage, for example."

"Thank you, Bernard, that's very nice of you. But Paris is different from New York, too, and here I'm not me, I'm not the girl from San Francisco. So I don't know what's in store for me, I just know it's not in school. Which brings me to the question I have for you."

"Oh, for us? That's interesting. Go ahead." Nathalie put her fork down.

"I don't mean it's a big deal. I just thought I'd ask you where might be a good place to live. I remember so much, but I don't want to be in the Left Bank, just because it's full of students. And not in Montmartre because its-oh-it's-trendy or something. Here in the 16th is very nice, but you're here and I don't want to intrude—".

Nathalie laughed. "Intrude? I don't think so. I remember you as a very excellent and handy baby sitter. That's my point of view."

"Sure, Nathalie, I'll always do that, you can depend on me."

Bernard sat back and looked thoughtful. "Everywhere is nice in Paris. Everywhere has some, let's say, some less desirable areas. Let me ask you, are you trying to save money, Carolyn?"

"No, that's not it. I'm okay for a year or two, I can get by. I definitely don't want to put out a lot of money. It's more, I'm thinking someplace central, but not near the Sorbonne and not very expensive."

Nathalie shook her head. "You're still not being very clear. I think you still want to be close to art, so you don't have to make a long train ride, isn't that right?"

"Yes, that's true. But there's so much art in Paris, that anywhere would do. I think if I sat down and studied the matter, I could eventually figure out someplace to live. But I thought of you, and it would mean so much to me if you'd help me. Like you did when I worked for you."

Nathalie sat up with an idea. "So, let's be, as Bernard said, logical about this. You are here for art, one way or another. But not museums, and not schools. Well, then, I think there's only one answer."

Carolyn waited in anticipation. She knew she had made the right phone call. She opened her eyes and smiled while she demonstrated her interest to Nathalie.

"For me, it would be the fourth arrondissement, the Marais, the Centre Pompidou. You remember that?"

"Yes, of course, I do, it was just being completed when I was here. But it's a museum. I remember the big beautiful lips near the pool." Carolyn laughed at the memory. "Sorry, I just remember that as being funny."

Nathalie waved off the humor with her hand. "That's not my point. It's an area with many new galleries. You see, that's what's good for you. Not museums, galleries. And there's something else."

"What?" Carolyn said, curious, her eyes open wide.

"No students. They have some very upscale apartments, and they don't have any cheap apartments like over the hill in Montmartre. But they have nice apartments you could probably afford and there won't be any students in them."

"Oh, thank you, Nathalie. I knew I could count on you. Well, I didn't mean I should count on you, but thank you all the same."

"So I think I solved your problem, Carolyn. And there are many nice places all over. Look where we are, this building isn't very nice, I mean, sure, inside, we have a nice apartment. It's a little small with the children, but It's not expensive like the others in the neighborhood. Bernard inherited it from his parents, so we are lucky to live in the 16th. And there are bound to be many places in the 4th like this. You just have to be patient."

Nathalie looked at her little daughter, who had fallen asleep in her chair, leaning against her father.

"What do you say we have some chocolate mousse."

Anne suddenly became awake, sitting up and stretching, then looking up at her mother and smiling as if she had fooled her.

"Oh, so not too sleepy for dessert, my little girl." Mother and daughter laughed together.

After dinner, with the children put to bed, and feeling like a new person, Carolyn wished Bernard well on his deployment, and thanked Nathalie profusely as they stood in the foyer.

"One more thing", Nathalie, said. She held the door open as she stood on the threshold. "Look around, but when you find something you're interested in, give me a call at work. I'll use my lunch break to see it with you. They still will look at you, Carolyn, you are very young and pretty, and they will try and take advantage of you. Will you do that?"

"You are so helpful, Nathalie. I can't thank you enough."

"Go on," Nathalie said. "I'm happy to do it. Now that Bernard is gone for a while, Anne is in kindergarten , and I can't get home for lunch with my baby, but the 4th is close enough to the Louvre. It'll be fun."

Carolyn embraced Nathalie and kissed her on both cheeks, then walked over to the subway but decided it was a beautiful night in a beautiful city, and she had all the time in the world. She walked home and took every opportunity at every corner to look over to the right and see each different view down an avenue toward the amazing lights of the Eiffel Tower.
Part VII - 1940

Julia and Isabelle arrived in Paris just as the sun was going down. Julia offered to take one of Isabelle's two suitcases, neither of which was very large. Isabelle was happy to let her share the burden and they set off to her mother's house in Montmartre. From the Gare Saint-Lazare, they took the No. 12 subway in the direction of Port de la Chapelle, getting off at the base of the hill, the backside of Montmartre. As they walked up rue Lamarck to rue du Mont-Cenis, Isabelle pointed up to the steps leading up the hill to the top of Montmartre.

"We'll walk up there soon. It's a nice exercise up those steps. You can see all of Paris up there, a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower. You'll love it, Julia. And Place du Tertre, ah, the best crepes in the world." She thought for a moment, then said, "Oh, but you've been there."

Julia nodded, but smiled, "Yeah, but this is different with you. You live here."

"We're almost home." Isabelle turned left on rue du Mont-Cenis and started along the short street that led to more steps down to the lower half of Montmartre. Halfway along the street, just before the steps began, she stopped and dropped her suitcase. She pointed to the small restaurant across the street, Au Relais. "Excellent, she said. We've known them for years. Foie gras and escargots. You must try them."

"But, here we are," she said, "32, where my mother lives. Can you believe it? Home." She pressed on a little bell.

They waited and a tiny voice came from above. "Oh la la. Un moment!" They looked up in response, and the window was still open on the second floor, but no one was visible. One second later a buzzer sounded and Isabelle pushed open the door and held it for Julia to enter.

Julia picked the suitcase up and carried it inside the building. There was a small foyer, barely enough room for two people to get by, and not enough for two people with suitcases. It was dark and the walls were dirty and pockmarked. She stood and let Isabelle pass her by, and followed her on the wooden staircase as it wound up to the second floor.

The tiny voice could be heard up above. "Isabelle. Ma fille. Enfin." At the landing Isabelle stopped, dropped her suitcase and hugged the petite woman standing just outside the doorway. Isabelle continued up the last few stairs. As she, too, let the suitcase fall, and her bag of clothes, Isabelle stepped away from the woman. She was very short, with hunched shoulders on an emaciated frame. Her plain gray dress hung loosely on her body and her skinny legs ended in plain black shoes with scrapes all over them.

Isabelle continued in French. "Julia, this is my mother, Christine."

Julia saw Isabelle with a genuine smile for the first time since she'd met her.

The woman smiled, showing a missing tooth on the side, and came to Julia, raising herself up to kiss Julia on both cheeks, then turning to Isabelle. "Ma petite chérie, I see your friend is a beautiful American. And so young." Christine looked back and forth between the two of them, her eyes the color of amethyst, brilliant, ecstatic. "But come in, please." She hurried back in the apartment and held the door open for the two of them.

"Isabelle, you can put your friend Julia in Daniel's room. Oh, this is a surprise. I didn't think you would bring an American back with you. Let me go make some coffee. I have wonderful cake from Boulanger Albert, your favorite, a tart aux pommes, they have the best apples from Normandy, you know," she said, then turned to face the newcomer in her house, "Julia, my favorite tarte, too. Oh-" she put her hands on her cheeks, "and some Calvados, Albert got it from his cousins. From the farm. Amazing. Beautiful." She laughed at herself and disappeared around a corner, her elbows moving back and forth like a puppet.

"She's an amazing woman," Julia said, her eyes wide open in surprise at this small dynamo. "You didn't tell me about her."

"No, maybe I'm used to it. She has more energy than little kids. C'mon, follow me."

Julia followed Isabelle into a small room, with an old bed covered in a gray blanket. It looked like it used to be white, but over time had lost all its brightness. Over the bed hung a small wooden crucifix, and behind it a dry palm branch. Julia thought how long it's been since she had done that. Not since childhood. The room looked empty, despite the small varnished table with many scratches on its surface, a chair and a three-drawer dresser against one wall. It was what she expected for a poor French family, where there was no husband to bring in money. But the furniture, just like the furniture when they entered the house, was of very good quality. It seemed old. Not antique as such, but old, well-made, with hand-made carved ornaments. "Isabelle, you have very nice furniture here."

"You think so? I didn't notice it." Isabelle's eyes swept the room. "Maybe. It was made by somebody, I guess. But it doesn't have gold, or inlays."

Julia shook her head in disbelief. "Okay, so it's not Louis XVI or something. I think it's wonderful handmade furniture. By a real craftsman. You are just spoiled by Paris and don't appreciate what you've got."

Isabelle pursed her lips. "Well, I bet you have some real antiques back in New York in your apartment."

Julia started to respond, then understood that Isabelle was suddenly asking her about wealth and decided to stop the direction of this conversation. So she lied. "No, nothing like that. We have good furniture, I'll say that, but probably made in a factory in North Carolina." Once she heard herself, she went one step further. "Once piece we have like yours, my mother bought in Canada. Made by hand by a cabinet maker in Quebec. A beautiful table." Now she could not stop, although her next statement was not an invention. "My house where I grew up, in Maine. We had furniture made by hand. But by French-Canadians." She saw Isabelle's eyes narrowing. Tired. "But we're here."

"Oh, are you French?"

"Yes, actually, on both sides."

"So your parents spoke French?"

Julia shook her head. "No, my grandmother. I learned it from her. But not my father, he said it made him sound ignorant. He had a little bit of accent though, and I thought it was nice."

"And your parents, are they still there, in Maine?"

"No. They're both dead. They died rather young, of Spanish flu, just after I was born."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

"No, don't be. I didn't know them. My grandmother took me to New York, and I've had a wonderful life there."

Isabelle nodded and smiled in sympathy. "So, this is Daniel's room, but he hasn't been in it for a longtime. The only other people who have been in here have been a cousin from Orleans and some friends from school. I'm right next door." Then she looked at Isabelle's bag. "Ah, I forgot, you only have what you purchased on the ship. Well, we have some lovely shops in Montmartre, I'm sure you can find something nice to wear."

"Thank you," Julia said, "but I only need enough to fly back to New York. I think what I have will work well. Maybe a dress. Maybe."

"But, while you're here-" Isabelle said, frowning.

"Honestly, I don't want to be here very long. I'm very happy to be here with your mother, and I'm going to adore the tarte aux pommes-" then Julia stopped and laughed. "I don't know about the Calvados."

Isabelle touched her on the shoulder and turned to leave the room. "Well, then, I will unpack later. We'll have my mother's delicious tart and then walk around the neighborhood for a little while. I promise you we will go find the airline office first thing in the morning." She smiled and left without closing the door. But a moment later she came back and peeked in the room, eyebrows raised, and said, "We have our own bathroom here, Julia," sounding as if she had to make at least one point in defense of her living situation. "I'll show you."

When they sat down at the table, Julia asked Christine about the picture of a thin man in a double-breasted suit and tie with a turned-up collar. It looked like someone from earlier in the century, maybe the twenties, or even before that. He stood smiling, hands in pocket, very relaxed, in front of a car that looked something like a Model-T to her. She was sure who it was, but she wanted to be polite to this woman who had opened up her home to a stranger.

Christine stopped eating and put her fork down. She looked longingly at the photo then turned to Julia. "Yes, that's my husband. He was gassed in the first war, you know." She looked quickly over to her daughter, then back. "I'm sure Isabelle has told you that. He died for France. He was a hero. And he died in my arms, in this house." She looked like she was going to cry but then seized some courage from within and made a long sigh and said, "He is always with me. He is buried not far from here, in the Montmartre cemetery. If you have time while you're here, I could take you there-"

Isabelle touched her mother's arm, but cut her off with, "Mama, Julia needs to get back to New York. She has a little girl there, I don't think-"

Julia smiled at Christine. "No, Isabelle is right. I would like to go there with you, but I must get back. I need to get back to my little girl."

Christine frowned. "I don't understand, why are you here without your little girl?"

"Mama!" Isabelle's eyes widened at her mother's question.

Julia shook her head at Isabelle. "I understand your mother's question. I understand very well. It's not my fault that my daughter-"

The muscles in Christine's face tightened as she looked intently at Julia. "Oh, I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Julia, please. Please excuse me. You are so young." She put her napkin up to her face as if to hide her tears.

Isabelle raised her hands up. "Maybe we're carrying this a little too far?"

Christine said, looking intensely at Julia, "What I meant was, I did not mean that it's your fault. I meant, how could it happen to you? And it is because you are such a young mother. Of course, you must go home to your little daughter." Then her face lit up in a smile, although her eyes did not agree. "And you can bring her back to Paris if you want. We will keep you safe here."

Isabelle smiled at that remark. "I think Julia just needs to go home, Mama. And it's not very safe here. You know that."

Julia put her hand out on the table toward Isabelle's mother. "I appreciate your kindness. My little Elizabeth would be very happy here, I know. She would just eat tarte aux pommes all day long."

Christine laughed at that, but her eyes were still moist.

"Tomorrow Isabelle will take me to the airline office and I will buy my ticket. When I get home, Christine, will it be all right for me to send you a letter, and maybe a picture of my little girl in the park?"

"Yes, of course, that would be very nice." Christine looked over to Isabelle for someone to share her worry about Julia.

Isabelle's face showed that she didn't share the worry. She ignored her mother and stood and picked her dishes up off the table.

Julia took advantage of being alone for a moment with Christine. "You have a son in New Jersey?"

Christine smiled, the same broad smile she showed when she saw Isabelle come up the stairs. "Daniel, yes, I want him where he is safe. I could not accept that I have to go visit him in the cemetery, too. Do you live in New Jersey?"

Julia shook her head. "No, I live in New York, but I could walk to where I can see New Jersey. What town is he in?"

"He lives in Guttenberg. He said he can see New York, too, at night. That must be famous, no?"

Julia had no idea what was on the other side of the Hudson River. "With a name like that, of course it is. But it's not a big town, and to be honest, I don't know it myself."

Christine waved the idea away. "Oh, never mind, but you know, it's very nice that you live near him. I wanted Isabelle-", she waited while her daughter came back and picked up more dishes. She looked at her, then continued when Isabelle had disappeared. "I wanted her to stay there."

Isabelle stopped, holding a dish in each hand, and turned back toward the table, her face a window of mixed emotions. "I put a stop to that. She won't go with me, and I won't leave her. So there you are." She continued through the small door into the kitchen.

Julia saw a row of gleaming copper pans hanging above a small stove.

Christine looked down and shook her head, determined to keep ahead of her daughter. "You know, my father, Victor, he was alive in the Franco-Prussian war. People were killing each other here. You have seen our beautiful basilica at the top?"

Julia nodded, but kept her lips closed, wanting to know what this intriguing woman had to tell her.

"Yes, Sacré-Coeur, they built that after the war. My father told me when I was a child that Parisians were killing each other, they killed the archbishop-" Christine made a sign of the cross. -and priests, and he said people ate rats. I do not want my son and daughter to go through that when the Germans come here. Thank god Daniel is safe. But this foolish girl-".

"Mama, don't talk like that. We are safe." Isabelle came back in the room and her voice rose. "We have the Maginot line and the Ardennes to protects us. We have the largest army in the world. France can never fall! What we need is a new government. That is all. One that will protect us and serve the people, not the industrialists."

Christine shifted in her chair. "Oh my, my daughter, I don't want to argue politics with you. I love you too much. My life is over, anyway. My father suffered so much, my husband gassed, what do I care about the Ardennes? I have only you and Daniel?"

"Daniel? There it is, that's the problem. Mama, why won't you come with me. I will gladly leave all of France behind if you come with me to America. We can be there with Daniel."

Christine sat back in her chair and seemed to fold into herself. "No. I will never leave my husband. Never."

"Fine," Isabelle said, "that's your decision. I'm staying with you. Paris is for lovers and rats. We will eat rats together then."

They looked at each other, and then both at the same time to Julia, who sat with her eyes wide open.

"I'm sorry," Julia said. "I didn't mean for this to happen." The pain in her stomach made her aware that she did not want to get caught up in this family's problems. Nothing mattered to her except going home to Lizzie. Nothing. "Perhaps I will find a hotel for tonight, and tomorrow I will go to Pan American." Julia felt sorry she had started all this commotion, and pain between mother and daughter who were being so kind to her.

Christine stood and walked swiftly to Julia and put her arms around her. "No, my child, tonight, tonight you must stay with us and Isabelle can take you tomorrow." She walked to Isabelle and put her arms around her. Then she stood back and looked at both Isabelle and Julia. "This beautiful young girl, she is here without her husband and her daughter." Her eyes misted. "I thought I was tough, having seen so much." She wiped her eyes with her apron. "Let's all go tomorrow, huh? To the airline office. Who knows, maybe down there I will feel closer to Daniel than to the dead." She smiled, but it was not a happy smile, it was the smile of defeat. "Maybe we can all go to America."

Isabelle stood in shock. She looked intensely into her mother's eyes. "Mama, do you mean it?" She put her fingers up to her lips as if in prayer. "Really?"

Christine held her hands up. "Yes, my daughter, you know if anything, I mean what I say. I just don't know what I will tell my husband. But you, Isabelle, do you mean what you say?"

Isabelle looked worried. "Mama, what do you mean? Why are you asking that?"

"You know very well what I am asking. You think I don't know what you are doing? Where you go in the evening? You think I don't see you meeting with your so-called friends down there below the steps. We know who they are."

"We? We?"

"Yes, I know, from Madame Sequin, and Madame Hermel. They know more than I do. You tell me nothing."

Isabelle shot Julia a quick look, then spoke to her mother. "Mama, I do what I do for France. Just as papa did, just as grandpapa did. But I am not sure what France does for us. So, we are going to America. Did you not just say that?"

Christine nodded and sighed. "We both said it. And now I must thank this wonderful girl for helping us. Let's finish the dishes and walk up to Place du Tertre and have some crepes and sweet wine, what do you say? To celebrate. Tomorrow we all start a new life. I will see my Daniel, and you-" she turned to face Julia with a radiant smile but eyes near tears, -you will see your darling daughter." She pulled Isabelle and Julia close to her, this small trembling woman, and put her arms around their necks. Then she pulled back. "Let me get my shawl."

The three women went out to the street and turned left up rue du Mont-Cenis. As they arrived a few steps later to rue Lamarck, arm in arm, Christine pointed across the street to the Au Relais restaurant. "Wonderful. You must eat there. I ate there as a little girl. I love Madame Roussard. You will like her too. If she likes you back, she will always make something special for you. And, she has a first class wine cellar, with wines from Montmartre. Not every restaurant has that. I must show you that, too. Clos de Montmartre. Every bit as good as pinot noir or Bordeaux that they all go crazy for. And, my dear, the Lapin Agile, you know that?"

Julia shook her head, amazed at this old woman's energy and spirit.

"Ah, that's where-it's just a few blocks away-Picasso, see that's a famous painter I know-he went there in the evening with his friends. Well, he wasn't famous then."

Christine suddenly stopped before crossing the empty street. She pointed again, up the hill toward Sacré-Coeur. "See, you see all those stairs. I'm not going up there. That's for tourists and photographers and maybe painters." Then she laughed. "I only use them for coming down. Come on, follow me." She took them across the street and turned left and led them a little more uphill to rue Becquerel. She stopped and pointed once again to the right in triumph and excitement. "See, right up there, just a few steps past the park, where the old men play petanque, ha, there it is."

Julia looked up, surprised to see the top of Sacré-Coeur, so close, it looked like no effort at all to reach it.

"I always laugh," Christine said, "when I see people trudging so hard up those stairs on Mont-Cenis, when the easy answer is just around the corner. Of course the smart people just take the bus." She laughed at her own little joke.

Isabelle looked at Julia, amazed at her mother's newfound sense of humor. She touched Julia on the shoulder and whispered to her, "Thank you."

A few short quick minutes and they came up along the back end of Sacré-Coeur. An open gate before them led underneath a passageway, a greensward visible beyond it, and some misty part of Paris beyond that in the distance and below them.

"See, no one here. Tourists are all on the right."

Isabelle pulled her mother close to her. "Mama, don't speak like that. Julia can hear you."

Christine laughed, and turned to Julia. "Ah, but you, my dear, you are one of us, you are not a tourist."

"Thank you, Madame," Julia said in appreciation. But inside was the burning fear of being a tourist and not at home with her daughter.

They wound their way around to the front of the basilica and out to the space overlooking the city. Julia gasped at the view of the Eiffel Tower on the right, shooting far up above the horizon.

Christine came next to her and had Julia follow her pointing finger a little bit more to the left. "See, over there, you can see it. Our Notre Dame de Paris cathedral. It's so majestic."

Julia looked hard into the distance and found the twin square towers of Notre Dame among all the buildings before them.

"Come now, girls," Christine said, as she moved forcefully away from the banister overlooking the city. "Let's go to Place du Tertre and have our crepes."

"And sweet wine you said, Mama."

"Oh, of course."

They followed the street around to the right and a little bit left and found the open Place with tents and lights and artist stands.

"Oh, look," Julia exclaimed, pointing. "I remember that. Look at all the art." She laughed as she stopped at an artist sitting in a chair drawing a caricature of a young man seated opposite him.

Isabelle pulled on her. "Let's go to Chez Eugène. I'm hungry."

For two hours the three women ate their crepes, drank some sweet Riesling from Alsace, toured the Place, chatted with artists, and left the rest of the world out of it.

Julia ate her crepes suzettes, but didn't drink her wine. She spent most of the time watching the little children run around the restaurant. "Isn't this beautiful," she said. "It's so marvelous for children. So many. So happy. The way they play."

A little girl in a red dress came running by and nearly fell. She held on to Julia's knee to keep from falling, then looked up in shock at the stranger so big before her. But Julia laughed and caressed the little girl's head and she finally smiled. She looked up at Christine and Isabelle and her eyes misted up. "Just like my little girl. Now you know how I feel. What a mistake I have made. I must get home as soon as I can."

"I see," Christine said, "I know deep down that you are a wonderful mother. My heart goes out to you. You do not belong in France. You belong in New Jersey." She laughed and put her hand up to her face. "Oh la la, no, I mean New York."

Christine eventually became tired. "Come on, now, take me home. At least the steps down are easy for me. Just hold on so I don't tumble all the way down."

The next morning Isabelle and Julia ate their croissants and drank their wide bowls of coffee and milk, then set off for the Montmartre city hall to surrender their travel permits from Le Havre.

Once inside the building, Julia was not surprised at the number of people milling around inside. She waited a full hour before she and Isabelle could speak to someone at a window.

"Ah," the man said. He looked at them over his glasses. The ceiling light reflected off the top of his bald head. His white stubble rustled as it scraped against his dirty collar. "I saw that you just came off the ship at Le Havre." He shook his head back and forth as he stared at Isabelle. "You are stupid. You were in America and you come back? I know you Isabelle. I know your mother. I knew your father, bless his soul. We went to first communion together. What's wrong with you?"

"Monsieur Ducasse," Isabelle replied, "I know you, too. Your daughter Clémentine went to school with me." She turned to Julia. "We're saying all this for your benefit." Then she turned back to the man and said, "Monsieur, this is my friend Julia. She is staying with me and my mother for a few days. She needs a residence permit, too. And then a new travel permit."

They both pushed their temporary travel permits into the booth.

He nodded and pushed his glasses up on the top of his head and settled back, ready to make a grand pronouncement from behind the counter. "Of course, I can give you a residence permit, and I do so because I know you, Isabelle and your mother. Let me do that. He stamped Isabelle's card and gave it back to her. "Now, young lady," he continued, turning to Julia. "You need a residence permit, of course. Please give me your photograph."

Isabelle put her hand up to her mouth and opened her eyes wide. "Oh, merde, we forgot all that. Oh, Monsieur, what a mistake. Please forgive us. Naturally, we will go out and do that right away. I know a photographer, well you know him, too, Monsieur Margulis." She tapped Julia on the arm. "I'm sorry, I should have remembered that you don't have a residence permit." She turned back to the man. "Monsieur, please return my friend's travel permit. She will need it for another day, until we can get the photograph.

The man smiled as he pushed Julia's travel permit back to her. "My advice, Isabelle, is to come back tomorrow, early in the morning, before the rush. Then I can help you myself. You won't have to explain yourself again. Please say hello to your mother from me."

Isabelle and Julia left the city hall and walked a few hundred meters to the photography shop of Jacques Margulis. Inside, Julia saw that it was a complete photo shop, with film, cameras, frames for pictures, and large developing equipment. One enlarger took up most of the display window facing the street.

Monsieur Margulis came out from the back through a Middle Eastern-looking curtain. He was tall, with broad shoulders. A dark brown cardigan sweater hung open over a light brown shirt. His black hair stood high on his head, swept back from his face. He did not smile.

"How may I help you, Isabelle?" He stared at her with an intensity that Julia found disconcerting.

"Jacques, well, we are here because my friend here needs a residence permit."

"A residence permit? You can't get that from me, Isabelle. You knows that."

Isabelle let out a sigh. "No, but she needs a picture of herself to take to city hall so she can get a residence permit there. You know that, Jacques." Isabelle's voice conveyed familiarity. She looked steadily at the man.

Julia wondered just what the look could mean. Were they lovers? Or were they connected some other way? There seemed to be an air of tension between them.

He slowly shook his head. "Of course, that's most of my business these days." He looked at Julia. "If you would come back here, please. I can take your picture, and if you want to come back in an hour, I will have several copies of your photo."

"Oh, thank you," Julia said, smiling. "That's very nice of you to do it so fast. And to make copies." This man was for the moment the most important person in the world to her.

"Yes, you will need to have more than one copy of your photo if you are to survive the government's requirements, young lady. Please come with me."

Julia took Isabelle with her.

"Oh, sure, that's all right. I don't want you to look frightened in your picture."

When he had taken her picture, Julia went back out front with Isabelle and looked at the cameras in the case.

"That's interesting," Isabelle said, "cameras. Mama has a camera. I can take pictures of the house and neighborhood for Mama to have when she's with us in America." Isabelle frowned and screwed up her face as she realized the she didn't want to say that. She looked sideways at Jacques.

"If she means it," Julia said, trying to give Isabelle an out if that would help her with the photographer

"Oh, don't remind me, Julia. I know she could change her mind at the last minute. But I'm for anything that makes it easier for her to leave France before the Germans come pouring across the border with their panzers."

"Your mother is going to America?" Jacques' voice came from behind them.

Isabelle opened her eyes wide and raised her eyebrows to show how she felt about her mother's intentions. "That's what she says. She seems quite serious about it."

Jacques seemed worried. He folded his arms across his chest and put his head down but looked up at Isabelle. "And you? Are you going to go with her?"

Isabelle nodded as she looked at him with concern for his reaction.

He hesitated again and looked at Julia with fear in his eyes. "Are you here to take her with you? Do you have some connection with Daniel?" Then he looked back over to Isabelle. "What's going on here? Are you leaving us?"

"Don't start that, Jacques." For the first time Isabelle showed fire in her eyes.

Julia turned to go out the door but stopped. She sensed the tension between Jacques and Isabelle, but she didn't want to add to the drama because she wasn't sure it was anything important. Her movement caused them to stop their conversation. This worried her and she turned back. She looked at Isabelle. "I think it might be better if I waited outside."

Isabelle moved to where Julia stood and said, "No, it's all right, Jacques and I can talk some other time." She pushed Julia to the door and just before shutting it she leaned back in and said, "Thank you so much for helping us out. We'll be back in a couple of hours for the pictures." She continued to push Julia passed the store window. Then they walked together down the street. "Now it's time to go to the Champs Élysées and see about getting an airline ticket back to the United States." She sighed and put her arm around Julia's waste. "For all of us I hope."

They took the number 12 subway to Concorde and walked the tunnel to number 1, which got them to the Franklin Roosevelt stop. When they surfaced from the subway on to the Champs Élysées they were just opposite a large window that read All Airlines, with logos for Air France, Lufthansa, Pan-American, Swissair and several others. Inside they found the Pan-American counter.

Inside the building, lit by bright sunlight through the large picture windows, were a long series of counters with airline names behind them. Lufthansa was empty, as they instantly understood. No one even sat behind the counter. But all the other counters except Air France were also empty of people, even though sad looking clerks sat behind the counters waiting for some relief from the boredom. Air France had several people at the counter, who all seemed to be having a conversation at the same time with the clerk.

Julia and Isabelle looked at each other in disappointment when they saw there must have been at least half a dozen people jockeying for position in front of the Pan American counter. They went closer to see whether they had a chance of talking to someone, when a young man stood up from his desk and walked swiftly over to where they stood, as if he thought he had to come to their rescue. He was barely taller than Julia, with thick black rimmed round glasses. Smoke from a cigarette with long ashes still on the end made him blink. His grey suit looked like he had been in it all night.

"Excuse me," he said, "I think that you are looking to book a flight on Pan-American." He said this in English with an American accent. "Or perhaps you are looking for information." He smiled, but appeared that he was weary of answering questions.

Julia looked at him and smiled. Here was someone who could help her get back home to be with little Lizzie. He was tall and thin with a narrow mustache on his upper lip. His eyes switched between her and Isabelle with great sympathy.

"My name is Peter Smyth. You'll spend all day waiting to see somebody at that line. I have a better method. I can give you an appointment and you won't have to wait in line." Julia breathed a sigh of relief. "That would be wonderful. I have my passport here and I am ready to fly." She turned to Isabelle and patted her on the shoulder. "This is my friend, Isabelle, who is ready to fly back with me, she and her mother."

Peter turned to Isabelle and said, "There is no reason we cannot get you both on the same flight." He turned back to Julia and then stepped back to be able to talk to both of them at the same time. "Forgive me for being presumptuous," he said with a little bow. "You are both American, is that right? And you have your travel permits? That's all you need and we can proceed. Of course, you will have to get your own train ticket for Lisbon, but we can issue you your ticket for the Clipper flight from Lisbon to Miami."

Julia stood there for a moment in shock. She had expected it was simple, you could fly from Paris straight to New York. Just get on the plane and go home. A pain ran down her chest. Lizzie seemed so far away now. "Lisbon? Really? I thought you could fly straight to New York."

"I must tell you, never straight to New York-uh-I would like to be a little more personal and helpful. Your name is?" Peter inched closer to Julia and looked into her eyes, then blinked at the smoke twirling up from his cigarette. He twisted away to put it out on a chrome ashtray on a dark wooden table behind him. Then he returned his gaze to her.

"Julia. Julia Stuart. Thank you Peter. We appreciate all you can do for us, believe me." She smiled, or tried to appear smiling to him, but inside she felt her life disappearing.

"Well," Peter said, "since France declared war on Germany, airlines based in the United States don't fly here anymore. We only fly out of Lisbon. Unless you have a way to get to England, then you could take British Overseas to Ireland and Newfoundland. Perhaps-"

Isabelle interrupted him. "Yes I understand," she said, looking directly at Peter. "Julia is American. I am French, and my mother is going with us, she is French, but I have a brother who lives in New Jersey. I just came back from a visit with him. It will be no problem for us to get the necessary travel permit. I am well known to a man in the Montmartre City Hall."

Peter frowned and made it clear that he was doubtful about her connections with municipal officials. Or maybe he was doubtful that her connections would make any difference.

"No, it's true, I don't mean to say that I have relationships high up, it's just that I've known this man all my life and so that is what gives me confidence that he will be able to help us out."

Peter shook his head and looked very sad. "Julia should have no trouble getting her travel permit from the police, assuming everything is in order. She is only going to go home and that's routine. But you, you are leaving France in wartime, and your travel permit will not be so easy to get."

"Yes, yes," Isabelle said, "we understand all that. I have just returned from the United States and I am perfectly clear on all the requirements. It is only because I have just received permission to travel to the United States and have only been gone for two months, so I have gone through this process and nothing's changed and the permit process will be the same for me. We certainly appreciate your help."

Peter moved his gaze between the two women and smiled with great sympathy. "In any case, we will not be able to schedule a flight until we have your travel permits in our hands."

Julia turned to Isabelle, her heart sinking. She had sent her cable and gotten no response. Now she had to wait even longer to think about going home. And, she thought to herself, Christine, she couldn't just drop everything and run off to Lisbon. She had to be careful to keep her trip home separate from Isabelle and her mother. I have one goal, she thought, and that's to get myself home to Lizzie.

Peter looked at Julia, clearly noticing that she was thinking to herself. He nodded to himself, waiting for her to pay attention, but surely preparing the information he was sure they needed because they had no idea what was in store for them. "And you do know that it is a two-week delay at the very least before you will receive your permits. It is not just the city hall anymore but also the police, and not in the district but at the Paris police headquarters. I wish I could give you an answer that would make you feel better."

Julia looked back at him, feeling the need to push this young man, who only knew how bureaucracies worked. "But there must be some way we can speed this up. Is there no one we can talk to?" The idea formed in her mind that Hugh could be of decisive help in getting her out of this mess. If he had not responded to her telegram, or maybe not even have gotten it, then she would send him an urgent letter. She would do it as soon as she finished here, before she even picked up her photographs and went back to city hall for her travel permit.

Peter turned to face Isabelle. "And I am not one to tell you about getting your permits, Miss, it's just that you need your travel permits, both of you, and I hope you can get them swiftly." As soon as he said this, he face darkened.

"But then you are travelling to Portugal, so you will need your exit visa from France, and your transit visa for Spain and another transit visa for Portugal. And then naturally your train ticket. I'm sorry to go on like this, but you need to know the whole situation. Once you arrive in Lisbon, and believe me, I understand you might have no problem getting all these documents, I must tell you also, once you are in Lisbon, you can be bumped from the flight by people with diplomatic passports. I can only say, I have been doing this job for a month and there are always complications when there is a war."

Isabelle became indignant. "Thank you, Monsieur, we are not ignorant of what's going on. You came over to see if you could help us, but in the end you are only listing complications. People are getting out and city hall is helpful. I think we should be on our way."

Julia felt a touch of panic at Isabelle's criticism. "No, no, Peter, I thank you for your clarification. I have learned much that I didn't know, and I-and Isabelle, too-" She touched Isabelle's arm as she turned for a moment toward her. "We both thank you. These are difficult times." Then her fear of not seeing Lizzie for a long time prompted her to continue. "I have a little girl back in New York. I'm trying to get back to her as soon as I can. Anything you can do to help us, you know, it would mean everything."

Peter smiled, but quickly said, "You must do everything I said. It is up to you to get your paperwork as soon as you can. You must dedicate yourselves to getting that done. That's the key to leaving France as soon as possible."

He held out his hand to Julia, then after shaking her hand, turned to Isabelle and held out his hand, his smiling face showing that he didn't want to antagonize her more than he already had. Isabelle took his hand, but did not smile in return.

"Come on," she said to Julia. "Thank you," she said to Peter, in her most businesslike voice.

Peter stubbed his cigarette out on a table behind him. "You're welcome," he said, in a voice loud enough to catch their attention before they moved too far away. "One more thing. Let me preface this by saying I don't know either of you. But keep in mind that Lisbon is full of Gestapo agents."

Julia and Isabelle stopped instantly and looked at him.

"Yes," Peter said as he nodded, confident he had made an impression on them. "As I said, I don't know you, but people do arrive in Lisbon and are then whisked away by the Gestapo into Spain and then disappear."

Isabelle spoke with indignation. "And just why do you think this applies to us?"

"I don't know that it does. But in a way it applies to everybody. I just don't want you to go off naively thinking that agents of Germany are restricted to German soil. There are too many stories. And, if you don't mind my saying so, it's because I think the two of you are very innocent that I offer this advice. Sorry if I offended you." Peter turned away from them and walked to the crowd of people still pushing each other at the Pan American counter.

The two women walked back on to the Champs Élysées and stood for a moment in the wind.

"That was very frightening," Julia said. She looked at Isabelle in hope of hearing something reassuring. "But you must have known all that."

"No," Isabelle said, slowing shaking her head. "At least not all of it. I did not know that Le Bourget was closed."

"Le Bourget?"

"The Paris airport."

"He didn't say anything about airports being closed."

"Not directly. But he said we have to take the train to Lisbon. This is more serious than I thought. This phony war has completely changed French transportation." She looked Julia directly in the eyes. "I know we don't concern you directly, but you know, Mama will never leave Paris if she has to do all this."

Julia nodded, concerned for her friend, but unable to think of how to help her.

Isabelle touched her arm. "I see you understand the situation. Then we simply must change plans. We will get you out of the country first thing. As soon as possible."

Julia's heart jumped at this offer from Isabelle to ignore her own situation to help her get back to Lizzie.

"Be careful what you say at home. We don't need to get Mama excited. Once she knows how long it's going to take to get an exit permit, that will be enough for her to forget her own plans. All we need to tell her is that it's easy for you because you're just going home. Ah!" Isabelle lifted her head back and then hit herself on the forehead. "There you go. He didn't mention the most important thing."

Julia was now not only insecure, but puzzled. "What?"

"America. We need a visa to enter the United States. He didn't even mention that. He was so worried about the French police and the Gestapo, he forgot about that important thing. But, then, it's what will make Mama patient enough. I will tell her that, and she and I will work on getting to the embassy. Meanwhile we'll get you out of the country."

"That's exceedingly gracious of you," Julia said. For the first time she felt her stomach settle down. Now she had only to concentrate on getting home to Lizzie without having to worry about someone else first.

"For now, let's just go get your permit photographs and go back to city hall, and then we'll figure out the exact wording for Mama." Isabelle tightened her lips and looked down but seeing only inside herself. "I think when it comes to actually happening, it may break her heart." Then she sped up. "Let's keep moving."

As they walked to the subway station, Julia said, "One quick thing. I want to make a phone call to New York. I don't want them to worry about me."

"Fine," Isabelle said, "it's not a problem, even in this wartime country. The post office will have phone booths where you can place a call, if that's what you want. There's one of those in Montmartre, too. Nearby."

"No, I don't want to wait. It will be late in New York, but someone will answer the phone. We have to do this now." Her pulse quickened as she imagined hearing Hugh's voice, and then Lizzie's.

They walked the short trip to La Poste on rue Colisée. Inside, people were lined up at the counters for mailing, but the phone booths were empty. Julia went up to the phone counter. "Bon jour. I want to place a phone call to the United States, please."

The woman behind the counter took a piece of paper without smiling or looking at Julia. She wore large round glasses that made her look like a child underneath a huge volume of wavy hair. She waited and fidgeted with her pen, then looked up at Julia. "The number please?" She said it in a way that made her displeasure clear, as if her boredom were interrupted.

Julia told her the number, and the woman wrote it down, then said, again without looking up, "Sit over there. I will call you when the connection has been made."

Isabelle pulled at Julia, and they sat along the wall opposite the phone booths. The child-woman behind the counter turned around and handed the piece of paper to someone inside a small window. She looked at Julia and Isabelle to make sure they were still there, then resumed her position behind the counter and looked down at her desk at nothing.

Julia walked to the woman. "Do you have any idea how long it will take?"

The woman opened her eyes in surprise. "I beg your pardon? How would I know this? Do you see the clocks on the wall behind me? Do you see Montréal? Is that not the same time as New York? I cannot promise you anything, Mademoiselle. There are connections to be made and...oh, what difference does it make. Please take your seat and wait."

Julia returned to sit by Isabelle. The woman lit a cigarette and sat back in her chair, looking at no one.

Isabelle touched Julia on the shoulder. "Julia, you can't do anything about it. And neither can she. I know how much you want to talk to your family. I called Daniel once in New Jersey, and I had to wait an hour, even though he has his own phone. You will have to be patient."

Julia sank down in the chair, defeated. But her spirits rose when the woman came out from behind the counter and walked to where they were sitting.

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle." She hesitated when she looked at the ring on Julia's finger. "Excuse me, Madame. But no one answers the phone at this number."

Julia's stomach tightened. "But it's morning there. They are six hours behind Paris. Surely someone-"

Isabelle interrupted her. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. We will try another time."

Julia turned to her. "They can try again," she said, her voice breaking.

"No, they-"

The counter woman interrupted Isabelle. "Oh, yes, if you wish, we will try again." She smiled at Julia. "As you can see, no one is using the phones now. No one comes in any more. Not since the war started. Let me try once more."

But once more no one answered. The woman came back with sorrow in her eyes. "I'm sorry. Sometimes the calls do not go through, and we do not know the reason why. This time, Alphonse asked the New York operator directly to make sure, but then the New York operator didn't respond. I'm afraid it's hopeless. They think the German U-boats are trying to destroy the undersea cable. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't."

"What about sending a telegram?"

"Yes, you can do that, but I must tell you, they have to wait for the police to read them before they go out, and that could be weeks. And we have to take down all your personal information. You might try the embassy. Or a consulate." The woman pulled her blue sweater tight as if she had suddenly become cold.

Julia was puzzled. "I-I'm not sure what you mean."

The woman's face showed sympathy, but a feeling of superiority. "I understand their telegrams are not censored. So if you can convince someone there-, if you know someone-" She raised her eyebrows in anticipation.

Julia understood. She could be an American with connections. Well, if that were true, she would be out of the country already. "Thank you. I have to go there and I will try."

Julia thanked the woman and shook her hand, and went to the mailing counter. She said to Isabelle, "Then I will have to send an aerogramme."She bought the aerogramme and they sat at a café while she composed her letter to Hugh. At the post office she paid for first class expedited delivery of the letter. She asked the clerk, a fat man with graying hair and eyes that seemed to look into nothing, about delivery time and he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head and a jab of pain ran through her stomach at his attitude.

Isabelle stood next to her and pulled her away after the clerk had stamped the aerogramme and carelessly put it in a pile with his other mail. "He can't do anything, Julia, he can only put your letter in with the others. Don't worry so much. They will expedite delivery and it will be faster than you think. Remember what Peter said. First your residence permit, then your travel permit, then your two transit visas. Then you can get an airline ticket."

Julia sighed. "Yes, I'm not going to see my Lizzie as soon as I thought." And she burst out with a cynical laugh. "And maybe at the end the Gestapo will stop me."

Isabelle waved the idea away. "Don't be silly. He thought he was going to play the big man and scare us because he had nothing better to do. Wait a minute." She turned back to face the clerk and asked him how the post office could expedite delivery when she knew there weren't even any planes leaving Paris."

He gave her a forced smile, as if he were weary of children's questions. "Madame, if you please, your letter will go from here by boat to London. And by London it will go by aero plane to Newfoundland, and from there it will arrive in the United States. Are you satisfied?" He shook his head the smallest amount as if to keep his annoyance to himself.

"Oui, Monsieur." Isabelle gave her best imitation of jolly happiness. She turned back to Julia. "Come on, we have to pick up your photographs."

They walked along rue Courtine until they stood before the Jacques Margulis photography shop. The bell on top of the door clanged loudly as they entered. The shop was empty.

"Hello?" Julia spoke with a soprano voice. When he did not respond, she continued. "Jacques? It's us. We're back."

Still nothing, but then a door opened in the back and footsteps coming down a stairway announced his arrival. Jacques came through the curtains with his arm raised almost as if in defiance. "All right, I know. I was coming." He shook his head. "Isabelle, you should show more patience."

"Oh, Jacques, please, "Isabelle said, showing the mildest irritation. "You said a couple of hours, so we're here. Julia is the one who's impatient, not me. And she has reason to be, doesn't she? Anyway, may we have the pictures?"

"Of course. Let me get them for you." He spoke as if his feelings had been hurt, or maybe too much had been demanded of him.

It didn't make any sense to Julia. Why this tension between them, the same as before when the photos were taken. Isabelle touched her briefly on the shoulder to assure her.

"Here they are," Jacques said, "ready to go. I made three copies. I of course will keep the negative for you, if you like. But maybe if you are leaving you will want to take it with you. Either way. It's up to you." He threw an envelope down on the counter as if throwing it away.

Despite his rudeness, Julia smiled and picked up the envelope. Reading the cost of the pictures, she opened her purse and gave him three francs.

Isabelle sucked in her breath when she saw the amount. "Jacques. That is not your usual price."

Julia stopped Isabelle with a look of dismay. "It's fine. We asked for expedited service. It is perfectly reasonable. These are not school pictures. You worry too much." She smiled again at Jacques. "Thank you. I appreciate it very much. You are helping me to get home to see my little daughter, and that means everything to me." She gave Isabelle another look of disapproval. "But now I want to look at something different."

Isabelle started for the door. "Ah, Julia, we want to make it to Montmartre city hall today, we don't want to be late for that. For you."

They arrived at city hall and went down to the hall to Monsieur Ducasse's office. No one was there, he was at his window, looking bored. He perked up when the two women appeared before him.

"Ah, hello, you are back, Isabelle. So quick."

"No so quick," she said, "my friend Julia only has today to get her residence permit. And she has the pictures."

Julia handed the pictures to him.

He smiled, almost in nostalgia. "Jacques Margulis. Good. You used our neighborhood photographer. Very wise. If anything happens, he is close by. That is important."

"Happens?" Julia said, a small pain jumping in her stomach.

Monsieur Ducasse looked at her over his glasses like a professor. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. You Americans have it too easy. In Europe, in France even, things are always changing. Don't be upset young lady, it was just me. Those of us who have been through the war, and now our little sitting war with Germany, we always overreact. I worry. You don't have to." Then he smiled, but his smile was forced.

Julia became nervous. "I would like to believe you, Monsieur, but I am anxious to get back to my little girl, and your words do upset me."

"Your little girl? Is she here, with you in your hotel?"

He was prying now, Julia thought. She looked at Isabelle, then turned back to him. "No, she's in America. That's why I want to go home."

"Oh, that is sad. You came here without your little girl? All alone?"

Julia thought for a moment, started to turn to Isabelle, then decided to keep it to herself. "No, it wasn't supposed to be that way. They were coming in a little while, but then when the boat arrived, they said there wouldn't be any more. Because of the stupid war. So now I have to go back home. We were going to go on a grand tour. You know, Paris, London, Rome. I was going to get us a pied á terre in Paris at first. But everything's turned upside down and-,"

Isabelle touched Julia lightly on the hand, out of sight of the clerk.

Monsieur Ducasse nodded wisely. "Yes, I understand. So many vacations ruined, so much travel disrupted by this stupid war, as you call it. But you mustn't worry, Madame, we are perfectly safe in Paris. And so is London and so is Rome. France has the largest army in the world. Hitler will never cross the Rhine, I promise you that.-Ah, but I see you are nervous just the same. Here, I have put your photograph on your residence permit. All you have to do is come back next week and present yourself. Here, or the police station, it doesn't matter."

Julia began to worry seriously. "Police station? Whatever for?"

He shook his head. "No, no, you can come here. I just meant whatever is convenient. You know, Madame, you worry too much. They just want to keep track of you."

"But I haven't done anything wrong," Julia said with indignation.

Ducasse nodded again, having heard this statement so many times in his career. "That is not for you to decide." He looked down at the documents on his desk. "Madame Stuart, it has been decided for you by the Germans. You have been duly noted by the customs officer and the French National Police upon your arrival." He now felt that he had become his natural self, the lecturer. "You came in this country without any luggage. Do you know what that means?"

Julia took a step back, but Isabelle put her hand on Julia's back to steady her. "Monsieur Ducasse," Isabelle said, "I think we have what we came for. We will go home now."

He acted as if he didn't hear her. He leaned forward into the window frame. "It means they believe you are here to meet somebody who will take care of you." His eyes bulged.

"Oh là là," Isabelle said, her voice raised. "Nobody is here to take care of her. She is staying with us until she can go back home."

At that, he stood up, his eyes burning. "You? You, Isabelle? With your mother? Don't you think you are already enough trouble for your poor old mother? Now you have to take this stranger on? You socialists, you don't know when to stop. Beware, I tell you. Beware." He turned his fierce gaze on Julia. "And you, you American, do you have any idea what you are getting into? You go back home as soon as you can. That's my advice. The police may be coming for this lady. I have told her mother that already. You are making a big mistake." With that, he sat down and closed his window and put up a sign that read "Closed."

Julia turned away from the window, and from Isabelle, trying to understand what Monsieur Ducasse had just said. The police coming for Isabelle? Images flashed in her mind of Isabelle talking to the police at Le Havre, of strange looks passing between Isabelle and Jacques, of Christine complaining about her daughter going out at night. Suddenly, she had no one to trust. She put her arm out and touched the wall to keep her steady.

"Julia," Isabelle said, as she touched her on the arm. "Don't listen to what he says."

Julia backed away and wanted to run but she had nowhere to run. The hallway became small and stifling. Huge men in uniforms and shirts stained with sweat passed her by. Nausea swept over her as the stench wafted in her face. She became dizzy and held her hand up to her forehead, trying to think, but nothing came to her. She had nowhere to go, and the full powerful dread from her folly settled on her. Isabelle's voice came at her as if from a distance.

"Julia? Julia?"

Isabelle swung her arms out to push Isabelle away. Two men stopped as they were going by. One of them put his hands on Julia's shoulders. She screamed and fell backwards. The man's strong hands held her up. She felt she might vomit, but Isabelle's voice became stronger.

"Julia, you're okay. Wake up. Look at me."

Julia opened her eyes and saw Isabelle's face directly in front of her, intense, worried, her eyebrows close together, skin flushed.

"Julia, come on, we've got to get some air."

Bewildered, Julia found herself surrounded by the two men and Isabelle in the middle. She nodded and took Isabelle's arm, and let herself be led down the hallway and outside. The cool wind blew her hair up and stopped the nausea. Standing before the ornate wrought iron in front of city hall, she focused on the small merry-go-round across the street. A little girl the same age as Lizzie was holding tight on to the brass pole as her pony went around. Julia relaxed and breathed slowly. She thought the little girl smiled at her and felt better. Turning to Isabelle, she said, "What was that man saying about the police?"

Isabelle thought for a moment. When she spoke, her voice had a hard edge. "What he meant was that he is a fascist and I am a worker. That's why he wants me to think the police are coming for me." She shook her head back and forth to make her point. "But they're not. He's only saying that to scare you. That's what he does, you know. He scares people so he can be a big man. But he doesn't know anything."

Julia spoke quietly. "But he scares me." She opened her eyes wide.

"Sure, because you just arrived. He doesn't know you, so he thinks he can be tough. Remember, now you have your residence permit, and we can go get your travel permit. Think about it, Julia. That's all he meant. You want to go home as soon as you can. That's what we should be doing." She stepped back and studied Julia. "Are you all right? Maybe we should go home first."

Julia nodded, and they went to the corner and turned up the hill and were soon at the base of the steps up rue du Mont-Cenis that led to Christine's apartment. Julia looked up to see if Christine was looking out her second-floor apartment, but the view was blocked by the dark green leaves of a tree. On the right was a small restaurant with bright yellow walls and a red overhanging canopy. Two white chairs and a table were open on the street.

Isabelle leaned toward the restaurant and pulled Julia toward the table. "Let's go into Chez Francis and have something to drink. It will make you feel better."

"Oh, no, I need to go back to your apartment and get some rest. That's what I need, if you don't mind." Julia couldn't stand the thought of being in public in Paris any longer. She wasn't sure she wanted to go home with Isabelle, but then she felt that Christine would help her sort out the situation. Isabelle she wasn't sure of, but Isabelle's mother was somebody she could trust. Somebody who actually made her feel at home.

Inside the apartment, Julia went to Christine, who was at the kitchen sink, washing small dishes. Christine turned when she heard them come in, and smiled, but then quickly looked alarmed when she saw Julia.

"My girl, what happened? Are you all right? Come, sit down. Sit, here in this chair." She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and led Julia to it, then hovered close to her, touching her forehead. Christine's eyes almost filled with tears. "Hmm. You don't have a fever. But you are flushed." She raised herself up and looked at Isabelle with anger in her eyes. "What happened to her, Isabelle. I thought you would have watched out for her."

Isabelle sighed. "Mother, she's fine. Monsieur Ducasse at city hall said some stupid things. Julia didn't understand. He mentioned the police and-"

"Police?" Christine put her hands up to her face. The anger in her eyes changed to fear. "Oh my god, what do you mean?"

"Mother, please, he didn't mean anything. He's just spouting off like he always does. You know what he's like. You remember when you had to get your residence permit when the war started? How he treated you?"

Christine sighed and nodded, then put her hands on Julia's head. "Oh, I see. Yes, my dear, Isabelle is right. You shouldn't worry about what that man Ducasse says. He thinks he runs the city. He's so arrogant. My husband didn't like him at all, even when they were in the army together. You see, he didn't get hurt at all in the Great War, and so he's tried to lord it over all of us ever since."

"Maybe I should drink something," Julia said, with a weary voice.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Christine went quickly to the cabinet and brought out a bottle of cognac.

"Oh, no, not that," Julia said. "It'll just make me sick."

"Please, do as I say," Christine said. "Just a sip, it will make you feel better. And I will make you a tartine with some cheese, and then you will settle down." She poured a little cognac into a small liqueur glass and handed it to Julia.

Julia smelled the strong cognac and resisted drinking it, but couldn't resist Christine's frowning face over her. She closed her eyes and let the warm liquid fall into her throat and felt it burn pleasantly down and rest warmly in her stomach. A quiet peace came over her. She put the glass on the table, put one arm up on the table next to it, and rested her head. She breathed slowly three times, then looked up at Christine's smiling face. "Thank you, Madame."

Christine's face showed not only sympathy but a small triumph in calming the situation. She spoke in a warm whisper. "Now, my dear, you have your residence permit, is that right?"

Julia sighed and said, "Yes."

"Well, then, you go in and take a nap. Then we'll figure out what to do. I'll bring your tartine in to you in just a minute."

Julia went into to her room and lay down on the bed, now feeling a little dizzy from the cognac that burned lightly in her stomach. A sharp pain ran down both legs. She closed her eyes and let the world fade away. She heard Christine and Isabelle in the next room.

"Mama, she's all right. Make her the tartine and I'll tell you what happened. It was just too much for all at once. She has to go to the American embassy and get an exit visa—"

Christine took a loaf of bread and began cutting a slice, but then interrupted her. "A visa? To go home?"

"Yes, well, you know, this is a war, even if it's phony. It's not for the Americans, they don't care, I'm sure. It's for everybody else. She has to get a visa from America, they just call it a visa, then she has to get a transit visa from Portugal to take the plane from Lisbon."

"Lisbon? Why not Paris?" Christine put butter on the bread and a piece of camembert on top.

"Because there are no flights from Paris. We can't help that. Then she has to get a transit visa from the Spanish embassy to take the train for Portugal."

Christine shrugged her shoulders and moved her head back and forth. "I don't like that. They just finished a war in Spain and you know who won that. Fascists. It makes me nervous. And then is she done?"

"No," Isabelle poured a glass of wine and began drinking it. "When she has all that, she goes to the Paris police prefecture and gets her travel permit for France. But Mama, it's all a formality. She's not in any kind of trouble, so it will take time to go around, but we will be able to do all of it tomorrow, and then we go down to the train station and get her a ticket and see her off."

Julia dozed off hearing those words, telling her that everything was all right and she was practically on her way home to Lizzy. When she awoke it was dark and the house was quiet. Someone had put a blanket on her, she felt warm and comfortable, and she went back to sleep.

When Julia woke again, it was light, the house was quiet, but outside a truck moved slowly along the street. Someone yelled "Bonjour". She pushed the blankets off and took a step out toward the hallway, then felt her blue linen nightshirt rustle against her legs, and stopped. Was she familiar enough to Christine and Isabelle to come out like this, she wondered. Instead, she put on a dress, and took her little night bag out with her to the bathroom. No one else was visible, so she washed her face and combed her hair, then went out to the kitchen.

Christine sat at the kitchen table peeling apples, but smiled with cheer in her eyes when she saw Julia. Her voice showed enthusiasm. "Good morning, my dear. Come, have some coffee and a croissant. You must be starving."

Julia tried to match Christine's voice. "Not exactly, but I'd love it. Thank you." She looked around the room. "Isabelle isn't up yet?"

Christine waved her hand and said, "Isabelle. No, she's already out this morning. She said she had to go see Jacques, you know, the photographer. I have no control over her."

Julia was surprised by the remark. "I don't want to intrude, Madame. But-"

Christine looked at Julia intensely. "You are not intruding, my little girl. Isabelle thinks very much of you. And so do I. It's wonderful, you know, to have an American friend who speaks French so well." She put a large bowl of coffee in front of Julia and put a small pitcher of milk next to it, along with a croissant she laid on the table. "But Isabelle, well—" Christine seemed to be looking at the table, but it was obvious she was thinking over how much she should tell Julia. "She is a communist, you know." When she said it, Christine stood still, nodding in finality, and her eyes begged Julia for understanding.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Julia frowned in a deliberate way, trying to show sympathy. "What's wrong with that? In America, France is well known for having many communists. We have communists, too."

"Yes, of course, you can vote communist, that's not so bad, it's just foolhardy. But she's doing more than that."

Julia took a sip of coffee. "It's delicious. I don't want to ruin it with milk." She was going home as soon as she could. There were no communists on Park Avenue and she didn't care about it. "Isabelle has been very kind to me, and so have you, Madame-"

"Oh, please, don't call me Madame." Christine put her hand on a chair and leaned forward to emphasize her statement. "My name is Christine. Please call me that."

Julia hugged Christine and said "Merci beaucoup, Christine."

At that, Christine was happy and returned to the other side of the table and pushed strawberry jam and butter over to Julia's plate, then returned to peeling apples.

"So," Christine said, "I don't know how long Isabelle will be. I think she promised to go around with you today."

Julia was glad Isabelle wasn't there, so she could make the rounds of the embassies today by herself. She was worried that Isabelle would want to spend time at the American embassy asking questions about getting her mother out of the country. She dipped her croissant in the coffee and at it quickly. "Thank you, Christine. She doesn't need to go with me."

"You can find everything yourself?"

Julia smiled and almost laughed. "No, but I think a taxi can. I saw a stand just below the stairs." She returned to her room and picked up her purse, then bent down and hugged Christine at the table. "May I say-"

"Yes?" Christine looked puzzled.

"You've been so nice. May I say I'll be home for lunch? Maybe the three of us can go down below for something? My treat."

"Ah, yes, that would be very nice. I wish you every success today. You are getting closer to seeing your little girl. I know everything will go well for you."

"Thank you," Julia said, as she left.

Half an hour later she stepped out of the taxi on Avenue Gabriel before the ornate United States Embassy. Her heart speeded up as she walked through the trees in white bloom to the gate.

A tall young man in a Marine uniform put his hand up. "May I help you, Miss?" he said, smiling but reserved.

"Yes, thank you, I'm here to get an exit visa to go back home."

He nodded. "I see. Certainly. Let me point the way to you." He stepped out of the way and pointed in to the grey marble building. "You see that door, the one with another Marine in front of it?"

"Yes," she said, getting excited.

"You tell him what you want to do and he will direct you inside."

"Thank you very much." She smiled at him with all her heart.

He gave her a small salute.

Inside the building, she was directed to a room of a corridor with the word "Visa" in gold lettering over a door. A young woman in a formal blue suit sat behind a desk filled with paperwork. The woman stood when Julia entered the room.

"Good Day. May I be of assistance?" the young woman said. Her lustrous dark brown hair lay around her face and on her shoulders. Another smile.

"Yes, I'm here for an exit visa to go back home."

"Certainly," the woman said, in a perfunctory way. "In preparation, may I ask you, you have your passport with you? And your name, please?"

Julia nodded. Of course I have my passport, she thought, but then didn't want to do anything to upset this woman so she took it quickly out of her purse and smiled as she looked the woman in the eye. "Julia Stewart."

The woman waved her hand to indicate she didn't want to have the passport herself. "Thank you, you will need it for your interview. If you would have a seat, please, over here." She wrote Julia's name on a small piece of paper, and some word below it. She extended her arm to the left with another smile.

Julia turned and stopped in disappointment to see what she thought was a group of 20 people, at least, seated in chairs on both sides of the wall leading down the hallway to a door with no description on it.

"Oh, don't worry," the woman said, her voice now sympathetic, "they're not all here for exit visas. You won't have to wait, too long. Well, unless someone has a problem, but today it's gone rather fast. And you're here in the morning. It's the afternoon when things start slowing down."

She took Julia by the arm, softly, and led her over to an empty chair, then said, "I'll be right back." She took her piece of paper inside the door and disappeared.

Julia looked at the people seated next to her and on the opposite side. All of them looked somber, afraid, or maybe just worried. Were these all people with visa problems? Were they Jews, perhaps? But then she heard someone laughing on her side of the hallway and she felt better.

The woman came back in and as she passed Julia, she said, "They'll call for you in a few minutes." She returned to her desk and to moving paperwork around and stamping it and putting it in neat piles.

The others waiting with her in the hallway looked at each other, but none of them talked. She thought they must all be here as individuals and no know each other, except for the laughing lady a few chairs away on her right. She felt relaxed. This was the first real progress she had made since she arrived. She hadn't been here a week even and she was so close to going home. Her hands itched. She wanted to scratch them, but didn't want to look odd to all these people or the young woman. Finally, she put them together and moved them back and forth over each other in a slow, gentle movement. It didn't stop the itching, and she felt hot and sweaty.

The door opened and a middle-aged man with graying black matted hair came out. He was wearing a three-piece gray suit, heavily wrinkled at the elbows, with a wilted white shirt and a perfect red and black paisley bow tie that was too neat for the rest of his clothes. "Julia Stuart," he called out, looking up and down the rows of chairs, then stopping to look at Julia. The young woman from the desk must have described her to the man.

She jumped at the sound of her name, but her hands stopped itching, and she felt cool again as she stood and walked to him.

"Please, come in." He put his hand on her back and escorted her through the door. He led her past two doors down the hallway, then pointed to a small room with a photo of President Roosevelt, and other photos of people she did not recognize, except for this man posing in several of them, shaking hands with other men. "Please, take a seat."

She sat in a hard chair in front of the desk. The room was claustrophobic, the walls dusty, the light dim. The man moved around the desk and sat down, then leaned forward. "Jim Stansfield," he said, smiling and showing tobacco-stained teeth. He put out his hand to her, and she noticed the tobacco on his fingers as well. "I'm happy to meet you. You may be surprised, but we don't get many exit visas these days. It's only since the invasion of Poland, and Britain and France declared war on Germany-oh-I'm sorry."

Julia's head jerked just a little at this and she felt herself blushing and getting hot. He seemed to be a man who wasn't very important, who didn't care what he looked like. Who might not be able to help her. He seemed to be more affected by the heat than she was. And he now was worried about the war. A man who worked for the State Department.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I deal with it every day." He waved the thought away. "Just a lot of bureaucratic crap, if you ask me."

"But all those people out in the hallway-" Julia felt guilty being chosen ahead of them.

"Well, yes," he said as he leaned back in his chair. "But it's not what you think. They're not really here for me. I do exit visas. They have other ordinary, routine visa problems, you know, they get married, or they get into a little trouble with the law, or they need us to certify-" He should his head and his jowls wiggled back and forth. "But I don't want to bore you with that. What is it I can do for you?"

"I need an exit visa." He wasn't boring her, but she didn't like that he was now going out of his way to be reassuring.

"Yes. Yes. That's what Marlene said."

"Marlene? The woman at the desk?

"Yes. That's her." This time he gave a slow exaggerated nod, to let her know that he was on top of this, no doubt to try and keep her calm. "You want to go back home. It's stupid, isn't this, needing an exit visa to go home. It's not us, you know."

Julia didn't know. Everything pointed to the possibility of a complication and delay in getting home to Lizzy. "I don't know what you mean."

"Well, you are an American and-would you let me see your passport? Might as well do things in the right order."

She handed it to him and he flipped through the pages.

"Oh, my. You just got here. That is unusual." Her looked at her and then back to the passport open in his hands.

"Is there a problem," Julia said, nervousness creeping into her voice.

"No, no. Not at all. It's just unusual, that's all. It's a long way to come for such a short stay."

"Yes, I know," she said. She felt he was staring at her in order to see whether she was hiding something. "My family was supposed to come over after me, but then my father became ill, so now it's the other way and I have to go back." She smiled at him, momentarily relieved that she was able to think of an answer to the predicament. She hadn't thought they might question her intentions.

"Oh, I see. Yes, that can happen. I hope your father is all right?"

"Well, I don't know exactly. I won't know until I get home." She now felt comfortable with her lies. And ashamed that she had brought herself to this.

"Yes, quite naturally. In any case, this is not a big problem. Look, I will take care of this right now." He opened his door, and with a small flourish took a stamp out, stamped her passport, and put the stamp back, giving her the passport, all with one smooth movement. "Here you are. I am really sorry about your father. If there is anything else we can do to help you?" He raised his eyebrows and waited for her response."

"I don't think so," she said with a little shake of her head, then put her lips together for a second and continued. "Yes, actually."

"Of course, anything. Well, anything within my power."

"I need to get on the plane from Lisbon. That's the fastest way home. And now with my exit visa, I can get a Pan American ticket. But I need a transit visa from both Spain and Portugal. And a travel visa from the French police."

He frowned in sympathy. "Sometimes it amazes me. Here we are, we can a picnic on the grass in Paris, but have to move heaven and earth to get out of here. But you shouldn't worry. You're not in trouble, so it should go smoothly. The Portuguese don't care at all. I haven't heard of problems with them. The Spanish, oh, they can be a little difficult themselves. After all, they did just finish a war themselves. But you didn't have anything to do with that. So you shouldn't worry. My advice to you is to go to the bank and get some pesetas and escudos. Have them ready at the border. It will be easy."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that." His advice made her feel more comfortable. "How much are we talking about here?" She had more than enough money to take care of it, but she didn't want to look stupid getting to Lisbon.

"Yes, I think-" He leaned back in his chair and put his hands together. "A hundred dollars in each."

"A hundred dollars?"

"Oh, if you don't have that-"

"No, it's not that-it's just-I'm surprised, is all. It's a lot for a little greasing of the palm on the border."

"You might think," he said, "but these days people are leaving Germany in a hurry and they want to be sure, so I hear there's, um, let's just say it's wartime inflation."

"Yes, I see." Julia had not expected to have an education on bribery while she was here.

"Now, you don't have to, you know. Your papers are fine, you're not a refugee."

Julia shook her head in a wide arc. "No, no, I appreciate your advice. My goal is to get home not save on travel expenses. Besides, I have all the money I had expected to spend here."

"One more thing," he said. "I can do this for you. I have a friend with the police downtown. I will call him and let him know you are coming. It might help."

"Oh, thank you, Sir. It means everything to him."

"You just make a big deal about your father, and they'll be sympathetic."

"Can you tell me his name?"

"Oh no, I can't do that. You won't see him. But he will see your application, and it's then that he'll think of my intervention." He stood and offered his hand. "I hope you have a safe and swift voyage home, Mrs. Stewart."

Julia's visit to the Spanish and Portuguese embassies went just Jim Stanfield had predicted. They, too, weren't much interested in her, and they, too, were very sympathetic to her need to get home to an ailing father. The officer at the Spanish embassy volunteered that he was happy to meet someone so attractive who was not a refugee. Again she learned that it was the French who wanted to place such heavy burdens on normal travelers, and they were just glad to be helpful. She left the Portuguese embassy in a cab for Pan American with a light heart. And she left the airline with a lighter heart still, holding a ticket on the Pan Am Clipper from Lisbon to the Azores to Miami. On the advice of Pan Am's Peter Smyth, she had also bought a ticket on the Clipper from Marseille to Lisbon. He told her that her documents were impeccable, but you never know when you reach the border. You don't know who's standing in line with you. They get in trouble and you are suspicious by being next to them. Why not eliminate one unnecessary leg of her journey? She observed that there were no dates on the tickets. Peter replied that these were extraordinary times, that she will be able to get out in a few days at the latest, and she should not worry about it. He said they couldn't put a date on the tickets because diplomatic travel dominated these routes and there were heavy days and light days. Julia left Pan Am overwhelmed with information and hurried out the door to find a cab.

The cab driver waited impatiently on the Champs Élysées while she figured out where to go. Her final stop was the Prefecture of Police, near Notre Dame, just down the street and across the Seine. She had just spent several hours going through embassies and airlines and had no trouble at all. In fact, every one she met was sympathetic and helpful. But the police was a different matter altogether. They, the police, held her fate in their hands. She needed that travel permit, she needed it now to get home to her daughter and her husband. But the thought of an interrogation, however mild, terrified her.

"Madame?" the taxi driver now became impatient. "Where to?"

"Montmartre," she said, spontaneously making the decision that gave her the least fear in her stomach. Home, as it were, as she felt, to Christine and Isabelle. Because she knew that Isabelle would have to go with her. She didn't have the courage to face the police alone. She remembered the fear and humiliation she had felt at the dock when she arrived in France and the police interviewed her there. Yes, she needed Isabelle to go through this with her.

She found the street door on rue du Mont-Cenis open, as it often was. On the second floor, she pushed the buzzer to the apartment and waited. The door opened.

"Julia!" Isabelle said, in an angry voice. But her face did not show any anger.

"May I come in, I'm exhausted."

"Of course, but I'm still upset with you."

Christine's voice came from within. "Julia, is that you? You're just in time for tea."

"Tea?" Isabelle frowned but her voice didn't show this, either.

"Yes. Of course, why not. The British have tea. I don't know what Americans have, so I did the next best thing." Christine laughed at her witty idea.

"Thanks, that's very nice," Julia said. And she meant it. "I'm exhausted, and tea is just the thing right now."

"And scones," Christine added.

"Scones? Oh my, you have gone all out today. Are they French, scones?"

"Oh no, but you know, everybody eats everybody else's food today. I did have to ask around for a recipe, and Marianne Desjardin around the corner knew this one. So I can't vouch for it, it's not a family tradition or anything, but I took a bite of one and I liked it. So I hope you enjoy it."

"I'm sure I will. Let me just put my things away."

Isabelle followed Julia into her room. "I missed you today. I'm sorry you ran off without me. Did everything go well?" She looked at the envelopes Julia had taken out of her purse.

Julia hesitated, not sure what to do with the envelopes and not wanting to go over everything about the day. "Yes, actually, everything except the police."

Isabelle folded her arms across her chest and looked serious. "The police?"

"Oh, no," Julia said as she sighed, "I didn't make it to the police today, that's all. I have my exit visa, my transit visas, and my airplane tickets for Marseille and Lisbon."

"Marseille, too?"

"Yes, Peter, you remember him, at Pan Am, he suggested it. We'll see how it goes, but he said it would eliminate having to travel to Madrid and deal with more border guards. And he's right, you know, guards at the French border, and then again crossing into Portugal. So I think I'll take his advice. I'll just fly over Spain and not have to worry about it. And save a hundred dollars, as well."

"A hundred dollars? For what?"

"Oh, he said at the Spanish border, a hundred dollars would make sure there I get across easily."

"Yes, I understand," Isabelle said. "But a hundred dollars. I would think twenty would be more than enough. I wouldn't give them more than ten."

Julia thought for a moment about Isabelle's reaction. This was the first time she had given any indication to Isabelle that she had a lot of money.

Isabelle interrupted her thoughts. "That's right, you were in first class on the boat coming over. You have a different idea of what's expensive."

"No, I didn't," Julia said, eager to eliminate whatever suspicion Isabelle was harboring. "The man at the visa office said that. I was as surprised as you are. He said there are so many refugees who pay a lot of money, and everyone else has to live with that."

Isabelle smiled and changed the subject. "So, you are all set except for the police."

Julia moved a step closer to Isabelle. "Yes, so, I could have gone today, but I really wanted you to go with me, if you don't mind."

Isabelle smiled. "Of course I will. I think it's a good idea. I haven't been there, you know." She hunched over in a bit of laughter. "Not that I want to. But they're quite busy now. We are under martial law. So it will be helpful to help you find your way around that labyrinth. But come, Mama is waiting with our tea. And scones!"

At the table, as Christine poured their tea from a teapot with purple flowers and gold ornamental leaf, Julia said, "Oh, you do have a very nice teapot."

"Isn't it beautiful? It's Belclair. My sister," she blessed herself, "gave it to me for a wedding present. We don't drink much tea, so it's stayed perfect. My husband was a coffee drink. Turkish coffee and Egyptian cigarettes. Until-" Tears filled her eyes. She held the teapot away from the table while she wiped the tears from her face.

Isabelle stood and took the teapot away from her. Christine went to the kitchen counter and cleaned her face with a towel. Then she came back, smiling, or, rather, attempting to maintain a smile. "Yes, let's finish our tea."

The next day very early, with the sun just barely lighting the, Julia and Isabelle arrived at the corner of the building housing the Prefecture of Police.

"Let me do the talking at first," Isabelle said, gently keeping Julia back, but standing in front of her as if to block her way.

"No, that isn't right." Julia stepped around her. "They will think it's something funny. This is routine, let's not make it look like I have something to hide."

"All right, I suppose you are correct. I am trying to help you."

"And you have, and I thank you for it. Anyway, we're here, let's just go in. I'm not worried anymore about public offices."

Inside, there was a long line in front of the door with a sign reading Travel Permits. They were early, but many others had been even more ambitious. Julia looked at Isabelle, wondering what happened once you got inside the door.

"Don't move," Isabelle said. She moved slowly and leisurely down the hallway, then stopped and looked inside the window. She smiled at the people who looked at her with concern. "Just checking," she said, to reassure them. Returning to where Julia was standing, she said, "Not too bad, I think. There's about this many people again inside. We shouldn't have to wait too long, I think."

"Isabelle," Julia said, "I changed my mind. He's going to ask me where I'm staying. It's better if you're there with me."

"You might be right. I'll wait here. I saw the room, it's not like an office you go in to, there's just a couple of people behind desks, so if you need me, then you can easily come get me. But you can go in on your own."

When she arrived at the head of the line, in front of a desk, in a dingy room with a man behind the desk who did not look at her. He looked young and bored, and swept his view of his desk from left to right as if he would do anything rather than talk to her. She switched from left to right foot and side but he still paid no attention to her. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He removed his rimless glasses and cleaned them with a dirty handkerchief. He wiped his forehead, then pinched the ridge of his nose with his eyes closed. Then he put his glasses back on and looked at her. He said, "Next."

Julia was startled and thought for a moment there was someone standing next to her was place she had taken. "Me? "

"Yes I think you are the one standing in front of me. So when I say 'next' I mean you. Tell me why you're here." His voice had the character of the machine.

She was glad to stand before him in the morning and not in the late afternoon. "I am here to get a transit visa."

"A transit visa? I don't think so. You are in the wrong office, then. Is that what you really want? Or do you even know what you want?"

Heat began to run down Julia's spine. "I'm sorry. I don't know exactly what to call it."

"I see. Then tell me what it is you want to do?"

"I am here to get papers I need to travel to Portugal."

"Oh. Now I see. You want a travel permit, do you?"

"Yes, thank you, that's it. Thank you for helping me." She had learned by now that patience and politeness were her two best friends when dealing with bureaucrats.

He held out his hand again without looking at her. She handed him her passport, her residence permit from the Montmartre City Hall, her exit visa from the American Embassy, and her transit visas from Spain and Portugal. She hesitated and then handed him her airline ticket.

He read the documents before him and then look at them from right to left and back again. His mouth formed a thin line and then he began to frown and then he raised his eyebrows. He looked up at her and back down again.

A loud thump from the desk next to them startled her. Her body twitched. The man behind the desk sighed and let out a little laugh. Now he raised his head up to her and smiled, then said, "We're not being bombed yet Mademoiselle." And then he laughed at his own cleverness. Now looking more relaxed, he continued, "Your papers all seem in order, that's a relief. There are just a couple of minor details to clear up."

Seeing the man more relaxed, Julia smiled at him but then felt foolish because he was not looking at her anymore. "What is it?"

He looked at her now with a serious face as if the preliminaries were over and trouble had begun. "You are staying at an address on rue du Mont-Cenis?"

"Yes."

"That's the street that that leads up to Sacré-Coeur. There are no hotels on that street." Now he looked at her intensely, like a predator would. "So, what do you have to say to that?" Then he gave a sidelong glance at his neighbor as if to let him know that he was being tough. Rolling nervousness fluttered across her stomach. "I don't believe I said I was staying at a hotel. I'm staying with friends."

"Ah." He nodded and slowly chewed on his lip. "Friends. Who are your friends?"

Julia let out a great sigh of relief. "My friend," she said as she turned and pointed out to the hallway, "Isabelle is out in the hallway."

"Well then," he said with impatience, "I suppose you had better go and get her, hadn't you?" He opened his eyes wide to emphasize his point.

Julia nodded and went quickly and brought Isabelle back with her.

The man sized Isabelle up. Isabelle looked at Julia and then back to the man.

"And you are you?"

"My name is Isabelle Valin. Here are my papers."

Julia had an impulse to touch Isabelle but thought of the man seeing that and felt foolish. He looked at Isabelle's residence permit and her identity card and then picked up Julia was residence permit and studied the three of them. He nodded to himself and thought for a moment then said, "All right, so I see your residence is in order. But I noticed that both of you very recently came into the country. How is that?" He shifted his gaze between them, but lingered a longer time on Julia's face and managed a brief glance at her chest.

Isabelle said, "We came on the same ship from America. I was returning home from a visit with my brother there. I met Julia on the ship."

"I see." He looked at Julia. "So why are you staying with this lady."

Julia said without hesitation, "Because she became my friend on this ship. I offered to stay at a hotel but her mother -"

"Her mother? Now we have a new person in this story." He motioned for Isabelle to follow him over to the corner of the room. They spoke for a few seconds, then he motioned for her to stay there and he came back to Julia. "What is her mother's name?" He raised his eyebrows and looked intently at her.

"Christine."

He sat down and motioned for Isabelle to leave the room.

"I cannot give you a travel permit."

Julia's heart stopped. She felt dizzy and put her hand on the desk to prop herself up.

"Remove your hand, Mademoiselle. Where do you think you are?"

The older man on the other desk stopped what he was doing and looked over to them.

"I'm sorry. I just felt faint. I'm sorry." She stood straight. "May I get my friend, please?" Julia felt a note of desperation in her own voice.

"Your friend?" He frowned. "You need your friend. Hmm. There must be something wrong here."

"No, Sir. I'm dizzy." Her face was hot and felt flushed, nausea flooded her stomach. "I need someone to help me stand up."

The man waved his hand. "By all means. France can wait for you." His whole face was a sneer.

Julia went out to the hallway and nearly fell on to Isabelle, who lost her balance and hit the wall behind her.

"What's the matter?" Isabelle said, alarm in her eyes.

"I'm not sure, but you need to come back with me and let me hold on to you or I shall faint."

Julia came back in holding on to Isabelle's arm. She stood and waited for the man to tell her.

He looked at her and then Isabelle and then back to Julia in feigned confusion. "Are you feeling better now? If you find it too hard to continue perhaps you had better come back another day. But I warn you it won't get any cooler in here."

Isabelle touched Julia on the shoulder, then smiled at the man and said, "May I help her if you please. I'm not sure where you left matters when she came out to the hallway. I think she is feeling better now, but French is not her native tongue and perhaps you misunderstood you."

Julia spoke in a desperate shaking voice, "He said he cannot give me a travel permit." She looked at Julia with reddened eyes.

"You are right," he said, looking at Isabelle with vindication. "She is lucky to have you here with her because her French is obviously not good enough for the situation." He glared at Julia.

Julia wanted to say something. She knew there was no deficiency in her French. It was her fear that they would not allow her home to be with her busy. But she knew she could not say that to him. She turned to Isabelle, and was going to ask for help, but decided it was important to face this man. "Perhaps you are right, Monsieur, but it is the heat and not the language that is getting the better of me. You said you cannot give me a travel permit."

The man shifted in his seat and leaned forward to put his elbows on his desk. "Of course. Is not I who issue travel permits to foreigners, even those who think they speak French fluently. I must refer the matter to my superior. If you will wait here I will take the matter up with him and it's relay his response to you."

He got up from his chair and moved to an unmarked door at the back of the room. He opened it and walked into a hallway and disappeared.

"So you see," Isabelle said, "everything is going to be all right, he's just, just," Isabelle shook her head just a little at herself, "he's just required to clear this with someone of a higher rank. It happens all the time you must know that."

Isabelle didn't have the strength to try to comprehend what Isabelle was saying. There was no reason to believe that this man superior officer would be any less brutal with her. He could have given her a straightforward answer to her request from the very beginning but instead he's been playing with her. "Thank you, Isabelle, I know you want to help me and make the situation looked better. Unfortunately, you are not the one who gives out permits. You would think they would be happy to get rid of me, especially this guy, since he hates foreigners so much." She opened her purse and took out her handkerchief. She wiped her forehead and dabbed at her eyes. "Mostly, thank you for standing with me so I don't fall over and hit my head on his desk."

The man reappeared, walking in with his back straight and his head held high. "Monsieur Bricot will see you himself. This way if you please." He gestured toward the open door. Then he held it open for them and pointed inside. "It's the door on your left. There is only one door so you can't miss it. You can read his name on the door if that is of some help."

When they had entered, the door closed behind them. The hallway before them was dirty, lined with cabinets topped with several layers of packages of brown paper wrapping tied with string. As the man had said there was one door on the left, but it was open so there was no name to see. They went in. A small man sat behind a small desk. He smiled at them with uneven teeth including a small gap in the front, below a little reddish-blond mustache, itself below blue eyes under reddish-blond eyebrows. His dark blue jacket had wide gusseted pockets, lumpy from their contents. He was wearing a wrinkled white shirt and a dark red bow tie. Below the tie a lying of buttons strained to keep the shirt together over several rows of belly fat growing ever larger as it neared his belt. His hair was white and combed straight back from his face with brilliantine. On his desk was a picture turned toward him so they could not see what it was, two identity cards, one of which belonged to Julia, and the other of someone unknown. His arms were placed on top of the desk and into dirty French cuffs stuck out from them held together by small gold cufflinks. A gold watch adorned his left hand. A straight white handkerchief line showed on his breast pocket. Two crystal inkwells stood just in front of his very large white hands. A pen lay before them, just right for those stubby fingers.

"Mademoiselle Stewart, I presume?" He stood and fixed his small blue eyes on her and raised his large bushy white eyebrows, then held out his hand.

"Yes. How do you do?" She shook his hand.

"And this is?" He shook hands with Isabelle.

"Please be seated," he said, pointing to two chairs behind them.

Julia and Isabelle moved the chairs away from the wall and sat down in front of his desk.

"My assistant, Monsieur Wellemans, indicated that you do not feel well," he said, nodding sympathetically to Julia.

"I am fine," she responded. "It is rather stuffy out there, and now the moment is over. Thank you for your concern, Monsieur Bricot."

"Not at all, not at all," he said, his voice dripping with sympathy. "Let's get right to the point, shall we, and you can be on your way. It is true that my assistant is not authorized to handle foreigners, but I think he tries too hard to make himself be, shall we say, authoritative. Now. As for you, Mademoiselle, I can tell you that everything is perfectly in order, and there should be no problem in issuing you a travel permit as you desire. Your papers are perfectly in order, and I am impressed that we have already had a request from the American embassy to expedite your paperwork. I was told that your father is ill. Is that correct?"

Julia relaxed for the first time. "Yes. I'm trying to get home to see him."

"Is he in any danger?" Monsieur Bricot leaned forward and frowned, which brought his two busy eyebrows so close together that they looked like a little furry animal on top of his nose.

"No, as far as I know. Well, I don't know exactly what it is, but just that I should hurry home. So, yes, it is possible he is seriously ill. Otherwise they would not have asked me to come home."

"I see, of course, it's a long way away and these are difficult times." He looked at her paperwork, then continued. "You did only just arrive here, I see."

"Yes," Julia replied, weary of answering the same set of questions again. "Yes, but life often puts obstacles in our way, doesn't it."

He smiled without opening his mouth and almost interrupted her, saying, "But not by me, Mademoiselle. I approve your travel permit. There!" He picked up a stamp and brought it down on her residence permit, then took another piece of paper, wrote several words and dates on it, then signed it. He looked at her. "Only one small detail, and you will be ready to go to Lisbon." He shook his head to himself as he said, "A beautiful city. I took my wife there once. So different. Lovely people."

Julia looked at Isabelle, who returned the look with her own concern. Was this man playing with them?

"I see your worry. Not necessary. Your permit will be ready in one week, I am sure. There is always someone else, unfortunately. But, it's right here in the Prefecture of Police. The final authority always rests with the criminal division. There should be no problem. So, here's what will happen. You will come back here in one week, next week, same day, as early as you like. You will not have to stand in line again, I promise you. Your permit will be available in the central lobby." He looked at Isabelle. "You know, perhaps where that is?"

Isabelle nodded.

He looked seriously at Julia. "Will there be a problem with the criminal division, Mademoiselle?"

"No, Sir. I just want to be back home with my father."

"Fine, then." He stood and offered them his hand again.

Isabelle offered her hand immediately and held his hand strongly as she shook it while smiling.

Julia offered her hand meekly, barely touching his fingertips, as she kept her head down to avoid looking at him. She turned to leave the room but then realized that she had made a serious mistake with a man who held her future in his hands. She became terrified that he would not approve for travel permit at all and that she would never see Lizzie. So she turned back and smiled, looking at the man directly in the eyes with her head held high while she said, "Thank you very much, Monsieur, I appreciate everything you are doing to help me to get home to see my father before it is too late." She inclined her head to him and waited for his response.

He nodded and said, "As I said, Mademoiselle, provided everything is in order -."

Julia's heart was pounding. She smiled with her mouth closed and then hurried out of the room. She waited in the corridor for Isabelle to catch up to her. When Isabelle came up to her, Julia looked for some feeling in Isabelle's face that would tell her that everything was going to be okay. She didn't have to wait long.

"I think you can take him at his word. I am sure that it is routine to send everything to the criminal division for review. You should calm yourself down. Your ordeal is over, really, Julia. We will come back in a week and everything will be waiting for you. What we need to do now in the meantime is to get your train tickets and you will feel much better."

Julia's heart was no longer beating at a rapid pace, and her breathing became normal. "But I don't trust that man," she said, holding her forehead with her hand.

Isabelle took Julia by the shoulders and forced her to pay attention. "No, what it is, is you are just nervous, you want this all resolved now, and it's not going to be. Look it's just something routine, something will deal with next week. In the meantime how about you and me go have a nice long drink." Isabelle nodded and smiled.

"Listen," Julia said. "I want to go and get the camera. Can we do that?"

"Of course, we'll just stop on the way back home. Let's go. You're right, it's the best thing to do. It will keep us busy this afternoon."

Jacques' face brightened as the two women entered his store. He slid close to the counter with its glass top. "You are back. Anything I can help you with?"

"I want to buy a camera," Julia said.

"Of course. A very good idea. Do you know what kind of camera you have in mind?"

"No, actually, I don't. I have never used one. But I want a very good one."

"Naturally. You have three choices, Madame. You can get a 35 millimeter Leica. It's the best camera in the world. German, sure, if that doesn't bother you. I only have one, because they are not very popular right now. It has a fast lens, and every sort of speed and setting. If you want it I will sell it to you because it's the best. But you will have to take the instruction booklet and study it, and add a light meter, as well."

"A light meter?" Julia said.

"Yes, but I see this would not be a good fit for you. So I give you two other choices. The simplest would be the Armored Photax."

"Now you are amusing yourself, Monsieur." Julia looked at Isabelle and laughed.

"No, it's called that. Look, here it is. Sleek, black, it's a beautiful thing in itself. It's very easy to use. Just choose your aperture and choose your speed. And there's only two speeds. So it's really for taking pictures in daylight. You could learn to use this in ten minutes. Here, hold it, while I get the other choice."

Julia turned the small plastic box around in her hand and looked through the viewfinder.

"Your other possibility would be an Agfa. He held up a large folding camera. This is only a little more difficult to use. Maybe in an hour you could learn to use it. But the pictures are better. It's larger film, and has greater clarity. And you could take pictures indoor with this camera if you're patient."

Julia waved him off. "I think I would be fine with this Photax camera. And two rolls of film, please."

"Certainly, Madame, and if you like, I'm not busy, I can show you how to use it."

Julia turned to Isabelle.

"I'm sorry, Jacques," Isabelle said. "We are going to be late. We'll figure it out ourselves." Turning to Julia, she continued, "Tomorrow, we'll go up to Montmartre and practice with the camera, and then come and have the pictures developed, and you'll have something to show your daughter when you get home."

"Yes, that's a wonderful idea. I'll take it, Monsieur."

Jacques was not giving up. "Okay, but may I just say one more thing. You are going to get a lot of pictures out of focus with the tiny camera. With a folding camera, you can move the bellows in and out and focus much more precisely. That's really the only difference. Except, of course, that you have more apertures and more shutter speeds. It's up to you. But I tell you what. Take the little camera up to Sacré-Coeur tomorrow and the folding camera. I know you. At least, I know Isabelle, I have known her mother my whole life, so I can trust you. Take them both. Take a roll of film from each, and see if you don't see I am right."

Julia hesitated, then said, "Oh, all right, I see what you mean. Maybe I have something of a photographer in me. I will do it. But I tell you what, I will pay you for the folding camera and the film for both, and we'll be back tomorrow afternoon with two rolls of beautiful shots of Paris."

"And us," Isabelle added, laughing for the first time, even if briefly.

Julia then handed the Photax camera and film back. I want the best, she thought, I am not going to take pictures that look like a complete amateur. A Leica is the best, then that's what I need. "No, I will just take the Leica camera with a light meter and be done with it. I want the camera that takes the best pictures. I want a Leica. Then I will be a good photographer, like-," she turned to Isabelle and waited.

"Like Cartier-Bresson," Isabelle said, and turned to Jacques. "You know, the photographer for Ce Soir."

Jacques nodded and seemed maybe to smile a little, but he kept his conspiratorial eye trained on Isabelle. "Ah, mais oui, this camera with the best of all optics will help the American lady become such a good photographer. A rangefinder camera is the most professional. After all, it's not that hard. It just takes time and practice. The most important thing about photography is being at the right place at the right time. All you have to do most of the time is twist the focus ring until the two images merger." He winked at Julia.

"All right, thank you then. I will read the instruction booklet and go from there. We'd better get going."

As they walked back to the apartment, Julia looked at the beautiful shiny brown leather case. "Ce Soir, I don't think I know that newspaper. Is it like Le Monde or Le Figaro?"

"Oh-not exactly. It's more of a newspaper for working people, for people who are crushed by industrialists."

Julia felt a twinge of uncertainty. "That-that sounds like something radical, Isabelle."

"Yes, but we're not radical. We're just taking pictures, and if you become good at it, it has nothing to do with newspapers. But Cartier-Bresson is a great photography, so I used his name because Jacques would recognize it. That's all. Don't worry, Julia, just take pictures. With that camera, you can't go wrong."

"All right, you're right, but I'm just too nervous. Let's get your mother and walk to the top of Montmartre and have some more crêpes and delicious wine and forget all about this."

Two hours later they stood overlooking the city of Paris from the terrace in front of Sacré-Coeur. The city below them began to glow with millions of small lights turned on for the evening.

Julia turned to Christine, and said, "This is the most beautiful city in the world, everyone knows that, everyone sees and when they come here and look out over the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame Cathedral. I will always love this city more than any other, maybe even more than New York, because it is where I have felt such happiness, knowing I will soon see my daughter because you and Isabelle have made it possible. Does that seem crazy to you? Can any city mean that much to someone? I know I lost my daughter in coming here, but I know that you have given her back to me."

Christine touched Julia's arm and studied her eyes with great sympathy. "You have made it possible, my dear, because you have given your whole heart getting back to your daughter. Since you arrived here you have done nothing, nothing, you know, except do everything you can to see your daughter again. So, no, it is not because of us, it has entirely been your own effort. And that is a very happy thought, so let's go over to Chez Eugène and have some grapes and wine."

At Place du Tertre, Julia stopped to look at a painting of the window with a green frame and red and yellow flowers in the window box below it. Next to it sat a man in a black beret and black sweater, with a gray mustache and a gray beard cut neatly into a triangle. He waited with a sparkle in his eye, his head cocked.

"You are not like most of the people who look at my paintings up here. You seem to be studying and not just observing. Am I right?"

Julia nodded. "Perhaps you are right, and perhaps people study your painting more than you think. It is beautiful and it looks very natural. It looks very Parisian."

"And you, do you paint? Or do you just look?"

"Yes I do paint, but I don't do scenes like this. This is a form of landscape, only it has somebody's house instead of mountains and trees."

"You're very observant." He thought to himself for a moment. "I have no pretense. My work is not going to be shown in the Louvre."

Julia laughed. "Your work does not have to be shown in a great museum in order to be very good. If it were me I would be happy if someone would just buy it. So far I have not been that fortunate."

"Yes, you are right."

Then she thought, oh I said the wrong thing. He thinks I am going to buy it. "Thank you for talking to me," she said as she walked along to the entrance to the restaurant.

"It's all right," he replied. "I'm just waiting for the Germans. They love little paintings like this. I shall make lots of money from the Bosche."

Julia felt a rush of air past her and heard Christine's voice in outrage.

"Monsieur, you are one of the rats left over from the last time the Prussians were here. You should be ashamed of yourself. The Germans will never reach Paris. Never! We have the world's largest army and the Maginot line. You will starve if you wait to sell your worthless paintings to Germans."

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Don't get so excited, Madame. Maybe I am mistaken. Maybe France will be strong. I myself was at Verdun in the last war, so I know what we can do. But you must read the papers. The Germans are already massing on the Belgian border. It will not be long. And this time France has been weakened by the communists."

A second outraged voice, that of Isabelle, was heard loud as it passed by Julia. "Ah, I see, I supposed you are some kind of fascist, Monsieur. That's why you love Germans. You are a stupid street painter, you should be happy what the Popular Front has been trying to do for the people."

He laughed and nodded in pretense of showing how wise he was. "Yes, I know you, I have seen you giving out your communist newspapers up here. You are the problem, young lady. It's because of you that I will be able to sell my paintings to the Germans." Hatred blazed in his eyes.

A large crown gathered around them. People started shouting, some saying, "Fascist!", other yelling, "Communist!"

Julia quickly put herself in between the painter and the two women. "Please," she said, "can we go have our dessert? Don't listen to this man. He is bitter because no one wants his trashy paintings. Of course, he thinks the Germans will like them because no self-respecting Frenchman would buy them. Please. For me, let's forget it."

Isabelle and Christine looked at each other and their breathing slowed. Christine took Julia and Isabelle through the crowd into the restaurant and ordered expensive wine and two kinds of crepes for each of them.

"But it still galls me," Christine said. "That man. He is a traitor to his country." She turned to Isabelle. "And he's been spying on you. I told you that you're doing dangerous things with that Jacques. Now I have to worry about you even more."

Isabelle's eyes looked out in disgust. "From that man? I don't think so. Anyway, it doesn't matter. We are going to America, Mama, and the Germans can be somebody else's problem."

Christine shifted in her seat, then drank an entire glass of wine and filled it up again.

"Mama," Isabelle said, amazed. "Be careful. You won't be able to make it down the stairs to our house. What are you doing?"

Christine waved her away. "It makes me so god damn mad. Who does he think he is? I'll bet all he did at Verdun was to clean out the latrines." She sighed and looked at Julia, then smiled at Isabelle. "Yes. We must think of Daniel. We shall soon see him and leave Montmartre to all the rats up here. Garcon," she yelled, "a bottle of champagne, if you please."

"Mama, I think you're going too far."

"No, you two can carry me home if I can't walk. Listen to them out there, they're still yelling about us. That's hilarious. Tonight I celebrate America and distance from Germany. Let them have the whole country."

Julia sat, quiet, relaxed, then stood and took her new camera out of her bag. "Come on, let's start with pictures here tonight."

Isabelle looked at her in surprise. "You know how to use it?"

"I know enough," Julia said. "I tried it in my room. What's so hard about turning a lens?"

Christine sat up straight and ran her fingers through her hair. "Oh, my, I didn't know I was having my portrait taken."

"Isabelle," Julia said, "sit next to your mother. This will be my first picture."

Julia took the leather cover off her camera and held the viewfinder up to her eye.

"But the light meter," Isabelle said.

"Oh, well, yes, the light meter," Julia said. "I don't need that. It's for photography, you know." She smirked as she emphasized the word. "I'm just taking pictures. If I can see, I can snap. She took a glass of water and put the camera on top of it. As she squatted to look through the viewfinder she said, "But to be safe, I'll just make it stable." She squinted for a moment, then said, "Okay, ready, smile." She pressed the shutter, then took the camera off the glass and stood. "Tomorrow, we shall photograph," again she said the word as if making fun of it, "all of Paris. And I will have so much to show Lizzie. She'll be so excited to see them. She will pester me to come up here. She'll think it's just around the corner."

"No, wait," she continued. "I need to use a couple of different shutter speeds, just to make sure." And she made them wait for two more portraits, before they made the way back down rue du Mont-Cenis, holding Christine and the railings and each other down the steps too treacherous for those who've had both wine and champagne.

The next morning when Julia walked out to the main room, feeling heavy and sick but having made an effort to fix her hair and put on some makeup, Christine and Isabelle were silent, staring at Le Monde lying flat on the table. They didn't even react to the sound of her footsteps, which was unusual for them.

"Do you have any aspirin?" Julia said, feeling her forehead.

Christine looked up at her, her face contorted into a grimace, her forehead wrinkled into a frown, her mouth turned downward. "You're going to need more than aspirin. The Germans have broken through the Ardennes." She wagged her head back and forth. "I, for one, will not remain one of the rats." She stood and touched Julia as she went by, trying to smile but not pulling it off. "Of course we have aspirin. That and a strong black coffee will make you feel better, at least as far as your hangover."

She brought Julia the aspirin, then sat down again. "We are crazy. I went out this morning for the croissants, and down on rue Custine all the shops were full. People were talking like it was just a holiday. I heard them. They went to the theatre, they went to the park." She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. Her head was still, but her eyes flicked back and forth between Julia and Isabelle. She laughed, then settled her gaze on Isabelle. "Did you tell her?"

Isabelle shook her head.

"Well," Christine continued her voice carrying a note of triumph and satisfaction, "we have our visas and cards and passports and papers and everything. Bet that's a surprise. We're ready before you are."

Julia was shocked by the news, a rolling nervousness across her stomach added to the pain in her head. How can this be possible? Are they going to fly to Lisbon, too? She suddenly became worried, thinking of all three of them stuck on the border because Christine or Isabelle's papers were not in order. She hoped they did not see her reaction, and that she could hide it. "I think that's wonderful. How did you manage it so fast?"

Isabelle's face looked like she had engineered a coup. "You look surprised, Julia. So was I yesterday. Monsieur Ducasse, you remember him, he did it. I thought Mama was being to coy with me, because I didn't ever believe she would leave her home. It turns out the whole time she was working with Ducasse to get the papers."

Julia felt relief that Isabelle didn't notice her reaction. She turned to Christine. "And I believed Isabelle. I thought it would be harder for you to get your papers. Well, I must say, I'm not sure what all this means. Are you going to go to Lisbon? Do you have airline tickets?"

Christine wagged her finger. "No, not so fast young lady. We know that we wouldn't have a good chance in Lisbon. We're not sure yet. We may go to Bordeaux, or most likely, we will go to Marseille with you, and from there take a boat to Algiers. And from there we shall see."

Julia frowned. "That's a big difference, Bordeaux or Marseille."

Christine nodded. "Yes, but we don't have to decide immediately. We will wait until next week when you have your papers. It depends on whether ships are arriving in Bordeaux or not. If the navy controls the port, and doesn't let any passenger ships dock, then it's a waste of time."

Julia watched Isabelle give a conspiratorial glance to her mother. "Isabelle, are you sure this is the right thing to do, now? Travel, I mean, without any real destination?"

Isabelle looked Julia in the eye with a very serious face. "I have papers for my mother to leave this country. It is the right thing to do, no question about it."

Christine put her hands up, a stern look in her eyes. "No more arguing. Remember, I am doing this for Daniel and Isabelle, not for myself. Don't make me think twice about it. We will go to Orleans with you in any case, and then we will decide whether to go south with you to Marseille or west to Bordeaux."

"Yes," Isabelle said, as she stood up and took her dishes to the sink. "That sounds crazy to me, too. We're not going to learn anything in Orleans. Have your coffee and croissant, Julia, and then let's go take the pictures you're so determined to do."

"Oh, of course, I'd forgotten. With this headache, anyway." She picked up the bowl and drank all her coffee, then took her croissant with her to her room. "Let me get my camera, and we're out of here."

One hour later they were standing in front of Notre Dame. Isabelle stood in front of the doors while Julia stood far back to take in a photo of her friend dwarfed by the arched door and the giant Romanesque rose window above it. They reversed positions after Julia made sure that Isabelle kept the settings on the camera.

"I think Hugh will like this picture," Julia said, wondering in her heart if he would even look at it. She wanted to compare it to one taken of the two of them when they were here on their honeymoon. Most of all she wanted to show both photographs to Lizzie and tell her that one day all three of them would have their picture taken here.

"Mama is right," Isabelle said. "Look at all these people. No one is worried at all. They are all so gay and carefree."

"So maybe she's overreacting. Maybe the Germans will be thrown back."

"It doesn't matter," Isabelle said, looking around the square. "She's afraid of being a rat. She's not going to take a chance. In her mind, she's already moved to America. It may be terribly hard for her to change her mind, but once she does, she's unmovable." She pointed to the arched doorway. "Let's go inside and take some pictures of the stained glass windows."

Julia shook her head. "No, let's not. I haven't figured out how to work this thing inside. I can only do daylight for now. I want to go take a picture of the American Embassy, the Seine, the Tuileries, the Louvre. Look at the beautiful blue sky, we can walk along the Seine and create memories for me to take back."

"And we can remember them when we meet again in New Jersey."

"Oh, yes," Julia said, "I will introduce you to Lizzie. That will be something." She wanted to imagine them all together in Central Park, but that familiar knot in her stomach told her to be wary. She needed to get home on her own. Lizzie needed her. "Okay, but let's go over there and take a picture, facing the other way, toward those trees."

"As you like," Isabelle said, smiling. "It's your time."

"Oh, and Shakespeare and Company, that's near here, too. I want that. Maybe a famous writer will be there."

"Shakespeare? In Paris?" Isabelle looked bewildered.

"Oh, you wouldn't know. I read about it in the New York Times. Lots of Americans go there. We're on a long walk, aren't we?"

"Wherever you want. All of Paris is at your feet. You have your very expensive camera, so take advantage of it."

Julia didn't notice jealousy in Isabelle's voice, but she studied Isabelle as she looked around the square in front of the cathedral, her blond curls jumping slightly in the breeze. Isabelle's hazel eyes betrayed no animosity. Still, Julia felt uncomfortable. She wished at the moment that she had bought a less expensive camera.

"So where to now?" Isabelle turned to face Julia with expressionless eyes.

Julia looked up at the towers of the cathedral. "Can we go up there?"

Isabelle laughed. "I think the question is, can we make it up there. That's a lot of steps."

"Have you ever done it?"

"Yes, once in school a long time ago. When I was young and strong."

"Then we must do it," Julia said as she walked to the entrance, gesturing for Isabelle to follow her.

They headed up the narrow spiral stairway, holding on to the sides because the stone steps were heavily worn away in the center. Exhausted halfway up, they stopped at the souvenir store.

"Look," Isabelle said, "the plaque, Quasimodo and Esmeralda."

"It's so, historical. Victor Hugo. "I read that in high school," Julia said, and then she smiled in amusement. "It wasn't too long ago, I saw the movie, very said." She narrowed her eyes and remained inside herself for a moment. "I remember, Hugh didn't want to come up here." Julia pursed her lips and drew a long breath. "Thank you for coming up with me. I feel rested now, let's finish the climb so I can take more pictures."

At the top, Julia marveled at the gargoyle, took a picture of Isabelle next to one leaning out over a bannister, its head resting on its hands, its hands on the bannister. She stood for a full minute looking at the view before she took a picture of Sacré-Coeur gleaming white on top of Montmartre in the distance. "There, that will be a reminder for us all of where you used to live." She looked at Isabelle to make sure she followed her pointing. "From here, knowing the picture was taken from the tower of Notre Dame, it's a real story of Paris for all time."

Julia waited for a reaction from Isabelle.

Isabelle came close and put her hands on Julia's shoulders. Her hazel eyes opened wide. "Julia." She waited a moment. "Julia, do you realize what you have done?" She waved her head back and forth ever so slightly. "It's because of you that my mother is coming with us to New Jersey. Daniel and I owe you a huge debt of gratitude." She took her hands away. "I don't think you understand how much this means to me, Julia." She gestured at the city below them, down to the gray green waters of the Seine. "Being up here, alone with you, just you, me and this ugly gargoyle. Looking out over Paris. It's made me realize how important you are to us." Now Isabelle's eyes were focused intensely on Julia. "But, whatever happens, you have one and only one goal, to get back to your daughter. I haven't forgotten that."

Julia felt close to tears. "Thank you. I really appreciate that. I feel so close to you at this moment. You are like my sister, Isabelle."

Isabelle hugged her, then said, "All right, then, let's go take the rest of the pictures."

At the bottom of the stairs, Julia stopped Isabelle. "Wait. I want to light a candle." She walked to the North Rose Window, underneath it's stained glass art of the Virgin Mary holding her Christ Child. "A mother holding her baby," Julia said. She lit a candle and stood for a moment with her hands clasped on her chest. Then she nodded and walked back toward the cathedral doors.

As they walked out from the cathedral, pushing their way past tourists speaking Spanish and Italian and English, Julia led Isabelle across to the far side of the plaza to the corner with dark green trees. She pointed to the intersection of the corner.

"So stand over there, Isabelle and—" Julia looked around, then asked a young man in a blue beret with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth to take their picture.

"Oh, that's a Leica. I'm afraid I couldn't." He shook his head, took a step back and held his hands up as he tried to smile without losing a cigarette.

"Yes you can," Julia said in a reassuring voice. "I've already focused on my friend. You just have to click the shutter, on top, here."

He nodded sheepishly, through his cigarette away and took the camera. "If you wish, but I'm not responsible." He bent over a little and moved back and forth in his imitation of a photographer.

"No you're not," she said as she put her arm around Isabelle's waist and felt Isabelle's hand pulling her close.

The man took the picture and first turned the camera around in his hand, then handed it back to her.

"Merci, Monsieur," Isabelle said, still looking at him with wary eyes.

He gave them a little salute and walked swiftly away, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"You shouldn't have done that, you know," Isabelle said with a frown. "He could have run away with it."

"Yes, you're right, maybe, but there are gendarmes over there, and we could just have screamed."

"You think so."

"Oh come on, everything's all right. Don't be such a worry wart."

"Sure. I don't want to be a worry—wart, is that it? Where to next?" Him

They used up the two rolls of film at the Eiffel Tower, the American Embassy, the Tuileries, the Louvre, the Seine. They didn't make it to Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, but Julia didn't care. She had her souvenirs. Taking the pictures, thinking of showing them to Lizzie gave her a sense of relief. Of knowing that she would be home soon, and this horror of separation would be over. In just a few days. With just one more piece of paper.

"Come on," Julia said as they walked down the steps to the metro. "I want to get these pictures to Jacques today."

They dropped the pictures off at the photographers shop and went home to see what Christine had made for them. And they were very pleased to find her waiting with the table full of delicacies.

"Oh la la," Isabelle said. "That looks wonderful. Beef bourguignon, chocolate mousse." She looked over at Julia in expectation of a similar response.

Julia smiled as she looked at the table, at the beautiful dishes with blue patterns. "Oh it's beautiful, it's Delft isn't it?"

Christine was overjoyed at the response. "I'm so happy you recognize it. It's from my grandmother. We couldn't afford that by ourselves, but she left it to me, and she told me herself that I would get it. So I only bring it out for special occasions. I am not going to take it with me when we leave, so now is a good time to set it out."

"You know what," Julia said, "when we are all together in the United States and we can wave to each other across the Hudson River, then I will see that you get a replacement set of dishes."

"Wait," Isabelle said, laughing, "I don't think you can see each other across the river."

What a stickler, Julia thought to herself. "Oh some places you can, and you have to know who it is, but you can do it." Then she waved the idea away. "It doesn't matter anyway, because we will be close enough."

"Well, I'm starving," Isabelle said, "and I'm not going to wait that long." She said down without waiting for the others and unfolded her white linen napkin.

Julia and Christine joined her.

They ate in silence for a long time, then Christine said, "What was it like today out there? Did you see any refugees? Are people still going out like nothing is happening?"

Julia swallowed the potato that was in her mouth and said, "You're right. There was nothing special about today. No matter where we went there were people having a good time, as if there were nothing to worry about."

"And maybe they're smarter than my mother," Isabelle said as she looked across the table with worry in her eyes. "Maybe the French Army is just as good as they say it is." They ate in silence for a long time, then Christine said, "What was it like today out there? Did you see any refugees? Are people still going out like nothing is happening?"

"You're right," Julia said, "everyone we saw today looked like they had no idea what was going on."

Isabelle nodded, "I think you're right Mama, they all believe that France cannot be defeated." She looked down at her lap, thinking for a moment. "I wonder how you will feel when we arrive in America," she said as she raised her head and looked across the table at her mother, "and nothing has happened. You have lost your apartment and everything in it, including these beautiful heirloom dishes, and you have nothing and France is still standing, glorious as ever."

Christine laughed and shook her head at Isabelle. "I don't care about the glory of France anymore. The glory of France," she continued, fire in her eyes, "is lying dead in the cemetery down the street. The glory of France didn't do my husband any good when he suffered all the years from being gassed." She threw her napkin down on the table. "I don't want all this. I want you and Danielle safe in America. To hell with the glory of France. I can't wait to apply for American citizenship." She sat, hunched over, wringing her hands, still agitated, moving about in her seat. "Yes," she said as she glared at Isabelle, "it's true. I've changed. I choose life. I choose the love of my family. I choose you and Daniel. To hell with my friends. I'm not going to sit here for the rest of my life scared whether the Germans are going to come pouring across the Meuse River and destroy glorious France. I want peace." She stood and raised her voice. "Do you hear me? Do you understand me, Isabelle?"

Isabelle sat mute, staring in shock at her mother, her eyes wide, her face long.

"Do you?"

Isabelle nodded.

"Then don't question my resolve any more." She sad back down and sighed. "Sometimes I think I am stronger than you." She waved her hands around wildly. "You go around and deliver your communist newspaper, and I think you are in danger, I worry about you, but you are just too careless and you think you are safe."

"Mama—"

"No more, Isabelle." Christine pointed her finger at her daughter. "Let's enjoy our dinner. And then, I have something special for you. For our last nights in beautiful Paris."

Isabelle looked at Julia, then back to her mother. Her lips were tight together in submission.

"I have something arranged. To celebrate going to America. I wasn't going to tell you until later, but now I think we need something to calm us all down. Wait a minute." She stood and went to a dark wooden cabinet in the corner. "Let's have some cognac." She brought the bottle and three small snifters and put them on the table. After she poured some of the cognac into each glass, she handed one to Isabelle and Julia, then sat down and raised her glass. "Vive la France," she said in a low voice. Then she raised her voice and said, very loud, "Vive l'Amerique."

Julia and Isabelle repeated the words in unison, the three of them clinked their glasses together, and then they sipped in silence.

"What's the surprise," Julia said, looking sideways at Isabelle.

"Well," Christine said with a self-satisfied smile, "I've arranged for us to go, tonight, to the Folies Bergère."

Isabelle and Julia looked at each other in amazement.

"You're joking," Isabelle said.

"No, we're going to see Josephine Baker doing the Danse Sauvage."

"Mama," Isabelle said, her hands over her face. "She's half naked in that."

"I don't care. It'll be fun. It will make us feel like we're already in America."

"I'm game if you are," Julia said to Isabelle.

"Come on, help me with the dishes," Christine said, "and we'll make the first show.

They were down the steps and on the subway in five minutes, and it seemed almost that fast and they were standing in line on rue Richer for the Folies. They were not disappointed. Josephine Baker was at her best, the jazz was exciting, the champagne almost very good, and the crowd, along with Christine, Isabelle and Julia, completely lost and away from the idea of refugees, Germans and police. For a couple of hours.

And then, on the way home they talked of tomorrow, when Julia would go down to the Prefecture of Police and pick up her travel permit.

In the morning, Julia was up when Paris was still dark. She opened the window to the street, and looked down past the steps to rue Courtine, where a waiter in Café Bruxelles was opening the door and putting out tables and chairs in the ghostly light of the street lamps, and then was transformed into a yellow stage when the café lights came on. Turning left, up the hill toward Sacré-Coeur, the steps seemed to lead nowhere, except to heaven. Up there, beyond that hill and down again lay her destination. And her heart. Julia stayed at the window and watched Montmartre wake up. Across the street the lights came on at Au Relais, down the hill they came on at Chez Francis. People slowly walked downhill below. From somewhere the sweet smell of baked goods. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes. Listened to Paris. A child's footsteps brought her to home, New York, and Lizzie. She opened her eyes and morning light changed the sky to light gray.

Julia closed the window. The house was still quiet. She went to her room and arranged her few possessions, just for something to do. Slippers slouched along the hallway, the bathroom door opened and closed. She walked on tiptoes to the door and left the house.

On the subway the people were different. More of them were tired, their clothes were dirty, their eyes furtive. As she left the metro and walked to the police station, she seemed to be joining lines of people as if drawn by some magnetic lines of force, until she entered the building, and found herself unable to find the window that held the papers of her freedom. A long time she jostled, pushed, waited, moved ahead, and finally she stood before a frustrated man with a barely shaven face and haggard eyes who listened to her and turned to his left and opened a drawer and fingered through small folders and stopped, then took something out, looked at it, looked at her, looked at it again, then put it down on the counter, turned it to face her, put a pen next to it and told her to sign at the bottom. Then he stamped it, shoved it to her, and turned away from the window and ignored her. She left, pushing her way past the incoming lines of people, walked back to the metro, saw the same lost people, left the subway, walked up rue du Mont-Cenis and pushed the button to the apartment, waited for the buzzer, went upstairs, and found Christine and Isabelle sitting at the kitchen table, looking at her, waiting to hear.

"I have it."

They both sighed.

"Have some coffee." Christine poured dark coffee into the bowl that was waiting in front of the third chair at the table.

"Thank you." Julia drank from the bowl, wiped her lip, and put the bowl down on the table.

"Did they give you any trouble?"Isabelle stared into her bowl and did not look up.

"No."

"We are ready." Christine's voice was solemn, determined.

"You have your train tickets." Julia looked at the enveloped marked SNCF on the table. "Where's your luggage?"

"It's in the bedroom. There's not much." Isabelle answered.

"I don't want to wait," Christine said. "I'm leaving this house, so I don't want to stay any longer than I have to. I have my picture of my husband. The rest I bequeath to the rats. Small or big."

"We're all going to Marseille?" Julia's voice hung in the air with finality.

Christine and Isabelle stood simultaneously and pushed their chairs in to the table.

"To Marseille." Christine picked the tickets up from the table and put them in her purse. "We each have just one piece of luggage. Just enough for the trip."

"Wait," Isabelle said. "Sit down." She smiled impishly.

Christine and Julia looked at each other. Isabelle went to her room and came back out. She was holding fingernail polish. "Sorry for the last minute delay, but I'm going out in style."

Christine and Julia gave in and joined her and all three soon wore bright red lipstick and fingernails.

"Are you really going to just leave all this here?" Julia said. "I'm going home. I have nothing to take with me except what's in my small suitcase. You have your whole life here in these rooms."

Christine stood and turned around to survey the room. She went to the china cabinet and opened the door. Holding up a piece of her grandmother's fine porcelain, she said, "This?" She went into the kitchen and banged on a shining copper pot above the stove. "This?" She came back and sat in a plush chair near the window to the Street. The velvet on the arms had been rubbed down, and the seat cushion was depressed. "This?"

Julia's voice betrayed her fear. "What about your family pictures? The one on the wall of you and your husband in front of the Eiffel Tower?"

Christine nodded. "Yes I understand that. I have a picture that I am taking with me of our marriage. That was my happiest time of my life. Of course I am taking that with me. But Daniel has pictures that we gave him when he left. Those will do for me. I don't have time to sell this. We're at war. This is a depression. I made a decision in a hurry. I'm going to leave in a hurry. I leave all this to the rats."

Isabelle stood and went to the window. She opened it and looked up and down the street.

"What's going on?" Julia became nervous. She didn't understand how this was going to proceed and that made her feel insecure.

Isabelle spoke while still looking out the window. "Look at the beautiful flowers down at the bottom on rue Courtine. You would think this was just a beautiful spring day. Look at Monsieur Calvert, there is on his bicycle bringing home his daily long baguette." Her voice carried the nostalgia that seemed to creep over her, thinking about all the ordinary things that French people do every day. "I don't see him, Mama." Isabelle looked back in the room at her mother. "Don't worry, Darling, he will be here. He's not going to be down there, he's going to be up on rue Lamarck. He will ring the buzzer."

"Julia," Isabelle said, "I think we should tell you now."

Julia's stomach tighten. She looked at Christine and then Isabelle. Her eyes began to sting. Are they going to just leave her behind? Are they just going to send her out on her own. She had always wanted to leave without them, but now she felt trapped, having no control over her destiny. Over seeing Lizzie.

Christine came and took Julia sent. "I see you are worried, my second daughter, but please don't be."

Julia was not reassured. All she had done since he had arrived in France was planned for a way to get back to New York and Fifth Avenue and Lizzie. The last few days were an exhausting whirlwind of bureaucratic complications. It had all been done. They seem set to go. But something is holding them up and she didn't know what it was. She put on a brave face. "Are you waiting for a taxi? I thought we were going to take the subway. We don't have much to carry. What's going on?"

"We are not going to take the train," Isabelle said while continuing to look up the street. "We have a better solution. Monsieur Ducasse is going to take us all in his car."

Julia became even more worried. The car? Why was that better? The idea of a train, a big long heavy train full of people, was much more secure to her than a little car. "Why is he taking us?"

Christine, sympathy in her eyes, came to Julia and held her hand. "My darling, my second daughter, do not worry. This is much better than taking the train."

"I don't understand," Julia said, "I have my tickets. You have your tickets. Why did you change? Why do you trust this man? I'm confused. I feel like —," she pulled her hand away from Christine.

Christine side and tears began to well up in her eyes. "Oh please do not talk like that. Believe me I understand your fear. If it is what you want we will of course take you to the Gare de Lyon and you can get on your train to Marseille. We would never do anything to interfere with you getting home to your daughter, Julia." Christine stared intensely into Julia's eyes. Her eyes were no longer filling with tears but with cold determination. "But believe me we had to accept his offer. There are so many more options with the car. We can go where we want."

"Wherever we want?" That remark said Julia into a tailspin. "We have only one place to go. I still don't see why we need a car."

Isabelle closed the window and came next to Julia. "Mama is not telling you everything. Monsieur Ducasse has another advantage."

Julia frowned. "I'm going to take the train. You can do whatever you want. I am going to take the train. I can get to the Gare de Lyon by myself." She stood and went to pick up her suitcase.

The buzzer sounded. Julia put her suitcase down, feeling trapped.

Christine went to the window, pushed it open, and looked down. "You are here. Thank god. We're coming right down." She came back and addressed Julia. "We will take you to the train station. It's not out of our way. Jules—Monsieur Ducasse— can explain it all to you on the way. If you want to get out and take the train, you will make me cry. But I'm going to cry anyway when we separate at Marseille." She touched Julia on the face. "I just want to be with you as long as I can."

"Mama," Isabelle interjected, impatience in her voice.

Christine nodded. She picked up her suitcase, looked around the room one last time, and walked toward the door. She did not look back to see who was coming with her. She know only to move forward.

On the street, Jules Ducasse was waiting, his black Simca 8 berline idling by the curb. On the street and not behind a window, he was thinner and taller than Julia expected. He tipped his black hat. He was wearing an impeccably pressed black suit, a clean white shirt and a plain gray tie. "Good morning, ladies. Thank you for being punctual. Here, let's figure out how to get all this luggage on the ca" On the top of the car a luggage rack had been installed with belts that were hooked on to the top of the door frames. One suitcase had already been tied down. He quickly put the women's suitcases on the top and tied them down with robe that he took out of the small trunk. "Après vous, Mesdames," he said with a slight bow. He opened the front passenger door for Christine, while Isabelle and Julia hunched over to climb in the back seat. Ducasse got in, started the car, adjusted the throttle, waited for the motor to calm down, pushed the throttle back in, and put his hand on the parking brake. Then he turned around in the car and said, smiling, "Are we all ready?"

They all answered yes in unison.

"You have a very nice car, Monsieur," Isabelle said.

"Thank you", he said as he backed uphill to rue Lamarck and made a three point turn to go downhill. "It's really a Fiat. The French government doesn't want you to know that. For me it's been a very reliable car." He let out the clutch and moved slowly downhill past Au Relais. "So. Where are we going?"

Isabelle laughed. "We thought you had that already figured out."

"Oh, I have," he said, "for me. And also for you and your mother. We are all going to the south of France, and from there we will see. I have family in Provence. You want to go to North Africa. No, my question is for the young lady so quiet in the back."

"Yes?" Julia said, biting her lip. He held her arms tight across her lap, and moved her eyes to Monsieur Ducasse but kept her head straight.

"I understand you want to go to Gare de Lyon. You intend to take the train to Marseille. Is that right?"

Julia nodded to his image in the rear view mirror. The car turned the corner on to rue Custine.

"Ah, well. First of all, we are going in that direction before we leave Paris and head to Orleans. So it is not a problem. But I must tell you, Mademoiselle, that you are making a grave error."

Christine turned to look at Julia, who sat still and quiet, hunched down in the back.

"Let me explain it to you," he continued after for a moment but hearing no reply. "You will simply not get on the train."

"But I have tickets," Julia said, fear stabbing her heart.

"So do thousands of others," he said, looking at her still in the mirror with cold eyes. "Someone will already be in your place. All these refugees, not just the Belgians now, there are French from the Northeast. And they are all going the same way.

Julia reached forward and touched him on the shoulder. "But surely, Monsieur, you—you work in the mayor's office, you—"

"Oh no, not now, not with this madness. I cannot do anything."

Julia's voice rose in panic. "But surely you know someone?" She looked at Isabelle, who touched her on the arm and looked at her with sympathy but said nothing.

Ducasse shook his head. "Those are railroad people. I work in city hall. I'm sorry."

Christine twisted around, holding the back of her seat to face Julia. Her eyes were full of compassion. "Now you see, my dear, why you must come with us. You have no choice. This is the right decision."

Isabelle pulled at Julia's arm. "You must come with us."

Julia was overwhelmed by these three people. She sat back and gave in. "Yes. I understand. I will go with you."

Ducasse nodded with satisfaction. "Let me tell you, all three of you, the advantages of coming with me. First, I will be honest. For me, it would be impossible to drive alone. There are soldiers coming this way. The first colonel we see would just get off his horse and take it for himself. Or maybe others. These are desperate people in desperate times. So, the three of you, you are now my family. I will tell you something else. If you must be my family, I have papers for all of us."

"What?" Julia said, in total surprise. She looked at Isabelle, who just shrugged her shoulders.

"Mama? Did you know this?" Isabelle said, leaning forward.

Christine smiled. "Yes, I plead guilty. I'm not going to leave everything I ever had behind and then go unprepared."

"But I can't pass as your family," Julia said, her voice choked with emotion.

Ducasse waved her concern away. "Don't worry. You won't have to act as my daughter. No one will question you. Just trust me."

Julia took Isabelle's hand.

"But that's not all," Ducasse said, "I also am prepared to use my office along the way if need be. All the villages father out are setting up roadblocks, and that is where I can be of some help. I have documents, and hand stamps I can use to intimidate stupid country people. They will know that I have powerful allies in Paris. We shall have no trouble at all. I have thought of everything. There in the trunk, I even have a placard that says Red Cross. If we have to. Trust me, Mademoiselle, you are in safe hands. Ah, there we are." He pointed to the right. "It's the road to Orleans. We are on our way. We'll go on the Boulevard de la Bastille." He turned quickly to Julia. "Very famous, no?" He turned back just in time to avoid a collision with a three-wheeled black delivery truck stopped to pick up baguettes from a bakery. "We'll be out of Paris sooner than you think. And you understand we take a route out of Paris that is not well known. Down the rue des Archives to get to the bridge across the Seine."

"Faster than the Germans, I hope," Christine said, fear stalking her voice. She turned around to look at Isabelle, who leaned forward to touch her on the shoulder. Christine turned back, but kept her hand on top of her daughter's.

"And faster than the refugees," Ducasse replied, "I promise."

In the back, Julia watched Isabelle and Christine, then shook her head and ran a hand through her hair. She felt warm, and undid the top button of her brown dress as Paris slid by outside her window.

VIII Carolyn – Paris – 1980

Carolyn walked through the gold and white doors into the lobby of the Hotel des Archives. The elegant upholstery on the Louis XIV chairs and the red faux-Persian rug were worn out in spots. A musty smell hung everywhere. Not the best place, but an old place, and right in the middle of the 4th arrondissement as Nathalie had suggested. A large red painting with a scruffy black frame glared opposite the dark stained wood-paneled wall behind the front desk.

"Good morning," she said to the clerk. "I made a reservation for a room yesterday. Stuart, Carolyn."

The clerk, a middle-aged man in a charcoal and green uniform with large round glasses and graying hair combed straight back, smiled politely, said in a perfectly factual voice, "Oui, Mademoiselle, we have reserved a room for you. Just for tonight?"

"Oh no, Monsieur, I will need a room for at least a week."

He nodded. "You are here as a tourist, I presume?"

"Not at all." Carolyn felt inner joy as she continued. "I am going to live here in the 4th arrondissement. I'm just staying at the hotel while I look for an apartment."

He looked over his glasses at her.

"Is something wrong, Monsieur?"

He sighed and hesitated before telling her. "I am sorry, but this is the 3rd arrondissement."

"But the map—"

"I don't know about your map, young lady. If you look across the street—" He pointed out the door. "You will see city hall for the 3rd arrondissement. You can't question that."

"But it's so close to the Beaubourg Museum."

He laughed a little laugh of derision. "Oh. That. You want to be close to that?"

Carolyn didn't quite know how to take his condescension, how serious he was. "No, not right next to it."

"Ah," he said, relaxing, knowing he may not lose a customer. "It's the same neighborhood, really, the same people. You're just right next to it, the museum. In truth, the 4th ends at this side of the museum there." He frowned and thought for a moment. "Do you have a special need to live in the 4th?" He looked at her directly for the first time.

Carolyn didn't know how to answer. It was Nathalie who suggested it. She shook her head. "No, it's just that—there are art galleries near the museum, and that's what interests me."

"Of course, we have galleries here, too. But let me tell you something." He leaned on the counter to be closer to her, looking around first to see if anyone was judging his performance. "Let's just say that here you're in the 3 and a half arrondissement. There's no boundary line. It's all the same place. 3, 4, it's all just for the politicians."

She smiled with relief. "Oh, well, then it doesn't make any difference, Monsieur—".

"Oh," he said, "Hervé Villechaize, at your service. No, it doesn't. Not one bit. Except they have the ugly building." He chuckled to himself as he completed the paperwork. Then he put his pen down and looked at her more again because he remembered something. "Look, it's the Marais, think of it that way. You'll find your art galleries down every street."

"And an apartment?"

"Oh," he said, "those too. I recommend you find a real estate agent." He laughed again, showing that he had a lot more sense of humor in him once you were acquainted. "We have even more of those. And what they have is all in the window. Just look around, you'll find it very easy, I assure you. Are you looking for an elegant apartment?"

Ah, there you go, she thought. Pegging me for an American. Funny, coming from someone in this careworn hotel. "Elegant? No," she replied. "Just enough to get by." Then she thought to eliminate the issue. "Starving student, you know."

"Ah. Well, we don't have a garret," he said, once more with his little chuckle.

He gave her a room overlooking the park on one corner, and a small outdoor café on the other. Perfect. She put her things away and went for a walk. She waved to him as she walked out the door. "On the hunt!" But she reached behind her to stop the door from closing, and she peeked back in. "And thank you Hervé." Her smile showed him she meant it.

Carolyn walked down rue des Archives for three blocks, then turned right three more, and repeated this trajectory until she was back in front of the hotel. Now she had developed a first sense of this neighborhood. Narrow streets with narrow sidewalks. No spectacular buildings or vistas, just Paris, apartments and street-level stores. Cafés, hair salons like Il Fait Beau, and the many real estate and insurance offices, one on every block, small grocery stores. And the many small art galleries. She looked at the apartments available in the window fronts and found that there were all kinds that she could be happy with. Finding a place to live was not going to be a problem.

She did the same again going left out the door instead of straight, and caught the feeling of the other side of the street. This time she did not note the hair salons or cafés, but paid attention to the art galleries. While there were several with old paintings, with impressionists and old masters, most of them were full of contemporary works of art.

Gradually, as she walked back to the hotel, taking several trips down side streets, she came to understand that this wonderful neighborhood in Paris, this Marais, was the perfect home for her. She never imagined she could live in a quiet neighborhood and be surrounded by this vibrant, urban life. Even the cars, going by on every street, were quiet and slow compared to the zooming avenues of San Francisco or New York. People walking with small bags of groceries, with baked goods, with flowers. But people walking. In New York they walked, but they were always in a hurry. Here, people were all taking their time getting home. That was it. They all seemed to be going somewhere near, somewhere warm and inviting. No business. Just living.

Back inside the hotel, Hervé greeted her with a thumbs up. "I can tell by your face Mademoiselle, that you have had a successful journey around the Marais."

Carolyn smiled at him, because he has become her first real French friend, someone who seems to care about her. It wasn't just his thumbs, up in greeting. It was on his face, too, in his eyes. Almost like family. For a moment she felt a little sad because she would be leaving him soon. She was sure that tomorrow she would find her apartment.

"Yes," she said, holding up two fingers in a victory gesture in his style. "I've seen enough already to think of this as my future home. There are a lot of apartments small enough for me."

He winked at her. "But what if you find a nice French boy?"

Carolyn narrowed her eyes and squinted at him, to let him know, even if she wasn't really serious, she didn't like it. "Oh la la, no Monsieur. Not for me. I'm not here for l'amour. I'm here for myself, for art. None of these smooth talking French men for me."

He was embarrassed and put up his hands in defense. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mademoiselle." But then he narrowed his eyes, too. "I will say no more." He moved his hand across his mouth as if he were zipping it shut. "So you will be leaving soon?"

"Yes, I'll find an apartment tomorrow. There are so many with one bedroom. And, so many have high ceilings. That's another great thing about Paris. It's so good for painting. High windows to catch the light." She stepped back from the counter.

"I haven't thought of that." Hervé cleaned some imaginary dust off the top of the counter. "You must be tired. Thank you for your conversation." He bowed slightly to her, and gave her a meek smile.

She sensed maybe he wasn't used to having long conversations with clients of the hotel. "Yes, you're right." Carolyn went up to her room and took a long hot bath, then opened a bottle of Chablis and decided to call Beatrice. It was still morning in New York.

"Hello?"

Carolyn hesitated at the sound of her aunt's voice. Did she really want to start talking back home this soon after arriving? "Hi. It's me, Carolyn. In Paris."

Excitement permeated Beatrice's voice. "Carolyn, how wonderful. I was afraid I would never hear from you again."

"Oh, now that's an exaggeration."

"You were very angry when you left."

"But now I am in Paris. Who can be angry."

"I'm happy to hear you say that. Have you talked to your mother?"

Carolyn put the receiver down in disappointment. She looked out her window at a woman playing with a small child in the park across the street. "It's too soon for that. I don't know when it will ever be time for that."

Now she waited while Beatrice thought. "Okay, you're right, it was just an impulse. Tell me, then, where are you?"

The warmth in Beatrice's voice began to work on Carolyn. "In the Marais."

"Oh, the Marais. 3rd or 4th?"

Carolyn smiled to the phone. "You do know Paris well, don't you. 3rd, actually. Across the street from the mayor's office. In a very small hotel on the rue des Archives. I think I'm close to getting an apartment."

"You do work fast. You don't think you'll have trouble finding one?"

"No, not at all. I don't need much. It's just for me. I did decide I need a bedroom so I can set up a kind of artist's studio."

"That makes me feel better. You sound like you have a plan."

"I think so. I'm not sure about the art yet. Not exactly."

"Don't worry about that. You're doing fine."

"Listen, Beatrice, I've got to go. I'm pretty bushed, walking around all day. I'll call you again."

"Wait, what about your phone number?"

"I'm at the hotel. I'll call you when I have my own phone."

"What should I tell your mother?"

Carolyn felt cold. "Tell her whatever you like."

Beatrice sighed. "Yes. All right. I understand. I love you, Carolyn."

"I love you too." She hung up.

The next morning she went to three different real estate agents, until she found an apartment that was right for her. On the rue du Temple, and, as she required, old enough to have high windows flooded with light. And as she learned for herself from walking around, it had to be high up to avoid being in the shadows. With an elevator. That she learned from the real estate agent. She knew the agent, Marie-Claire, herself typically Parisian thin and well-dressed, with elegant gold jewelry and a pearl necklace, was figuring her for a rich American. Why else would a girl barely past twenty be renting her own apartment in the Marais?

Carolyn had to put pressure on the agent to not show her big apartments. "I want just enough for me. Up high. Elevator. Facing north or northwest on a corner."

The agent did better than that. Which made Carolyn feel better. Two helpful French people in a row. It made her feel lucky. Marie-Claire showed her an apartment on the seventh floor, with elevator of course, in an older building, she said. Which was a joke. There were no newer buildings in the neighborhood. Maybe the elevator made the difference.

An elevator that barely held one person. But it went to the top efficiently and that's what mattered to Carolyn.

The amazing thing was that this apartment was not on the street. Not even on the corner. It was in the middle of the block. And it faced a park. There was nothing whatsoever to block the light coming in from the windows. The amazing windows looking out on the park on rue de Sévigné. She wanted to sing La Bohème out loud. The windows were ten feet high, Marie-Claire said. The ceiling twelve. And two windows. Wide. Carolyn wanted to give her a hug, and Marie-Claire stood still, obviously thinking if this emotional American wanted to act like she was back home—. Carolyn shook her hand. "Thank you, Madame. This is perfect."

Now, she thought, my life begins.

Hervé was visibly sad to lose his best customer, but he consoled himself by helping her with getting a telephone, and giving her advice on where to find furniture. "Au revoir, Mon Ami," he said, shaking her hand and giving her a polite bow.

"I'll come by and see you once in a while," she replied. "You're just around the corner from Café Sancerre."

"Ah, yes, of course," he said, but he sounded like he didn't believe her. He raised his eyes up to heaven. Then he waved her off. "Welcome to Paris."

Carolyn walked the few short blocks to her apartment, and christened it with a bottle of Moet & Chandon Dom Perignon Brut. The walls were still bare. She would take her time on that. And she had been modest with her furniture. She looked around the room.

The small corner light wood cabinets and cook top next to a white sink substituting for a kitchen. The floor, nice looking varnished wood, seeming new. She would have to pick up some area rugs. Maybe a large Persian rug dominated by red.

Her bed, for one person, she felt good about that. There were no plans to need anything bigger than that. It was a day bed, useful as a second sofa. The dark blue quilted coverlet gave it an air of practicality. Her sofa itself was red and wide enough for three people. The simple oak table stood in the center of the room, big enough for four people, that was fine with her. On top she had already placed a crystal bowl with red apples, oranges and ripe peaches, topped by a cluster of dark purple grapes. She stood and looked at the still life-in waiting and decided it might well do for her first painting.

Along one wall stood a long dresser, painted ebony, a nice contrast to the sofa and daybed. Modern, but not too artistically modern.

She was in no hurry. More furniture could come as time went on and life developed and she knew who she was in Paris, France.

Carolyn drank up her glass of champagne and poured another. There were no plans to go out today. The windows were open and a cool breeze blew into the room. Outside dark clouds were moving and she watched the rain as it approached across the rooftops of Paris. Beautiful Paris, even in the rain. Wary, she closed the windows as the first small drops hit her face.

Into her bedroom with a new glass of champagne. Totally empty. Not a bedroom. The walls were Colombe Blanc, white dove. Like a hospital. The high windows, the high ceilings, the huge white walls, perfect for a painting studio. The painters had put two huge architect's lamps with adjustable heads and necks on the walls so she could place lighting anywhere she wanted when the sun had gone down. She twirled around to catch the light of the whole room, drained her final glass of champagne and went back out to the main room.

The only thing missing were the tools of an artist. She remembered what Nathalie had told her, about sketching around Paris. All she needed for that was a sketch book and graphite pencils. Which, this being the Marais, she found a few blocks away, an easy walk when the rain had stopped, in the Rogier shop. On the way back she couldn't resist, and stopped in to see her friend Hervé in the hotel. He was shocked to see her walk in the lobby. His smile was wide and genuine.

"Oh, Mademoiselle, I didn't expect to see you so soon. I hope you haven't been thrown out by your landlord." He laughed at his little joke, then stopped, his frowning face betraying his worry that he was having fun at her expense.

"No, Monsieur, I have not. As you see, I have just purchased my first art supplies, and was passing by on my way home. Just to say hello, and to thank you again for your help."

"Ah, thank you. Perhaps when you have a showing in a gallery you will invite your little friend?"

She smiled at that. "You are quite premature, Monsieur, but I assure you that you will receive an engraved invitation. But you will have to wait a long time for that. I must hurry now, before it rains again." Carolyn waved her sketch book at him and left the hotel. Before arriving back at her apartment she stopped at Les délices de Marais and took forever to decide on her dinner. Finally, after frustrating two clerks, she brought home a baguette, naturally, and then sliced filet mignon of pork, a little bit of foie gras, a beautiful little duck pâté. And a small rosé.

When she arrived home and had put her packages on the counter of her little kitchen corner, she looked around and noticed she didn't have a wine rack. And she had forgotten cheese. And she felt like she wasn't Parisian. A true Parisian would go out and get the cheese. Now. So she did, to the laughter of the clerks she had just finished frustrating. She tasted a Roquefort and a Camembert before settling on a thin wedge of local Boursault. The wine rack would have to wait until she had established a good relationship with a local wine merchant. The Cave Saint Antoine came recommended by Hervé, and she resolved to get to know them. After this wonderful dinner.

She ate on the sofa using the coffee table, with the windows open and the sun already gone down, orange lights appearing in the distance. As she poured the rosé into her glass, she resolved to get excellent crystal wine glasses, too. And she congratulated herself. Here she was. Set. Ready to go. The last of the rosé went into her mouth, her eyes became heavy, she lay back on the sofa and let herself go. The world faded away.

Until the morning, when she awoke on the sofa with a headache and bright light streaming in the windows. She sat up, looked around the room, and laughed. The sofa or the bed, it was all the same in her apartment. She put on the water for espresso and took a shower. Dressed, she poured a small cup of coffee from the French press and studied Paris outside her window. The strong coffee soon cleared her head. There was only one thing to do. The day was nice, a few clouds, warm enough. She now had to get her sketchbook and graphite and go out there and pick someplace. Get to work.

Out the window, below, she saw children in the little park, a dog, parents, people walking by. A pretty little scene beneath the trees. Paris. But where to start?

The grand monuments? Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, the canal? She couldn't decide, so she just went downstairs and out the door. When she was on the sidewalk she started to laugh, so happy to be outdoors in Paris with a sketchbook, and people stared at her, some of them in anger, no doubt afraid she was laughing at them. Then she thought, I'm not laughing with you, and laughed again. It wasn't real laughing, just happiness bursting out her mouth. But that went quickly. There was simply too much to choose from. There was no way to make a decision. Better to walk and come across something unexpectedly. She'd know when she'd arrived at the right place.

But she didn't arrive. Two hours of walking around the Marais, with beautiful shops, the Pletzl with Sascha Finkelstein's bakery to die for, the medieval buildings, the courtyards.

She sat at a table on the street at Casa San Pablo and ordered tapas. She opened her sketchbook and stared at the blank page, then up at the street scene. Beautiful shops, painted red with large windows showing purses, pastries. But cars whizzed by. People jogged suddenly to avoid her. Too much abrupt movement. Too much noise. She couldn't draw lines or edges or shadows on the page. She left without eating or drinking.

Soon Carolyn was back home at her end of rue de Sévigné staring at the park across the street. The afternoon rain threatened not far away, so she went upstairs to her refuge, where she could look out the window and see the storm clouds coming and keep the windows open just a couple of inches to smell the air and keep dry.

She dropped her sketchbook on the table and called Nathalie.

"Hello?" came Nathalie's familiar warm voice.

"Nathalie, it's Carolyn. Have I caught you at a bad time?"

"No, not at all. You caught me daydreaming, but there's no way to prove it, is there?"

Carolyn laughed. She ran her fingers through her hair and took the phone over by the window. "Thank you. For the first time, it was a surprise for me, I felt a little bit lonely in Paris. I didn't think that was possible."

"I understand the feeling," Nathalie said. "Have you made any friends?"

"Friends?" The question caught Carolyn by surprise. She didn't want any friends. "No. I haven't tried to find any. My friends have been hotel clerks, shopkeepers and real estate agents. Except for you, of course. I didn't feel any need to go looking for friends."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"No, you're right. I'm the one who called you up to say I was feeling lonely."

"But I do understand. The woman who takes care of my children, I've known her a long time, but she's not really a friend."

"I was surprised today. I bought a sketchbook, you know, and went out today."

"From your hotel?"

"Oh, no, I forgot to tell you. I have a lovely apartment on rue de Sévigné. It's perfect. Now I know why I called you. I'm lonely because I haven't see you. And I owe you dinner. When do you think you can come over?"

"Well, that's very nice of you. It doesn't have to be so soon, Carolyn. When you're more settled in."

Carolyn wondered if she made a French faux pas. "I'm settled in. There isn't much to settle in to. I'm happy with my apartment. It has a beautiful view of a park, and huge windows. Lots of light. Perfect for my studio."

"Your studio?"

Carolyn laughed. "Well, it's just my bedroom, but I don't sleep in there, it's perfect for painting."

"And you have been painting already?"

"No, that's just it. You see, I bought a sketchbook and graphite pencils and I was finished with the apartment and decided it was time to go out and sketch something."

"That sounds like the right thing to do," Nathalie said in a sympathetic voice.

"But I couldn't do it. I couldn't find anything."

"Nothing? Where did you go?"

"Nowhere. Just around here."

"You mean you walked around the Marais and you couldn't find anything to sketch?"

"You know, Nathalie, I wouldn't put it that way. There were places to sketch everywhere. Modern, medieval, historic, everything. But I couldn't find anything I wanted to draw. Can you understand that?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then Nathalie spoke. "It just means you're not ready yet. You know what I think?"

"What?"

"It's just too pretty for you. You know, the Paris everyone loves, super beautiful Marais. I think it means you want to be different. I wouldn't even worry about it. Something will hit you, and you'll know."

"Well, you're right about that. It's exactly what I was thinking today, that I'd come on some scene and know that was what I wanted. But it never happened."

Nathalie's voice took on a harder tone. "Carolyn, it's not so dramatic. It just means you don't want to do pretty street scenes. What's so horrible about that?"

Carolyn sighed. "Nothing, the way you put it. Look, let's change the subject. What about you coming over for dinner? I don't have much of a kitchen, but they have nice shops around here. Is Bernard still here?"

"No, he's gone to his station. It's just me and the kids, I'm afraid."

"Okay, then, why don't you come over here. There's a perfect park for them. Anne will love it, I'm on the seventh floor and she can use the really small elevator. How about it?"

"Yes, then, it sounds really nice. The weekend? Saturday?"

"Yeah, Saturday. Tell you what, I'll come over there first and we'll bring the kids back together. It will be fun. And you know what, I think I'll go to Thanksgiving, on rue Saint Paul. They have American food. I'll get hot dogs and buns, baked beans and potato salad. Tell Anne, I think she'll like it. I hope."

"That's a brilliant idea. Don't worry, Anne eats anything. See you then, Carolyn."

"All right. And thank you, Nathalie." Carolyn took the phone away from her ear but heard Nathalie's voice still speaking.

"Carolyn, what about you? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"I guess—just because—it doesn't matter. I thought maybe you had a craving for American food. You aren't weakening, are you?"

"Oh my god, why would you think that? Because of the hot dogs? Not me. No, I just thought it would be fun for Anne, that's all. Don't read anything into it."

In fact, the first hot dogs were a bust. It was the Kraft yellow mustard. But Anne warmed up to them when Carolyn put Dijon mustard on them. Even the baby liked a spoonful of the sauce from the baked beans. The kids loved the park, and the two women caught up on the history of the last two years.

As they cleaned everything up, and Nathalie was changing the baby and getting Nathalie's coat on, he said, "Carolyn, I want to invite you next weekend to my grandmother's house. I'm sorry Bernard won't be there, but I think you would love my grandmother. There will be the whole family there, so it'll be crazy with kids. But it's just outside Senlis, only an hour away, well, if we're lucky with traffic, and you'll have lots of opportunity to just walk around by yourself and sketch. Grandma lives outside town, so it's like a country estate. Small, but beautiful. Why don't we go down on Friday afternoon and stay the weekend?"

"That's wonderful," Carolyn replied, suddenly excited. "But if a lot of people are going to be there—"

"Oh, don't worry about that. I've already talked to Grandma already. We're the only one's staying the weekend, so there'll be plenty of room."

Anne jumped up and down. "Say yes, Aunt Carolyn, please say yes. You can save me from my awful cousins."

Carolyn gave her a mock frown. "Oo, they sound awful."

"Yes, boys can be mean."

"Well then," Carolyn said, "I'll be sure and watch out for you."

"Good, it's settled then. I'll take Friday off, why don't you come over for lunch, bring a little suitcase and your sketchbook, and we'll do it. We'll take the train, it's easy, and then take the bus from the train station in Senlis."

"That's fun," Anne said.

"And we'll eat lunch there."

"The restaurant serves wild boar," Anne said, looking at Carolyn to see if she could scare her a little bit.

"Mm." Carolyn replied, "Sounds good. But once in San Francisco I had ostrich. Have you ever had that?"

Anne shook her head, and then looked sideways as if she were trying to think of something else exotic to eat.

"What about ostrich eggs, have you ever seen those?"

Anne shook her head again.

"They are almost as big as a soccer ball."

Anne laughed and put her hand over her mouth.

"Come on, you guys, we'll never get home if you keep this up."

They left and Carolyn sat down, reviewing the day in her mind. She had never dreamed to find such a friend in Paris. She picked up the phone and dialed Beatrice, but put it down before it could be answered. No, she thought, that would be weakening, like Nathalie said.

Instead, she tidied up the house, and went for a walk in the neighborhood, stopping at La Verrière, and enjoyed white Dubonnet and crème brulé, watching the people, her neighbors as she thought of them, even if they didn't yet know who she was. She enjoyed this immensely, being one of them and yet not. That was to come. She felt so good, she finished her little aperitif and went to visit Hervé at the ratty Hotel des Archives. To remind herself that he was her first friend. Well, after Nathalie, who was really an old friend. Now, her best friend. And Grandma. Grandmère. She suddenly really looked forward to this weekend. But then it occurred to her, what about Nathalie's mother? She guessed she would find out about that next week, too.

Now she had a week to kill before the trip. Maybe she would try sketching again. Hervé might have some good ideas. But he wasn't there. She had no interest in talking to the skinny boy in the lobby who was there.

She returned home and opened a bottle of pastis and found her favorite spot at the window, watching the somber shadows of evening overtake Paris. It was so nice to just relax as the sky darkened and the city lightened. Evening in Paris. Could there be anything so lovely? It was like—as if—the world was waking up, just when the day was through, and everyone was home, home to families—to grandmères—, to dinner, with French food, listening to French news, reading Le Monde or Le Figaro, kids fighting at the table, frantic mothers trying to get everything ready, having to cook from scratch.

She felt free now, just being herself, with no one else to answer to. It was going to happen, she was sure. Her life was just about to begin. Here. Soon. Somehow.

And she sensed now she was given a week, she didn't make to make decisions, or make progress, or live up to anything. Just kill time until next weekend.

Which she did. She walked the streets of the Marais, down to the Seine, but away from the huge Pompidou modern art museum. Instead she walked toward the Saint Martin canal. Waiting to understand what it is that she is supposed to be looking for.

On the rue du Parc Royal she observed a sign pointing to the Musée Picasso, but felt no pull from that direction. She instinctively stopped before a large white building opening on to an inner courtyard with cobblestones, but meticulously maintained in clean white walls with red, white and pink geraniums in tubs. The entrance indicated Hotel de Retz, 1613, which intrigued her. Inside the courtyard, Desson Galerie was written in gold renaissance lettering on the wall. She felt pulled her inside a second courtyard, where she found two black modern mobiles. They didn't interest her, but she went in the door into a completely white interior space with paintings on several walls. No one else was in sight. The paintings shocked Carolyn. Not as a person, but as an artist. Their point, in garish blues, greens, bloody red seemed to be that there was some kind of beautify to be expected in the portrayal of violent death. Almost all the victims were women, and the scenes were of naked women, often watched in their death throes by groups of people who seemed out of place. She walked out. As she closed the door, a face appeared in one of the windows, but she dismissed the face with a wave of her hands.

She hurried out to the street and turned left, then turned right at the next corner. Halfway down, another gallery. Now she was curious to see if the Desson was typical for the neighborhood. But it wasn't. There was no representative painting side, in fact no painting at all. There were two rooms with an assortment of red or black square boxes. Someone's idea of simplicity of space or something. In the second room there were two life-size statues, sort of made of wire thick as rope, seeming to be people, with wire eyes and mouths, each strand of wire a different primary color. A young skinny girl with long black hair and outsized glasses watched her from behind a desk with brochures scattered across the top. The girl did not smile, she just sat there and looked. Carolyn left turned to go out and laughed out loud when she saw a beautifully drawn skull with a droopy carrot sticking out as a nose, and she kept walking, but not in a hurry, and she didn't wave goodbye.

Two down. This is Paris, she thought, it's not a big enough sample. I will keep going. But at least I now know what I'm going to do this week. Somewhere in Paris there must be art galleries that will appeal to me. Or an artist.

Several doors away she entered Galerie Jean Broullet. She was ready to be disappointed, and it must have shown on her face. A young man with scraggly blond hair, a day's beard on his face, wearing jeans obviously bought at a boutique to look chicly worn, and the red shoes of a cardinal, walked toward her from the back of the room. "Are you lost?" he said, his face betraying his dismissal of her. "Can I help you?" He said it like she was a little child.

"No, I'm just out for a walk. Do I have to commit to buying something before I come in here?"

He put his hand up to his mouth and studied her. "Not at all. I didn't mean to offend you. Walk around as you please. If you have any questions, I'll be in the back."

"Thank you," she said, with a sincere smile.

The smile had an effect on him. His voice became warmer. "Perhaps I might give you a tour of my little gallery."

"Oh, you are Jean Broullet?"

"Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you. You are?"

"Carolyn Stuart."

"Oh, American. I could not tell from your accent."

"Or Canadian, British, Australian, from New Zealand."

"Excuse me," he said, bowing slightly. "I just assumed you were an American student. I should not have. Are you looking for art?"

"To be honest, Mr. Broullet, I'm not. I'm out looking at galleries in Paris. For my education, you might say, but not as a student."

"Okay, let's forget all that." He put his hand behind her back and moved her toward a large painting on the wall before them.

Carolyn moved away from him, but looked him in the eyes and smiled. "Tell me about it."

They stood before a canvas of a man in the prairie, sitting before a fire, with an old train or bus behind him, then a fence, then more countryside. All in subtle shades of blue, gray, brown, green.

"This is Stefan Cruvet. He lives in Normandy, up north. It's our first exhibition of one of his paintings. His first time in Paris, I believe. Tell me, what do you think about it, Carolyn."

"To be honest, as an American—" She raised her finger and smiled at him in recognition of his good guess. "I think it's derivative. It looks like Andrew Wyeth, but without the inherent drama."

Jean looked at the painting for a moment, then said, "You may be right. Except that Wyeth doesn't have the color that you see with Stefan. A different temperament."

She nodded. "More color perhaps, but less emotion."

Carolyn spent the next half hour with the man, who gradually came to understand her knowledge of painting, and became less interesting to her. She thanked him and left, but first said to him that she did like the Stefan Cruvet painting.

"Oh, I thought you said it was derivative."

"It is, I think, and so it is overpriced" she said as she opened the door to leave. "But I still like it. Perhaps he has other paintings that are more original. You have a very interesting gallery. I will come back another time."

"As you wish, Mademoiselle. You have great confidence in your personal opinions. I wish you a very good day." Jean looked at Carolyn as if he didn't believe what she said.

She didn't care. She just walked out. But she thought about what she had just seen. True, it was right to call the painting derivative, but it did have a strong personal center to it. It had the young man in the center, and you wondered what he was doing there.

She felt suddenly better about what she was doing. She understood that she was capable of entering any gallery in Paris and holding her own, and she hadn't even thought about it. It gave her confidence to continue.

What she had seen so far, such a meager sample of what Paris had to offer, three galleries and only one painting she had liked, and no sculptures, made her think that she would have to view a wide range of Paris galleries before she could understand what she was after.

She remembered back to Berkeley, to Marc Silver's comments. He had said that she was still experimenting with her styles. And she had to admit that it was true. Even now, here in this great international city of art, she was experimenting with her styles. She was trying to figure out what appealed to her. She didn't know what it was.

Well, in California that lack of concentration had cost her the entrance to a school. Here it didn't matter. She wasn't looking for entrance to anything.

It hit her. It wasn't about entrance. It was about acceptance. That was her whole problem. She wanted to be accepted, she wanted recognition, she wanted approval. All of that brought her back to her mother.

No longer. She didn't give a damn about anybody else's opinion. She had her own. She walked past a sign that said Century 21 and laughed to herself, thinking how small the world was.

The words on a window caught her eye. Galerie Parent. A large gold-lettering sign on a black background. A small storefront in an old building with a typically Parisian grayish-green façade. Inside were a couple dressed in habitual jeans and jackets, and a man in a gray business suit, with white wavy hair, dark blue fedora in hand. The couple were looking around as if they didn't know where they were, but the man was studying a painting.

A painting, she thought, that's a good start already. But when she looked at the painting, she felt no pull whatsoever. It seemed representational enough, a human torso against a plain light gray background, with a playing car, a Jack of Hearts, sticking out of a woman's ass. She wanted to laugh. And now her respect for the presumably serious businessman disappeared. She turned away to see what else was on the wall.

Her attention was caught by a small sculpture in the middle of the room. It was shiny black, a woman, naked, sitting on the floor, her legs turned under her and her arms resting on her knees. She was a young woman, with high breasts, and hair flowing straight out the back. Carolyn studied it. The woman was at rest. The sculptured surfaces were all smooth. There was no attempt to show any kind of struggle with the image coming out of the material. This was different. Was the artist interested in the person? Or maybe the material? She couldn't figure it out, but she was intrigued.

A large woman with several strands of pearls around her neck and three or four gold bracelets, caught Carolyn's attention. She was wearing a red dress and high-heeled shiny black shoes.

Carolyn felt a bit uncomfortable as the woman stared at her. What had she done that deserved that much attention?

The woman smiled at her, then walked toward her, stopping on the other side of the sculpture. "I see you're interested in this."

Carolyn nodded. "I don't know if I would go that far. If you mean am I looking to buy it, then certainly not. But I do like it as a work of art."

The woman nodded. "Yes, many do. It's by Paola Piccolo. She has work in several places around Paris. I was very fortunate to be able to get this piece."

"I understand," Carolyn replied. "It's very—human—I would say. It draws me in, to wonder about it. And yet I can't help thinking that maybe the artist—Paola—is thinking beyond that, to the expressiveness of the form alone. I'm sorry, I don't know her, Paola, but I feel like I do."

The woman opened her eyes wide and pursed her lips, trying to think of what to say next, as if this were a game of artistic expression chess. "I've heard that about her work."

This put Carolyn off. It's so easy to say, when someone makes a comment, that you've heard it before. "But then it's what makes it interesting, isn't it, this tension between different element. Paola— what did you say—" But then Carolyn looked down at the label on the floor. "Piccolo. She has succeeded very well."

The woman held out her hand. "Céline. How do you do?"

Carolyn shook the woman's hand and smiled. "Nice to meet you."

Céline pointed to the sculpture. "She's almost your age."

There. Again. Carolyn's age. This woman had pegged her as a student. Carolyn's face suddenly felt cold and solid. "She has no age," she said, "she could be 19th century, but I presume she's contemporary. I don't think age has anything to do with it.

"I'm sorry," Celine said. " She put her hand on her breastbone, fingered her pearls, and looked around the room in embarrassment. "You're right, I didn't mean it that way. Or, at least, I didn't want to. I do appreciate your comments, however. You have a well developed artistic sensibility."

Carolyn put her hand out again to Céline. "Thank you. My name is Carolyn. I live just a few blocks from here. Today I'm out getting to know the Marais, looking at galleries mostly. Well, exclusively. Seeing what I like and don't like about art in Paris today. Is this your gallery?"

"Mine? Yes and no. It belongs to my daughter. She bought it from me. But I opened it many years ago. I live upstairs and manage it for her when she's away." She stole a look at the man who had moved from the painting of the naked rear. "We do have our differences. I adore this sculpture, and she like things like the painting on the wall with the—with the Jack of Hearts. We clash sometimes, but we do separate commissions, so it works out." She put her hand down and smiled. "Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?"

Carolyn warmed to this woman, who had just revealed personal information to her. "Yes, either would be fine. That's very nice of you."

"I can't leave the gallery for long," Céline said, "but let me go start the water. I'll be right back."

"I'll just look around some more, If you don't mind."

"Make yourself at home."

And Carolyn made herself a new friend in Marais. They had a long talk about the Paris art scene. Céline gave her advice on other galleries to visit. And some contemporary painters to watch out for.

"If you see anything you like in Paris, Carolyn, if you have any questions about it, please come and see me. I don't need to make a living off this stuff. It would give me an excuse to get out of this building for a while. I live just upstairs, and I only go out for shopping. Even when my daughter's here, she tries her hardest to keep me here watching the shop."

"Thank you. I really appreciate your offer, Céline. I'm not really looking for art to buy. Well, I'm not against it. It's more for myself. I'm not sure what I like for myself. So I'm not sure what I want to paint. Or draw."

"Oh, now you've said something new. You are an artist. You've been kidding me."

"Oh no, I haven't been. Please don't think that. It just seemed like the next thing to say to you. That I'm not looking for art to hang on the walls, I'm looking for art that appeals to me. I'm looking for myself, if you will."

"That's perfectly understandable, young lady."

Carolyn visited many galleries during the week. She took her sketchbook out, and decided to go beyond her neighborhood to try the famous and beautiful views in Paris. The Eiffel Tower, Sacré-Coeur, Notre Dame. In Notre Dame she started sketching the outline of the cathedral from the plaza, but she drew a few lines of the towers and lost interest. She walked up the stairs of the tower and stood close to one of the gargoyles and put her hand on the sketchbook, but could not move the pencil on the paper. At Sacré-Coeur, on the very top of Montmartre, she found the vista of the city below her too vague and ambiguous for sketching. At Place du Tertre, she enjoyed a glass of white wine, and saw the prettiness of the place, and sighed and couldn't relate to it. Just too picturesque. She looked down the stairs of Mont-Cenis, even walked down them to the bottom, and watched the merry-go-round outside the mayor's office.

This, she thought to herself, isn't what I want to do. She took the metro home to her apartment on rue de Sévigné, opened up the window and looked out at Paris. She began to wonder if it had not all been a huge mistake.

Had she, all this time, been coming to Paris? Or had she been just running away from New York?

If I can't draw, she thought, how am I ever going to paint? Her white bedroom, empty and set up as a studio with the light from the big window now seemed a gigantic mistake. I am no closer to figuring out who I am.

She pursued her art no more for the next few days. Instead, she studied different restaurants for lunch and dinner, looked in at clothing stores and jewelry stores.

Finally, Friday afternoon, she packed a change of clothes for the weekend, dressed in her brown corduroy slacks and a t-shirt, and took the subway to Nathalie's house in the 16th arrondissement. Nathalie and her two daughters were waiting for her.

"So, did you have a good week, Carolyn?" Nathalie looked beautiful and glamorous in her black jeans and white cowl neck cashmere sweater. Her brown hair was pulled severely back in a bun, which accentuated her green pendulant earrings and hazel eyes. She carried Marie, and let Anne go down with Carolyn to the car.

"The car?" Carolyn raised her eyebrows. "Not that it matters."

"Yeah," Nathalie said, "I just didn't want to take the bus from the train station. And we'll have more freedom when we're there. To explore.

Anne added her opinion. "And we might be stuck driving with Marc."

Two hours later they approached the outskirts of Senlis.

"I'm so happy we came this afternoon," Nathalie said. "Even though traffic has slowed us down, we'll have Grandmère to ourselves tonight."

"And no boys, either," Anne volunteered from the back, loud and clear.

"Now, ma Chérie, you know you'll have fun."

"Yes, with Sidonie and Yolande. But not Marc. Or François. They are nasty."

"All right, young lady, we get the picture. You don't have to play with the boys if you don't want to."

"And I don't want to eat with them, either."

Carolyn turned to the back of the car and gave Anne five fingers. Anne hit her hand and said, "Oui!"

"Oh, now don't you go encouraging her," Nathalie said, looking quickly at Carolyn and back to the road. "It's not so bad as she makes out."

Carolyn nodded and laughed, then turned to the back again. "Will you introduce me to your friends?"

Anne nodded seriously. "My friends."

"Look," Nathalie said, with relief in her voice. "We're almost there." She turned to Carolyn again. "We don't go into Senlis proper. We can do that some time while we're here. It's a beautiful town."

Nathalie turned off the road and approached a large white wrought-iron gate. She got out of the car and went to the side of the gate, where she punched a button. She said something and nodded. The gate opened and Nathalie returned to the car. They drove along a dirt road through a very large lawn and toward a three-story mansion.

Carolyn looked over to Nathalie. "You didn't tell me your grandmother lived in a grand house like this."

"No, but it's not so grand inside."

"Your family must come from nobility or something."

"Not at all. My great-great-grandfather built this house. I'm not sure how he came to do it. It's just always been there for me. My grandmother and my mother were born and raised here. I've been coming here all my life."

"Me, too," Anne said in the back.

Carolyn turned around and smiled at her.

"Yes," Nathalie said. "Over to the right, there beyond the trees, are the vineyards. That's all that left of the estate. It's enough to support my grandmother and grandfather and keep the house in the family. But when they're gone, who knows. Probably my aunts and uncles will all fight over it."

"Oh," Carolyn said, as if surprised.

"What?" Nathalie replied, sounding a bit worried.

"Well—I don't know their names, your grandparents."

"You're right, I never said. My grandmother is Marthe. And my grandfather, Luc. Luc and Marthe de Voisier."

"That sounds impressive. Aristocratic."

"Maybe, we don't really know. There aren't any genealogists in our family."

"Marthe. And Luc. Thank you, that makes it easier to greet them. Even if you introduce us."

The gray stone house loomed over them, three stories high, plus gabled windows looking out from the roof. Four stories, plus a basement, no doubt. The house was as aristocratic as the surname of the family. And only two people were living there? Carolyn was already curious for answers when they pulled to a stop just before they arrived at the front door.

The front door opened and an older woman came out. She was tall and thin, but she seemed strong. Her graying hair was pushed to the back, just like Nathalie, but a large section in front hung down in front of her face. Her large dark red sweater spread out like a cape over her shoulders. She wore a dark blue dress with large white buttons and a black scarf around her neck. She strode out to the top of the steps and waved, her smile beaming out her happiness. The man who followed her out, full of a grand smile himself, had a white goatee and mustache and white hair that billowed out on top. He was much bigger than the woman, with great shoulders and chest, but his stomach was narrow. They both looked like they'd never been to a doctor in their lives.

Anne jumped out of the car and ran up the steps. She hugged Marthe first, then quick ran to Luc and hugged him.

"Come on," Nathalie said. She went around to the side of the car and took the baby out of the car. She held Marie up for the grandparents to see, although the little girl was somewhat frightened by the exuberance of it all.

"Ah, petite Marie," Marthe exclaimed. She stepped quickly down to the ground, as if she were no older than Nathalie herself. "My little baby." She took the child away from Nathalie and gave it wet kisses on both cheeks.

Marie seemed suddenly to recognize her great grandmother. She smiled and clapped her hands.

"And my Nathalie," Marthe said, with a happy wide smile, and she embraced her granddaughter as they exchanged kisses on the cheeks. "And this must be your friend Carolyn," she said. She gave Marie back to her mother, took Carolyn's hands in her own and kissed her on both cheeks. "Welcome. Welcome to La Chêne Cloîtré."

Carolyn looked into the woman's eyes. Light blue with flecks of black. They shone with a slight mist, not tears, but of joy. The woman's warmth came over her.

"Thank you. It's so very nice of you to invite me here."

"I'm happy you came today. Tomorrow the others will be here and it will be crazy. For the afternoon. But come, come inside, you must be starving. I've made tea and we'll have some nice cake."

"Cake," Anne yelled. "Grandma makes the best cake in the world."

"Yes, it's true," Marthe said, "It's the best way to keep your children coming home. I made your favorite, Anne. Do you know what it is?"

"Plum cake?"

"Yes, I'm glad we agree."

As they went up the steps, Luc held the door for them. "Nice to meet you," he said to Carolyn. He bent over and kissed her on both cheeks.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for having me." The soft warm glow of his light brown eyes made her feel welcome.

"Yes, but, you know, you are someone different for us. Tomorrow the kids all come and today we can have a very quiet evening together. And get to know you more. Nathalie speaks very highly of you." He smiled and gestured for her to enter the house.

"Oh, that's nice of her. She's my best friend in Paris, so it's very warm of you to say so."

The hallway was classic French, with worn wood parquet floors. The ceiling was extraordinarily high, with a large crystal chandelier hanging over the middle. A room opened to the right, another the left. In the back a wide staircase led to a landing facing up to a bright stained glass coat of arms, with the blue French lilies and red lions.

Carolyn pointed up to it. "Is that your family?"

He laughed. "Maybe. I've checked in Paris, and there is no registered coat of arms for de Voisier. So I suspect my grandfather, he was one who would do it, I think they found a local glazier and had them make it. It was important to him, I remember, all the family stuff."

Voice came from the room to the right, and Luc led Carolyn in there. This room had beautiful antique furniture, and several old landscape paintings graced the walls. Translucent lace curtains let in a gentle light from large windows, and red and gold drapery made an elegant frame around them, on two sides of the room.

Marthe looked up at their arrival. "Come, my dear, sit next to me." She patted the blue brocade Victorian sofa and smiled at Carolyn in expectation. Nathalie and Anne sat in elegant chairs. Nathalie held Marie, asleep, in her lap.

Carolyn sat next to Marthe. "Such a beautiful home. Such beautiful furniture."

"It's not antique," Marthe said, dismissing the furniture with a wave. "It's nice, but it's just early 20th century, not older than that."

Luc let himself heavily into a deep armchair. "We do have a few pieces, but they are in the attic. At least until Marc and François grow older and settle down.

At that, Anne laughed out loud. "See, see, I told you so," she said to Carolyn.

"Told you so what?" Luc said, leaning forward toward Anne.

Nathalie answered for her. "She already told Carolyn that Marc and François were—shall we say—" She looked down at Anne. "They're rambunctious and not good company for little girls."

Luc laughed heartily. "Oh, I understand that. I'm on Anne's side. They're good boys, don't misunderstand me. But, as I said, it's best not to let them near the good furniture."

"Oh, you're being too hard on them," Marthe said. "They're just boys. You would hurt their feelings if they heard you talk like that."

"Yes, you're right. I'm getting it out of the way today so I can keep quiet tomorrow." He laughed to himself. Speaking to Carolyn he said, "Anyway, it's not that bad. Let's just say that Anne and I have a more elegant view of things."

"The baby's sleeping well," Marthe said.

"Thank god," Nathalie replied.

"Did she do well on the trip down?"

"Oh, Anne was an angel and kept her occupied the whole way. I am really grateful for that." Nathalie stroked Anne's hair."

Marthe stood. "Anne, will you help me serve the plum cake? Maybe we'll have a sample before we bring it in?"

"Oh, yes, Grandma, I'll help you."

The two of them disappeared out into the hall.

"Grandpa," Nathalie said, "how are you feeling? Has your arthritis been bothering you?"

He shook his head. "It's been fine. We've had warm weather, so I've been out looking at the vines. I don't trust them."

"But they've been doing it for years."

"I know. And they do an excellent job. It's just, I used to do a lot myself, you know, and it's hard to let it go. I need to see for myself. That's what I really mean."

"What kind of grapes are they?" Carolyn said.

"Ah," Luc said, nodding, "I see you appreciate wine. My grapes are Chenin Blanc."

"Oh, I know that. We have that wine in California, too. In Napa Valley, north of San Francisco."

"Yes," Luc said, "Napa wines. I have heard of them, too. But I have never tasted them."

"Is there a chance I might taste your wines? Are they the grapes that are just outside the house?"

"Two questions. Let me see. Yes, tomorrow with dinner, we will serve our 1975, and maybe the 1977. We'll see. Tell you what, why don't you come with me down to the cellar, if you're interested?"

"Not now," Marthe said, as she and Anne came in the room. Anne carried a tray with a beautiful round cake topped with plums.

"Oh, that looks delicious," Carolyn said spontaneously.

"We'll go to the cellar another time. You're saying the weekend, right?"

Nathalie answered for her. "We are, Grandpa. I don't want to leave until Sunday afternoon. I was hoping to show Carolyn some of Senlis Sunday morning."

"But, I do want to see the cellar. I'm not a connoisseur of wines, but I want to learn more. Would you also take me out to where the grapes are planted?" She surprised herself with the way she invited herself. But everyone was so warm. She just felt invited.

"I would love to show you," Luc said.

"There, you've said just the perfect thing." Marthe smiled at Carolyn as she made the table ready. "He's afraid that none of the children are interested in keeping up the vineyard."

Luc addressed Carolyn. "You know what happened in the middle of the 19th Century?"

"Yes, I think so. I understand that the French grape plants were devastated by a fungus. Is that it?"

"You've got it. And so they imported vines from California and grafted them on. I don't argue with that. It saved the French wine industry. French wine culture, I mean to say." Luc nodded heavily, his eyes dark and glaring. "I don't want to take anything away from the Americans. But it's the ground that matters, the dirt, the history."

"That's true, Monsieur. Every wine region is distinct because of the particular soil. I do know that."

"But, what you don't know is that these grapes escaped the fungus. There has been no grafting on these vines. There were many others also, I don't want to make too much of it. I'm not anti-American. Believe me, I know, the Americans liberated this house from the Germans. I'm just saying. These grapes, this Chenin blanc on this land, they are special. And now no one cares but me." He was breathing harder, his voice getting louder.

Marthe went over to him and touched him on the shoulder. "Ma Chérie, will you please calm down. We're ready to have our cake."

Luc nodded and sighed. "Yes, of course, I'll stop this nonsense."

"It's not nonsense," Carolyn said. "I'm really sorry no one wants to carry on. I would if I had a grandfather like you." Deep inside she felt the loneliness she had grown up with all her life. "I still want to see the grapes. And the cellar."

Luc laughed at her and said, "Thank you." He cocked his head and raised his bushy white eyebrows in theatrical exaggeration. "Marthe is right. I think we should have our cake now before Anne gets too hungry."

Anne sighed in relief, looking at her mother, unaware that anyone noticed her reaction.

"This cake is delicious," Carolyn said, turning to Anne. "I've never had plum cake. And it has—what—brandy in it?"

Anne's eyes opened wide, and she looked at her mother again, this time in alarm.

"Oh no," Marthe said, "Anne, there's no alcohol. It gets burned away. You remember the flambé I made last year?"

Anne nodded, but remained serious.

"Well, it's the same thing. And anyway, you haven't had any ill effects from my plum cake, have you?" She watched Anne with a serious face.

"No."

"Fine, it's all right then," Nathalie said. "You're not eating any alcohol."

Luc turned to Carolyn. "Anyway, it's not brandy, it's Plucia plum liqueur. Just one of the many ways that Marthe invents to make ordinary food extraordinary."

"Oh, Luc, stop that, will you? I like to cook, that's all."

"No, I won't. It's true. She thinks I'm bragging for your benefit, Carolyn, but in reality I'm doing it to keep the good stuff coming."

"That's right. He flatters me because he likes to eat like a gourmand. And you can see it on him."

"Go ahead, Marthe, make fun of me. It's all right. I don't mind. Just tell me what we're having for dinner. Is it bread and water again?"

Nathalie and Anne laughed at the silly conversation.

"I guess you'll just have to wait and see, won't you?" Marthe said, winking at her husband.

"No, I can't. You have to tell me so I can go to the cellar and choose the right wines. So, I'm sorry, I don't have to wait." He said to Carolyn, "Yes, there, you can come with me and help me choose the wine."

"I'd love to," Carolyn said. "Not choose the wine but go to the cellar. Do you have any California wines? My mother has a winery."

Marthe, Luc, Nathalie and Anne stared at her.

"A winery?" Luc said, his face showing his surprise.

"Oh, I don't mean she's like you. She doesn't make wine. It's just—she has an investment in a winery in Rutherford. That's the best grape terrain in California. Cabernet sauvignon. They make Bordeaux-style wines."

Luc's face lit up. "I see. Bordeaux. Cabernet. So your mother is serious, is she?"

"She likes her wine, if that's what you mean. She doesn't have a cellar, but she does have a climate controlled wine cabinet."

He leaned over and spoke in conspiratorial tones. "You didn't happen to bring any with you, did you?"

She laughed. "No, I'm afraid not. It's mostly private, for a wine club she belongs to. But if it's possible, I'll try and get you some."

"Yes," he said, looking at his wife. "Perhaps you could find out if they have a distributor here in France. I find this most interesting."

"I will, sometime. I haven't paid much attention to it at home. It was just something she always did and I wasn't part of it."

"I think you were mostly too young, wasn't that it?" Nathalie said. She stroked her daughter's hair.

"Mostly. We didn't drink much wine at home, and then I've been away at school these past years."

"And your semester with me," Nathalie said.

"I do like French wines," Carolyn said. "I admit to being partial to Côtes du Rhône. At home they call that grape petite syrah."

Luc looked up in companionable joy, his eyes open wide. "I think you know more than you let on, young lady."

Carolyn shook her head. "No, I think you mistake my meager knowledge for more than it is."

"I think you're losing the rest of us," Marthe said. "I'm going to take care of these dishes, and then maybe we can all go for a walk. It's beautiful outside."

"Yes, yes, you're right," Luc said. "But people are interesting." He raised his teacup to Carolyn.

Carolyn did the same, then raised hers to Nathalie and Anne. "Thank you so much. And thank you Anne, for asking for this cake. It's pretty marvelous."

"It's my favorite," Anne said.

"Let me help you," Carolyn said, picking things off the table.

"Why not?" Marthe said. "I'm not going to do the dishes, I'll just wait for Querubina tomorrow." She turned to Carolyn as they walked to the kitchen. "She's my housekeeper."

"That's a beautiful name," Carolyn said.

"She's Portuguese, such a hard worker. She comes in three times a week. Anyway, thank you for the help. Nathalie has her hands full with little Marie."

"She's a beautiful baby. It must be hard with her, you know, with Bernard away so much."

Carolyn stopped and stared in awe when they entered the kitchen. She turned around for a sweeping view of the room. It was cavernous. At the end was a huge fireplace, and across the top a copper bar, with what looked like a dozen gleaming copper pots and hanging down.

Marthe observed Carolyn with amusement. "That's Querubina. She's a fanatic about keeping things polished."

"But so much work," Carolyn exclaimed in disbelief.

"It looks like it, yes. But there's only Luc and I here, so she just takes her time."

"But it's so majestic. The whole room. I think of rooms like this as being a museum."

"Oh, come now. You're not a tourist any more, Carolyn." Marthe's face displayed her satisfaction just as her voice bore a note of criticism.

Carolyn nodded. "But I worked in the Louvre, so I know what a nice place is. I've been to Versailles. It's just that this is your home. You baked your cake in here."

"I'm glad you like it, then." Marthe nods to herself, accepting Carolyn's feelings.

Carolyn studied the rest of the rooms, the high beamed ceilings, the windows looking out over the park-like setting outdoors, the large rooster pottery and baskets on the mantelpiece high up, the gas stove with six or seven burners, the huge ovens. The Delft dishes in the breakfront. The pot with wooden spatulas sticking out of it like a whittled bouquet.

Carolyn turned to Marthe who studied her with a frown and concern in her eyes.

"I guess, you're right," Carolyn said, "it's a French country home." She looked at Marthe's eyes and winced inside. "It's your home. It's Luc's home. That's it. Nathalie has been such a friend to me, and you are so kind. Yes, it's not the room exactly. It's just that I put some dishes on the counter."

"Are you all right?" Marthe said.

Carolyn intertwined her fingers and held them up. "Yes, I don't mean to sound difficult. I just love it here. Does that make any sense to you?"

Marthe shook her head. "My dear, as they say, if you're happy, I'm happy. But you are a bit emotional, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I know what it is," Carolyn said. "It's because I never knew my grandparents."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Marthe held out her arm to Carolyn, then embraced her. "I'm very sorry. But I know your feeling, you see. We have lost so many people in France from two wars. It's not so strange to me to feel alone in this world."

Carolyn felt flushed and her eyes felt hot and near tears.

"Sit down, my dear, and let me give you something." Marthe opened a cabinet and took down an unmarked bottle with clear liquid in it. "Home made liqueur. Luc's concoction. It works wonders for the soul." She poured it into a shot glass. Then she poured another. She lifted her glass and gave one to Carolyn. "To your health."

"To your health, Marthe," Carolyn responded. She downed the liqueur and felt the burn in her chest and stomach. Her tears were replaced by other tears from the liqueur. "Wow. Luc knows what he is doing."

"He wins prizes with his wine and liqueur. Unfortunately, they're just ribbons. Are you feeling better now?"

"Yes. Now I feel like I have this kitchen inside me."

Marthe laughed. "We'd better go back. They'll wonder what happened to us."

"But, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Certainly. How can I help you?"

"Will you let me draw your portrait?"

"Me?"

"Yes, yes, thank you. I've been wandering around Paris trying to sketch things. I haven't been able to put a thing on paper. Now, today, in this kitchen, I do. You've made me very happy. Oh—I don't want to take up your time." Carolyn didn't see any trouble in Marthe's face, but she felt as if she was simply demanding too much. Tomorrow was a big day with so many people coming. "Maybe some other time, you have your family coming."

Marthe shook her head slowly from side to side and looked at Carolyn in disbelief. "Yes, perhaps you're right. But I don't care. I would much rather sit for you than cook for them. I'll ask Querubina to come over, and then instead of cooking we'll just go into Senlis and—you know, they're all like you, everybody just loves this kitchen. I'll let them enjoy it while they use it. They always say I do too much. Well, then, not this time."

"Thank you so much. I would love to draw you outside, in your garden."

"How about now? It's fine with me. There's still plenty of daylight. Come on, we'd better get back in there—if you're feeling all right now."

"Yes, I'm fine. I was truly overcome with emotion. I left my sketchbook in the car. I want to go get it."

In no time at all, they were all sitting outside surrounded by red, pink and white roses. Nathalie held little Marie by the arms and helped her walk. Anne and Luc pretended to play chess together. Carolyn sat opposite Marthe, pencil poised over a blank page.

"You can't do that," Luc said, laughing. "She just knocked over my king. That's now how you win."

Anne's voice pierced the air as she laughed in childlike glee.

Carolyn studied Marthe, her graying hair standing out from the dark green and pink of the rose bush behind her, her eyes now a shade of darker blue, the black flecks more prominent. And her mouth, naturally upturned and smiling even though closed and trying to be serious. Her skin, soft and radiant within, with just a few wrinkles.

Marthe sat straight in her chair, her hands on her knees. Her head was slightly cocked, and she looked at Carolyn's face. She didn't just sit for a portrait, she made herself open to the artist, she put her heart out to her. Her eyes, above her high cheekbones, looked at Carolyn with love and sympathy.

Carolyn sketched the outlines of the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and thin arms. Then she put in the outlines of the face, drew the hair, put shadows on the face and hair and neck. She added warmth to the shadows between hair and face and underneath cheekbones, then merged the outside of the hair with the background.

"Carolyn," Marthe said, "do you know nothing of your grandparents."

Carolyn shook her head. "Nothing at all on my father's side. He left my mother before I was born. On my mother's side, I didn't know them, either. My grandfather died when I was young. I did see a portrait of him painted by my grandmother. But she died in 1943 in Versailles."

Marthe sat up in surprise. "Oh my. Versailles. Have you seen her grave?"

Carolyn put her pencil down. She slumped in her chair and spoke without lifting her head. A pain gripped the back of her throat. So close. "No. I haven't gone."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Marthe looked over at Nathalie before continuing. "I didn't mean to bother you about it."

Carolyn looked up and sighed. "You haven't. Not at all. I just haven't settled down yet."

"Certainly, I won't go on about it. And I didn't mean to interrupt my sitting." Marthe smiled.

Carolyn looked into Marthe's eyes, feeling drawn by the sympathy that came from deep within. She head Nathalie's voice.

"How do you know about your grandmother? That she is buried at Versailles?"

"I don't know that she's buried there. Her grave is in New York. It's a small cemetery downtown. The gravestone says she died in Versailles, September 4, 1943."

"That's certainly not very far," Marthe said. "Oh, there I go again, telling you what to do."

"No, no, it's fine," Carolyn said. "Having met you, here, with your family, it makes me really want to try and find out what happened."

"Doesn't your family have any record?"

"My mother says she knows nothing. My aunt in New York said her brother kept no records of it."

"Then I know what you can do," Marthe said. "You go to the town hall in Versailles and see what they can tell you. And then you go to the Red Cross in Paris. They have whole basements full of records, and they are very willing to help you."

"I will do that. Thank you." Carolyn looked at the sketch and smudged some here, deepened shadows there, and added a few lines on the edges. "There. For what it's worth."

"Let me see, let me see." Anne came running over and stood by Carolyn, who held it up for her to see.

"Is it good?" Marthe asked.

"It's beautiful," Anne said.

Carolyn took the drawing over to Marthe, who smiled and looked at Carolyn in gratitude.

"Thank you, my dear. I will cherish it. Oh—I presume I may keep it." She looked sheepish. "Maybe you want it."

"No," Carolyn said. "I did it for you. I can't thank you enough. As I said, I haven't been able to draw at all in Paris. You have taught me something about myself. I am grateful to you all."

Marthe said she would take the drawing in to Senlis and have it professionally framed, and then determine where to hang it. The rest of the weekend went by quickly, with Carolyn helping Anne to avoid her cousins. On Sunday morning they said goodbye to Marthe and Luc.

Carolyn felt herself trembling as she hugged Marthe.

"God bless you, my child," Marthe said. "I think you have real talent. Don't forget what I said. I'm sure you will find something about your grandmother. What is her name?"

"Julia. Julia Stuart."

"Well, Luc knows some people, too. I'll make sure that he follows up with this. You never know. You have to believe. If you make it to Versailles, and walk around the town, you will be where she walked. That is very much in itself."

"I will. Thank you again." Carolyn waved, and they got in the car and returned to Paris.

She didn't wait. The next day she took the RER train and got off at Versailles Rive Gauche. Within minutes she stood before the Monuments To the Dead, just around the corner from city hall on Avenue General de Gaulle. She searched all the names, even though she didn't expect to find anything. Inside city hall, Carolyn found sympathetic people who took a long time searching their records, but they found no mention of any Julia Stuart. They did give her a list of all the monuments with names on them, and she went around to several of them, again without expecting anything, and again finding no mention. It was a very long day when she got on the RER train and made her way back to Paris.

But now she was on a mission. Even if it led to nowhere, Carolyn was determined to find out what she could. Anything. At home, with the window open, she gazed out once more at the beautiful, warm, Parisian twilight. Suddenly, she became aware that she was a different person. This was the first time in her life that she was deeply interested in someone other than herself. She picked up the phone and called Marthe in Senlis, and spent an hour with her, going over her day in Versailles. She felt guilty. Marthe was not her grandmother, and she vowed to make this one phone call and then not bother her new friend again. But when she said goodbye, Marthe insisted that she keep her informed of the visit to the Red Cross.

"Carolyn, it's been thirty five years since the end of the war. It's not very long, really. I have many graves that I visit every year. Luc was spared during the war, I am eternally grateful for that. But I pray. I pray for you, and now I pray for your grandmother. I feel very close to you. So promise me that you will let me know. All right?"

"Yes, I promise."

"Thank you. Good night, Darling."

The next morning Carolyn walked up the steps of the Metro and out to a rainy morning at the bottom of the steps on rue du Mont-Cenis. One left turn, one block and she stood at the corner of rue du Mont-Cenis and rue du Baigneur. A small store front window displayed the lettering Croix Rouge de Paris. Her heart beat faster as she entered the office. Several posters showed Red Cross disaster relief around the world. Behind the counter were two desks. At one of them an young man stood when she came in the door. He looked to be not much older than Carolyn, if at all. He was tall, and thin, and wearing jeans and a white shirt. His face bore a couple days' worth of black beard, matching his hair falling in ragged misdirection. But he smiled at her.

"Yes, mademoiselle. Welcome to the Red Cross of Montmartre. How may I be of service to you?"

Carolyn looked into his dark brown eyes, the eyes that were going to help her find her future. "I have information that my grandmother died in Versailles in 1943. I know her name, Julia Stuart, but that is all. What I'm asking is, is, is there any hope at all of finding out what happened to her?"

The young man nodded sympathetically.

"I know it's not much to go on," she continued. "But it's all I have. I am prepared to accept that it's not enough information."

"Well, why don't you have a seat here." He pointed to a chair opposite his desk, and lift up a board at the end of the counter for her to come through.

"You know, of course, we don't have any information here. And you say you have made inquiries with the authorities at Versailles?"

"No, I didn't say. But, yes, I was there. They have no information. My grandmother is American, and they have no information on any Americans. It was suggested I try the Red Cross. So I'm here."

"I think what I can do is help you get started."

"It would mean a great deal to me if you could."

He took out a blank sheet of paper, and lay a pen on top of it. "Her name, Julia Stuart. Please spell that for me. This is just a note for myself. And do you have any dates?"

"It says on her gravestone that she died on September 4, 1943, in Versailles."

He sat back in his chair and looked at her in disbelief, as if she were a curiosity. "Her gravestone? So you know where she is. You are not looking for her. You just want to know where she died?"

"When you say it, I must tell you, I'm not asking for you to spend any effort. It would mean a great deal to me to find out what I can about my grandmother."

"Yes, I understand," he said. But he looked like he did not want to waste his time.

Carolyn's heart sank. She felt like a stupid fool on a fool's errand. She stood. "I'm sorry. This doesn't make any sense. In my head, it seemed like a logical idea. Talking to you, I realize it's just a waste of your time. All I know is Versailles, and there's nothing there."

"Yes, I'm afraid I have to agree with you. There is no way we can help you." He stood and put his hand out. As they shook hands he said, "Where is the gravestone? Is it here in Paris?"

"No, it's in New York."

"New York?" His eyes opened wide and he smirked, almost choking on the words.

Carolyn blushed in humiliation. Without looking at him, she left the office and returned home. She instinctively called Marthe, desperate to talk to someone sympathetic. She did think about Nathalie, but no one could help her cope with this as much as Marthe.

She dialed Marthe's number, and when she heard Marthe's voice, the comforting voice, a soft current of warm strength ran through her.

"Marthe, it's me, Carolyn."

"Oh, so soon. That's unexpected. Have you found something out already?"

Carolyn sighed. "No, I feel so stupid. It was embarrassing. I went to the Red Cross in Montmartre."

"Montmartre? That's strange. Why there?"

"Because, well, because it was the simplest subway ride from where I was. I didn't think it made any difference."

"I should think indeed it would. What was there, an ambulance?"

"Oh, you are making fun of me, too." She felt sweat running down her back.

"No, My Dear, not exactly. You are going to have to develop a thicker skin, Carolyn, if you are to make any progress in this."

Marthe's motherly advice was exactly what she needed.

"What happened exactly? Tell me in detail."

Carolyn felt encouraged. "It was just, when I told him what I knew, that she died in Versailles, and, and then when I said she was buried in New York, he practically laughed me out of there."

"Now Carolyn, you cannot give up hope. You simply went to the wrong place. I have to admit, I thought they would be more helpful. He could at least have given you some addresses or phone numbers."

"But it seemed so useless. I don't have anything to go on. Just a date and a town." Carolyn wondered to herself what was motivating her to even pursue this. Why continue when it seems to start from nowhere and lead to nowhere. The image of her grandmother's grave in New York City Marble Cemetery flew up before her. The name, the dates, the places, they seemed so real back then, with Béatrice. Now they were nothing. They didn't lead anywhere. She didn't trust her own feelings. She felt an urge to put the phone down. But she saw the sketchbook, empty now, after she had given her one Parisian drawing to Marthe. It was open but blank on the coffee table in front of her. She desperately wanted to put Julia's face on it. She thought of Hugh's portrait in the attic in New York and formed the idea of putting it on paper, a sketch from memory.

"You listen to me." Marthe's voice became serious and harsh and woke Carolyn out of her reverie. "You have more than that. You have your love for your grandmother. That's what's driving you. You cannot give up now. You haven't even begun."

Carolyn sighed in relief. It was if now it didn't matter whether she succeeded. It only mattered that she tried as hard as she could. "You're wonderful, Marthe. I wish you were my grandmother."

"That's a lovely thing to say, my child, but I'm not that person. We must continue to look for your real grandmother until there's nowhere else to look."

Marthe's statement hid hard. She felt herself blowing back and forth in the wind. "I hear what you're saying. I just don't know where to look."

Marthe sighed in near disbelief. "The first thing is, young lady, you don't give up."

"But I don't know where to look." A tightness gripped Carolyn's stomach.

"So, you went one place, talked to an idiot, and now you're giving up?"

Carolyn heard the disappointment and frustration coming from Marthe. She felt sick at the tone in the voice on the other end of the phone. "No. I'm not."

"Don't you have a phone?"

"What? Of course, I'm talking to—" Carolyn became confused.

"Then use it. Call the Red Cross in Paris, the International Red Cross. Call Geneva. Can't you do that?"

Carolyn started shaking. She waited in silence for a moment, afraid of the sound of her own voice. She had never been in this situation in her life. She had always known what to do. "Yes. Of course. I think what I did was just give up after the first try."

"That's better." Marthe's voice sounded softer, but it still carried that note of disappointment in Carolyn. "And you keep me informed. I'm in this with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I do. And I will." A great heavy fear left Carolyn.

"Good. Goodbye for now." Marthe hung up.

Carolyn put the phone down and went to the window. She opened it up and took long breaths of cool fresh air.
IX Julia, Paris, 1940

They headed south toward Marseille, three hours out of Paris, caught in the stream of traffic ahead and behind them, which had grown with every village they passed. Ducasse had told them they would head to Dijon, and from there straight south to Lyon, and from there to Marseille.

In the beginning they had maintained a steady forty kilometers an hour, but three hours later that had slowed to half with the growing column of refugees.

Julia sat cramped in the back seat, watching out the window as other cars and trucks joined them from each of the roads they crossed. Some flowed in from the right, from the west, but the huge influx came from any road that fed in on the left, from the east, fleeing the oncoming German army.

The traffic became a two-lane road south, because no one was coming back toward them. No one was coming to Paris. When they passed Auxerre, on a clear bright morning, the refugees joining them were no longer predominantly automobiles. Now there were stragglers on foot, on horseback, whole families walking beside a cart. The cars still maintained a column in the center of the road, but the two lanes had slowly merged into one.

Julia hunched down in the back seat, her arms folded across her lap. She was dragged along in a maelstrom of poor people fleeing for their life. Ducasse, Christine, Isabelle, they were quiet, all in a shock at what this escape from Paris had become.

Ducasse pounded his hand on the steering wheel as if he could slam people out of the way. Cars were starting to pull over to the side of the road as they ran out of gas. Christine sat with her hand over her mouth as if that would protect her. She looked frequently at Ducasse, who only looked forward, put the car in first gear, then put it in neutral and waited, put on the brakes, then put it in first gear again as they moved forward, but had to stop again after a few moments. Now the road was becoming jammed with horses, people leaving cattle pulling carts with all their belongings. A horn blared at them from behind. All four of them turned around to see who it was that thought they had some sort of priority. It was a military car with an officer in the back. The car stopped and the Colonel or general, someone important, got out and yelled at them, "Let me through," he said, emphasizing the word 'through'. He raised his fist in the air to show his authority. "I must get through."

"My God," Ducasse said, "who the hell does he think he is?" He turned around and shook his fist at the man, who probably couldn't see him. "He's running away from the battle and were supposed to help him?"

Ducasse ignored the man and tried to move forward again, but this time they were stuck behind a military ambulance with a big red cross on it. Like all the other military they saw, it was going away from the enemy. Now they started to see soldiers walking on the side of the road. Their uniforms were in tatters and they had no weapons. They look down and put one foot in front of the other with no purpose. They didn't even look like they were fleeing, they just look like poor homeless beggars walking along the road.

Periodically the staggering column of refugees thinned out as people took refuge in farms or small towns. Then they made faster progress south. They saw a sign for the first time that said Dijon, but the next road was filled with new refugees merging in with them.

The slow column became slower. The car began to sputter, filling Julia with dread. Isabelle, who had been silent the whole time, took Julia's hand.

"Damn," Ducasse said. "We're out of gas. I have three liters in the trunk. After that we're out of luck."

"What are we going to do?" Christine said, panic in her voice."

"Don't worry," Ducasse said, "this will get us to Dijon."

"But we can't get to Dijon," Isabelle said, "we can't make a left turn with all these—" she hesitated, looked at the carts, the bicycles, the horses, the people on foot. Then, more soldiers, all moving in a solid sludge of despair on the side of the road. They avoided a bicyclist, then brushed past a stationary car without seeming to see either of them. They were like dirty ragged ghosts. "All these people," she ended with despair in her voice.

"You're right," Ducasse said. "Let me put what I have in the tank, and we'll just have to see how far we get."

Three liters got them nowhere. The road began to slow down and then stopped. Ducasse got out of the car and stood on the running board to see what was ahead.

He stuck his head in the window. "I can't see anything. I don't know what's blocking the road."

The refugees all around them began to leave the road and go into the fields, climbing over fences, knocking them over, going into houses and barns, under trees. But it did not seem to reduce the number of people and animals on the road.

Christine opened the door. "We might as well get out in stretch."

Ducasse and Christine stood in front of the car leaning back on the headlights. Julia and Isabelle got out of the car. They went to the side of the road and sat on the grass. Others were doing the same on either side of them. To their left, a few meters back, a horse lay on its side as two men tried in vain to get it to stand up. Finally, one of the men said, "Shit," pulled out a gun and shot the horse. Everyone jumped, several women screamed. Then everyone was quiet again.

The sky was clear, only a few clouds in the West moving ponderously, and the breeze pushed the treetops back and forth is if this were any normal beautiful afternoon. The ground was warm to Julia.

A rumbling sound began, coming from no direction. It's great louder and then they looked in the sky, everyone on the earth below, and saw two or three airplanes circling above them. Then the planes flew into a formation higher up into the sky, flew away from them in a circle. They instinctively felt the sigh of relief coming from around them. Julia looked at Isabelle, who touched her on the shoulder and then relaxed.

In a second the roaring became louder, and a great screech of a siren blasted into their ears. Julia put her hands over her head. The siren grew louder and louder and then a bomb exploded a quarter mile away.

Julia and Isabelle hugged each other and fell to the ground in the drainage ditch by the side of the road. Another siren came screeching down at them, piercing their ears. The plane came in low a hundred yards ahead of them, machine guns slamming the earth with bullets. Julia screamed at herself, everything blended together in the horrible sound of screaming Stuka sirens, people wailing in pain, bombs whistling and cracking, then explosions ripping the distance. When it was gone, her heart's pounding kept up the massacre.

They got up and looked around. People were screaming, others were holding bloodied corpses in their arms and yelling for help.

"Mama!" Isabelle ran to the front of the car and picked up her mother's lifeless body, blood covering Christine's chest and legs. Next to her Ducasse's still body lay in the road. Julia stood frozen by the side of the road her hands covering her face. She let her arms slowly down in looked at Isabelle rocking Christine back and forth.

Isabelle kept saying, "Mama, Mama," and running her hand over her mother's hair, her other arm covering Christine's chest as blood ran down her arm.

Julia ran to Ducasse's side, his body at a grotesque angle, his eyes staring up. There was nothing visible on the top of his body, but blood oozed into the dust underneath him. She knelt there, ears ringing, heart pounding, and then she saw her own blood running down her legs. Little pieces of glass stuck out from her shin. Forgetting Ducasse, forgetting Christine, Julia put her leg out strait and carefully removed twenty or so pieces of glass from her right leg. Her dress served as a cleaning town, and she was left with many small red spots and pink smear up and down her leg. But she was grateful nothing had gone deeply in.

Next to her, the car started rocking. She looked up and saw two men and a woman in the car. Julia jumped up and yelled at them, and they ran away with suitcases and purses. Instinctively, she started to run after them, but one movement of her leg brought her up short. They were gone into trees and nowhere to be seen. She turned back to Isabelle, still cradling her mother in her arms, dazed, thinking only of what she was holding.

Several soldiers came up to them. One, with stripes on his arm, with round fogged up glasses, said, "We cannot let you stay here. We must move the bodies off the road."

Isabelle screamed at them. "She's not a body. She's my mother."

"I am truly sorry, Mademoiselle. Believe me I have seen my best friend blown apart. I know what you are feeling. But we have to free up the road."

"They've stolen everything from us," Julia said, her arms out wide in outrage.

"I'm sorry for that, too, Mademoiselle. We are not the police. If it was up to me I would be several miles down the road by now. But we have our orders."

Isabelle put her arm around Julia. "Where will we go? What will we do?"

The soldier looked sympathetic, but he just shook his head and motioned to others to come to take away the bodies.

Isabelle began screaming in panic. "What are you going to do? You can't just dump them by the side of the road?"

The soldier's eyes blazed in impatience. "No. We won't. We have to bury them in the field. Then we will be on our way."

One hour later, Julia and Isabelle stood over two mounds of dirt in a field to the side of the road. They had found a small notebook in the car, and noted the location of the burials. They looked at each other, then they looked around them and saw others standing over freshly-turned dirt.

"Do you know where we are?" Julia said.

Isabelle took Julia by the hand and started walking back against the flow of refugees. "Yes, more or less. I know what road we are on, I know how to read the signs. We will just have to walk back to the next road sign, and write it down."

"But what will we do? We have no papers. All my money was in my purse."

"I don't worry about papers. Jacques will get us papers when we get back. As for money, well, walking is free. We will have to beg at farmhouses just like everyone else. And steal if we have to. We'll worry about the rest when we get back."

They found a sympathetic farmer two miles north, glad to find someone who wasn't afraid to go back to Paris. He gave them some bread and cheese, and some fruit to take with them in the morning, and said he would pray for them. They walked all day and into the evening, finally turning into the town of Avallon. On the church steps, they found a group of refugees who had gathered straw for the night. An elderly man and his wife made room for them. Isabelle and Julia found a huge pile of straw around the corner of the church. "Left by a farmer," said the old man. "And over there," he pointed to a table across the plaza, "they will give you something to eat. You'd better hurry, or it will be all gone."

Isabelle said that Julia should stay and watch over their magnificent hotel room. She brought back bread and ham and a bottle of wine.

"We're luck it's not going to rain tonight."

His wife shook her head. "No, we would just go into the church. They wouldn't keep us out then."

The next morning they are awakened by the sound of a truck coming close. Julia and Isabelle are the last ones awake. Everyone else moves as one to surround the truck. It is an army truck, heading north, amazingly, toward from the fighting.

"Where are you going?" a woman asks, her voice raised in anger. "What are you soldiers waiting for to stop this war? It has got to stop."

Others in the small group of refugees yell in support of the woman.

A man shoves forward close to the driver's door. "Do you want them to massacre us all with our children? Have you seen what they did in Belgium. They are murdering us on the road. Why are you still fighting?"

Julia was shocked at this change in the attitude of the refugees. A day before the soldiers were fleeing faster than civilians. Now the people are trying to get the soldiers to surrender.

"Bastards," Isabelle said. Several people turned in horror when they heard her. She grabbed Julia quickly by the arm and led her out of there and out to the road north to Paris. When they were safely out of earshot, she said, "Did you hear them? They have given up. Thousands dead, our soldiers killed." Tears filled her eyes, but she did not stop. "My mother dead. Monsieur Ducasse dead. And these morons want to surrender? When we get back, Julia, we will find the communists who are still willing to fight the Germans."

Julia stopped and looked with fright at Isabelle. "What are we going to do? Isabelle, I am not a communist. I am an American who wants to go home to her family."

Isabelle nodded, but took Julia's arm again and kept on walking. "No, of course, I understand. Nothing has changed for you. Except one thing, you have no money, you have no identity card, you have no ticket, you have no travel permit. Where do you think you will get one?"

"But I will go back to the embassy, I will start there. They will remember me."

"Oh, yes, of course," Isabelle said, rolling her eyes. "The embassy. Of course. But then what about the police? And what if the Germans are there? I sympathize with you my friend, but things are more difficult than you think."

Julia's head spun, her throat was dry, and her leg ached. Lizzie? Will I ever see Lizzie again? Would she ever see America again?

Rumors spread throughout the day that an armistice was coming. The phone war became real and France had lost. People joined them now, walking back to Paris. They found two abandoned bicycles and started to move faster. In two days they saw the city rising up in the mist before them.

As they drove through the city, they seemed to be alone. Few people were on the streets. It was dusk, and no lights were on. The city was for all practical purposes deserted.

On their way across the city, they saw something impossible. The Champs Élysées, the most elegant street in the world, was a ghost town. They pedaled across the middle of the traffic circle around the Arc de Triomphe by themselves. The few people who had begun returning with them had stopped at cities and villages before Paris. The finally made it along rue Caulaincourt to the base of the steps of the back end of Montmartre, where they put the bicycles down and climbed up the steps to 32 rue to Mont-Cenis.

Isabelle opened the door to the apartment and entered it with caution. Nothing had been touched. Their coffee cups were there just where they had been left. She collapsed on the floor and sat looking down, her arms at her sides like a puppet let fall. Julia went to her and put her arms around her friend, and they stayed that way, unable to move, unable to think, unable to feel.

"It's all my fault," Isabelle said, covering her hands on her head as if completely unable to understand what was happening. "I made her go. It's me. I killed her."

"No you didn't," Julia said, "don't you remember? She decided on her own."

"She wouldn't have left if I stayed home." Isabelle moved her head from side to side, trying to shake off the reality of what had happened.

Julia tried to comfort her, but was at a total loss what to say. She felt so heavy, so tired, exhaustion beyond relief. Eventually, she just lay down on the floor, and Isabelle fell down next to her and they lay there, together, breathing, hearing the silence all around them, the darkness taking over the room and enveloping them in oblivion.

Julia awoke in the middle of the night. She pulled Isabelle up and led her to her bedroom, let her down on the bed, and returned to her own room. She tried to think about what she could do, but there was nothing that came into her mind. Sleep finally came again to her.

In the morning, she heard a noise out in the kitchen. She went out and saw Isabelle writing at the table.

"What are you doing?" Julia was frightened at the weakness of her own voice.

Julia had a determined look on her face. She did not look up as she continued writing. "I'm writing down the information Jacques will need to get us new identity papers. And transit visas and exit visas."

"Jacques, why Jacques?" Julia's fear deepened. The hunger in her stomach was replaced by a wide pain in her abdomen. She knew perfectly well what it meant. Jacques was a forger. Isabelle was a communist. They were in it together.

Isabelle put her pen down and pointed for Julia to sit. "What kind of fool are you? You have lost all your money, your papers, your clothes. You are nothing. Soon the Germans will be here, and you will be put on a train to Germany. Or worse, to Poland."

Julia sat, frozen, numb. She had never heard Isabelle talk this way. She had been helpless before the police, before the embassy people. Now she was helpless before the only friend she had in the world. She knew she could not get to Lisbon on her own. Hugh was not responding to her. She could go to the embassy and get a new passport. They would remember her. They had records of her visit. But she couldn't go back to that police station and tell those men that she had lost her papers. They would take forever.

She had no money. She wasn't just helpless, she was penniless. All the traveler's checks she had brought with her were now being spent somewhere near Dijon. And no one was going to investigate that with the Germans coming.

Isabelle looked at her and smiled, a strange kind of smile. "At least no one will be able to spend your money. Unless they work at a bank, and I don't think those bastards work there."

Julia found it hard to speak. "What are we going to do?"

Isabelle's mouth narrowed to a grim line. "I'm going to take this to Jacques, it's our personal information, and what I remember from our travel and exit visas. He might be able to get you an American one, I don't know. He doesn't usually do that. It just depends on what he has in his stock."

Isabelle looked intensely into Julia's eyes. "First, let's get something to eat. Then I'll tell you what we're going to do."

Isabelle made coffee, and they ate croissants left over from yesterday, putting what was left of butter and jam on them.

"Now. I know, Julia, you still want to go home. That has not changed. But you cannot get on a train to Marseille until you have your papers and some money."

"But the American embassy, they will help me. I will get word to my husband."

Isabelle looked at Julia and shook her head. "Your husband. He's had a lot of time, and you haven't heard from him. I'm not surprised, either. If I remember correctly, when we met you were leaving the country with his daughter."

Julia shrank deep down inside herself and tears came to her eyes. "He must love me. He must. It's just been so hard."

Isabelle stood and strode across the room. "Who are you kidding? You are all alone. You only have me. If you work with me, you have a chance. Otherwise they'll just find you dead in a gutter somewhere."

Julia stood, fire in her stomach. "No!," she yelled. "It's not true. I will get home, with your help or without it. Nobody will stop me. I'm going home to Lizzie. I can do it by myself if I have to walk all the way to Lisbon."

Isabelle was taken aback by the fiery accusation in Julia's tone. Her own voice softened in sympathy. "Yes, of course. I want that for you, too. By all means, do go to the embassy. Apply for a visa. Get them to send word to America." She walked to Julia and took her by the arms. "But in the meantime you will have to wait. You can't just sit around. Jacques can get us papers much faster than your embassy. You can use those papers until your good ones come from the embassy."

Julia hugged Isabelle and laid her head on her chest. "Yes, I understand. I know you are trying to help me. And believe me, I want to help you." She pulled back and looked into Isabelle's eyes. "I'm sorry for your mother." Then, suddenly, she collapsed on the floor and began sobbing.

Isabelle pulled her up. "What is it?"

Julia slowed her crying, then stopped, then took long breaths and one final sigh. "It's Lizzie. Imagine if she were here with us. She would have gone with us in the car. She would probably have been killed." At the end, she lost her voice, and held her hands over her mouth as she began crying again.

"All right, all right," Isabelle said, holding her. "But she's safe in New York. Now you have to plan to get back to her. Nothing's changed about that." She made Julia look at her. "Are you with me? Are we going to do this together?"

"Do what? I don't know what we are going to do?"

"Jacques will help us out with a little money until we figure out what we can do. There are things here in the house we can pawn. We don't need much to get by. The first thing is, we have to stock up. There isn't anybody here."

"Here? Where? What do you mean?"

"Paris is deserted. Very few people have come back. We'll go to the stores and stock up on what we need to keep us going until we find a way to keep on going."

"How are we going to do that?"

"Tonight, we'll do it when it gets dark, the later the better."

"But that's stealing."

Isabelle's voice rose and became hard. "My god, Julia, what the hell do you think this is? The Germans bombed and strafed us, killed my mother, people stole everything we have and you are worried about morality." Isabelle stared at Julia with violence in her eyes.

Julia understood. She put her hand on Isabelle's arm. "Yes, you're right. It's stupid of me. You can count on me."

"Eventually, we'll know where we stand and where we can go. I know we can at least get to the south of France, and from there we can go across the Pyrénées, and we'll be in Spain."

Julia nodded, but now she felt that her whole life lay in the hands of this woman.

"Come with me," Julia said. "Until tonight, we must go to Jacques. Once you have talked to him, you will feel much better. Because you will have a purpose, and someone else who can help you. Remember this, if anything ever happens to me, you can always go to Jacques."

Julia smiled for the first time. "And, I had completely forgotten. He has my pictures. The ones I want to take home to Lizzie."

Isabelle nodded, looking at Julia as if they were now partners, now that Julia has accepted a mission.

Twenty minutes later they entered Jacque's photography shop. Julia learned that he had not developed her pictures.

"I'm sorry," he said, in an unsympathetic voice. "You left without coming back for them. I didn't do anything."

Julia felt that familiar sinking feeling, that she was losing control.

"Oh, but Jacques," Isabelle said, trying to help Julia. "You can work on them, can't you? It's really important for Julia. So it's important for me."

"Do you know what's going on, Isabelle?" He said, anger now taking over his face.

"Yes, I do, Jacques. My mother has been killed, Mrs. Ducasse has been killed. So just shut up about your damned knowing what's going on. We're here because we need new papers. That's your job. How long will it take?" She stood, defiant, arms across her chest. "Can you get Julia an American passport?"

He nodded."Easily. There's not much demand for that. British passports, now that's something hard to come by. Everyone wants one of those."

"When can we have ours?"

"Let's see, you need your residence permit, your travel visa, your exit visa, your Spanish transient visa and your Portuguese visa. Will that be all, Ladies?" The mocking tone in his voice was unmistakable.

Isabelle stared at him with bulging eyes.

"Yes, well," he said, looking down at the counter with the papers Isabelle had given him. "I can have these for you in three days."

"Three days? Are you joking?" Isabelle said, pointing angrily to the papers on the counter. "It used to be two weeks. What are you giving us? Bad stuff?"

Jacques laughed. "No. You see, everyone's gone. The city has been empty. So I have enough to take care of you. But it works both ways. I need help from you now."

"But people are coming back. They know an armistice has been signed." Isabelle looked at Julia, who stayed mute and shrunken near the door.

"And the Germans will be here in one or two days," Jacques said. "When they arrive, things will be different."

Julia finally spoke up with a quiet little voice. "Is it possible to pick up my pictures."

Isabelle turned to Julia, shaking her head, her eyes over-bright. "Not now. Your pictures can wait until we have our papers."

Julia nodded in acceptance, and took a step back, hitting the door, her head down.

"Julia," Jacques said, suddenly sympathetic. "I will try to work on your photos, I will. But when the Germans arrive, people will come in here looking for new papers. They need good ones. The Gestapo does not accept papers that have been poorly created."

"And, so?" Isabelle said.

He sighed. "And so, I need you to get me some good documents."

Julia, now, was not just cowed, she became frightened. "What do you mean? I thought you were going to get us good documents?"

"Calm down," Jacques said, raising his hand, frowning. "Isabelle, you know what I mean. I need you two to work with my sources."

Julia touched Isabelle. "What does he mean? What sources?" The shop became very hot and her heart beat fast.

Isabelle turned to Julia. "Listen, it's not so hard, and it's not dangerous. I'll explain it to you." She turned to Jacques. "She's right, though. What sources?"

"I have two of them now." He looked at Julia. "They are the ones who do the dangerous work. I just need you two to act as drop-offs."

"All right," Isabelle said. "What sources, Jacques? Tell me who?"

"Ah," he said, shaking his head. "Things are different now with Nazis showing up any minute. They say that the Germans will be marching down the Champs Élysées in two days time. Now, Isabelle, I cannot tell you who my sources are. You do not need to know that. Just tell me that you will help me, and I will give you your instructions."

Isabelle turned to Julia, who waited a long time, then nodded.

"Yes," Julia said, "I will help. Because of what they have done to us."

Isabelle turned back to Jacques. "And?"

"Come closer," he said.

Isabelle and Julia went up to the counter and leaned forward.

"I need documents from people who are coming from the East. They only place to find them is on the trains coming into Paris from the East."

"Why the East?" Julia said, truly puzzled.

"Because that region is now behind German lines. No one will go back there to check the authenticity of the documents."

"I see," Isabelle said. "A very good idea."

"So," Jacques continued. "Your part is very simple. You go to the Gare de l'Est every evening."

"Yes," he said, nodding seriously, "every evening until we have two sets of papers."

"Only two?" Julia said, now confused.

"You can't be going every day to the train station. People will start to recognize you. So you might each get a set of papers on the first day, and then it will be over for you. I have others who are willing to help the Party. You are the first."

"I don't understand," Julia said. What are we supposed to do?"

"Isabelle will tell you," Jacques said.

"You have done this before?" Julia said, turning to Isabelle, fear in her eyes. Then she remembered. "Oh, yes, your mother was angry at you for something, for going out by yourself. So, now I know." She turned to Jacques, stood with her chest out and her head held high. "I will do my part."

Jacques nodded and held out his hand to each of them. "Vive la France!"

"Vive la France," Isabelle replied.

"Vive l'Amérique," Julia said, defiance in her eyes.

"Yes, yes," Jacques said.

They left the shop and turned the corner on their way to Isabelle's apartment on rue du Mont-Cenis. The streets were not empty now, but there were no cars, and only the isolated bicyclist. People they passed on the street, people whose faces Isabelle knew from childhood, kept their eyes down. They had already accepted the same defeat as the French army.

Inside, Isabelle turned on the radio on the table in the living room. She turned the dial until she heard a voice in French. "Listen," she said. "I know that voice. It's de Gaulle. I wonder what he has to say."

The two women listened in silence as de Gaulle explained that the French army would regroup around him, and that all French citizens should show their support.

Isabelle laughed. "Did you hear that? What a hero. He's in London, on the BBC, and he wants our support. Well, to hell with him. We're here in Paris. The Germans are coming. And we'll be on our own."

"Isabelle," Julia said, feeling more confident, but still feeling weak and insecure. "What is it we have to do at the train station?"

"We will go in three days, when we have our own papers to show the police. In the evening, after the dinner hour, when the trains will be arriving. You and I will each have a copy of a newspaper, Le Monde Diplomatique."

"Le Monde Diplomatique? Why that newspaper?"

"Because it's last week. That's an important clue. It's the only way they know who we are. And then we face the paper away from us. That's the sign. That paper upside down to us, sitting at a table next to the fast food counter where they sell ham and cheese sandwiches. We sit there for an hour after the train arrives and then leave."

"So, I don't understand," Julia said. "What happens?"

"You and I each buy a sandwich and put it in a paper sack. We eat the sandwich, very slowly, over the hour, maybe have a glass a wine, but we just sit there. The paper sack is open on the table. That's where the pickpockets will drop the documents. They just walk up to the counter, and as they pass us they drop the documents in the sack and keep on going. It all happens very fast."

"How do they know whom to choose?"

"I don't know myself. It's not something I want to know. That's part of the success. We don't know each other. But it's simple, I think. They choose people who look like they're not Parisians. Clothes, suitcases maybe. They look ragged or dirty. They're afraid. That's my guess."

Julia nodded in amazement. "Then what?"

"Then we get up and leave."

"Together?"

Isabelle slumped in disbelief. "No, stupid, not together. We don't go in together, either. We do this separately. We don't even know each other." She glared at Julia.

Julia wasn't cowed. "You've done this before, Isabelle. I haven't. You know you're brave. I don't."

Jacques, or someone sent by him, knocked on their door two days later. When Isabelle opened the door, the hallway was empty, but an envelope lay at her feet. She quickly picked it up and closed the door.

"Julia, our papers are here," she said, excited.

Julia took her papers from Isabelle and breathed a deep sigh of relief when she counted them: residence permit, permit to travel around France, transit visas for Spain and Portugal, and, amazingly, a well worn American passport, with her picture stamped on it, and a recognizable signature from the embassy. She was even more surprised to find beneath that a ticket for Pan American Airlines Clipper Service from Marseille to Lisbon to New York. And a train ticket from Paris to Marseille.

"How is this possible?" she said to Isabelle, going pale and covering her mouth.

"It's Jacques," Isabelle said, smiling. "He's the best there is. Him and Virginie. She's an artist of the first rank, if you ask me. It must be what he said. Everyone has left the city, they have not started back yet in large numbers, and viola, he works fast, too."

Julia began to shake. "I don't know. If someone asked me to show these papers, I would be so afraid. I would show it, I know."

"Ah, yes, I understand, my friend. But you have one day before we go out. Now is the chance to test yourself."

"Test myself? How?" Julia brought her nervous hand up to her forehead.

"We'll go out. You show your papers to someone, we'll figure out who, and then you'll feel comfortable."

"Oh, now, I couldn't do that." Julia turned away and went to the far corner of the room before turning back.

"I understand," Isabelle, said, showing great sympathy in her voice. "Julia, look at me, seriously, look at me in the eyes." When she had Julia's quiet attention, she continued. "You don't have to do it. You are not French. You will probably be going home very soon. It is not fair to put you in this position."

But Julia could not accept that. "No. No, I can do it. I was just scared at the first thought of really going out." She came back to Isabelle and stood before her. "I am with you. I can't run away now. And anyway, it's just two times, isn't it? Isn't that that he said? What's so hard about sitting at a table eating a sandwich?"

It wasn't hard. Toward the end of the hour a man, a kid it seemed to Julia, dropped something in the bag on the table. He did it so swiftly, she didn't even see his hand. The bag didn't move, didn't make a sound. It was just a blur by the side of her face. She immediately took a bite of her sandwich and a drink of wine, and put the sandwich back in the bag, and doing so she noticed a passport in the bottom of the bag. A Swiss passport. Excited, she left the train station and made her way home. When she arrived at rue du Mont-Cenis, she saw the light was on in the apartment. Isabelle was waiting for her inside. Julia's eyes burned with excitement when she handed the bag to Isabelle.

Isabelle did not take out the document. She took the whole sack and put it next to another one on the table. "Tomorrow I will bring this to Jacques. And we are done for now. Or at least you are. You can plan your trip home, Julia."

Julia sat, exhausted, drained. Relieved, but feeling hot and shaky. "I can go home? Aren't you going with me?"

Isabelle looked at her sadly, shaking her head, her lips tight. "No. I have to pay them back for my mother. I cannot forget what they have done. I must stay and help Jacques." She stood and went to Julia. "But you, you have done more than can be expected. You have your little Lizzie."

"But you," Julia said, "you have your brother, Daniel. You have to think of him, too."

"Daniel? Yes. I think Daniel will do the same as I. the same as millions of other French citizens. I know he is going to come back over here and fight for France. And I sure as hell am not going to go over there to New Jersey and then find out he's not here. He will come here, Julia, to his home. He will find me, and together we will defend our country."

"I don't know how to get to Lisbon. I need your help."

"Stop it," Isabelle said, her voice angry. "You do know how. Tomorrow morning we will bring the sacks to Jacques, you can pick up your photos, and you will leave on the first train going south."

The next morning, early, they left the apartment. Isabelle stopped Julia when they arrived at the bottom of the steps. "Now I say goodbye to you, my most cherished friend. Some day, when this is all over, we will meet again. But for now, we must separate. I will go first. I will drop off the sacks and leave. You wait until I've disappeared around the corner. That will provide enough time to separate us. Then you can go into the shop and get your photos."

Without waiting, Isabelle turned and walked away. Julia went to the window of the restaurant and stared at the menu as long as she could, then followed in Isabelle's direction until she came to Jacque's shop. She looked through the window to make sure that Isabelle wasn't inside. Jacques wasn't to be seen either, but she knew he was just in the back, putting the documents in a safe hiding place. He entered the door and walked up to the counter.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Two strange men in long black trench coats came out from the back. They both wore black fedoras as well. One was tall, with blue eyes and dark blonde hair, and a black moustache covering the whole of his upper lip. The other was shorter, with black eyes, brown hair, and a round face with pockmarks.

Julia's heart began to pound in her chest.

"Who are you?" said the tall man, his voice deep. He did not talk with a native French accent.

"I—I'm just here to pick up my photos."

"Ah, I see," he continued. "And your name?"

Julia looked between the two men. "Julia. Julia Stuart."

The smaller man stepped in front of the other and put his hands on the counter. "Stuart? Hmm. Are you British?"

"No. I'm American." A deep terror began to rise within her as she reached in her pocket to take her documents out. Following Isabelle's instructions, she had put her passport , transit visas, and tickets in her inside pocket, and her French documents in her outside pocket. She handed them to the man.

He pulled them roughly out of her hand, and studied them. Then he gave them to the taller man almost as if dismissing them. He nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Give me one minute. I will see if I can find them." He looked up at Julia, studied her, then turned around and went to the back.

"Where's Jacques?" Julia said in a moment of panic. She instantly regretted admitting she knew him.

"Jacques. Oh." The man spoke in a friendly voice, but his face was passive. "He is a friend of yours?"

Julia shook her head. "No, not at all. He's the owner of the shop." She pointed to the name on the window behind her, now backwards from the inside.

He nodded, his eyes penetrating, not believing her, or not caring either way. "Ah, yes, I see. Well, Miss, we will wait for your pictures." He shrugged his overcoat on better, then looked around the shop before turning back to Julia. "You have very many documents on your person. And it appears you have only just recently arrived." He stepped around the counter and came closer to her. " You have a residence permit and a travel permit for France. For travel within France? Why do you need to travel within France? You must have a passport. Please show it to me." He spoke politely to her, but his eyes and his turned down, contemptuous mouth continued their accusation. He studied her face, and studied the opening of the top of her coat.

Julia fumbled in her pocket so she could extract the passport without taking her transit visas or tickets out. He handed him the passport. Her heart beat fast, but she controlled her breathing, and forced herself to smile. "Please, I just want my pictures. I'm taking them home to my little girl."

"You should not be worried," the tall man said, smiling. "We are only here for routine police business, that is all.

The short pockmarked man returned from the back and said, "Your little girl? Where is she?"

Julia held her hand out to receive the pictures, but the man held them back and looked at her in defiance.

He raised his eyebrows. "Where, did you say?"

"In New York. Back home." Julia felt a sense of relief in saying New York, as if it would protect her from these men, who were not Parisians. And maybe not French.

The tall blue-eyed man looked at her passport and handed it to the pockmarked man, who looked at him, put the passport in his pocket and walked to the door.

"My passport—"

"Oh, please, just be patient, young lady, and everything will be well."

The short man returned to the shop and brushed roughly past Julia and into the back. The tall man went by her and blocked access to the door.

Julia was shocked to see Isabelle come out the back, followed by Jacques. Isabelle came by, kept her head down and hit Julia on the shoulder as she passed, followed by Jacques, also with his head down. A screech came from outside. Julia turned to see a large sedan arrive, and then another. She felt a strong hand take her arm and push her out the door. She put both feet down flat and resisted, but then the short man took her other arm and they pushed her into the street. The first car drove off with Isabelle and Jacques in the back seat, and a second car pulled up. She was shoved hard into the back seat. The short man got in next to her and the tall one sat in the front. The car took off. The man reached over Julia and locked the door, then he put his hand on her arm and held her immobile.

They drove through the mostly empty streets of Paris until they arrived at rue de Lauriston, opposite the Passy reservoir. When Julia was pulled out of the car by the tall man, there were no other cars on the street.

They dragged her up the steps and into the building, then down stairs to a basement and inside a room. Isabelle and Jacques stood alone in a dark room with a small window and dirty concrete walls. Isabelle shook her head at Julia.

In less than a minute the door opened and the short man came in and pulled Julia out with him. They went upstairs to the first floor and into an apartment. There, the tall man stood behind a simple table in an otherwise empty apartment. Her documents were on the table. The short man lifted her coat, and Julia resisted but he stepped in front of her and stared intensely at her eyes while he continued to take it off.

He gave the coat to the tall man, who looked in both pockets and took her transit visas and tickets out.

Julia did not wait for him. "You see, I am going home to New York. I am an American. You have no right to hold me."

The tall man laughed. "Mademoiselle, we are not holding you. Don't misread us. We merely wish to ask you a few questions, and then we will let you go home to see your family in America. Please sit."

Julia looked at the simple wooden chair in front of her but did not move. The short pockmarked man came over and led her in front of the chair and pushed her down, the whole time looking at her with his intense stare. She sat, but looked down at the floor.

"Now," the tall man said, "we see that your residence permit has the same address as your friend Isabelle. But of course she did not acknowledge you at the photography shop. And just now, in the basement we observed how she shook her head at you. What do you say to that?"

Julia's stomach tightened. "We live at the same address. It is just a coincidence."

"So, you do live at the same address, and yet she tells you not to recognize her. What are we supposed to make of that?"

"You have no right to keep me here. I demand to talk to the embassy."

"Of course, of course. All in due time," the tall man continued.

The short man stood in the corner with his hands in his pockets, looking on like a disinterested observer.

"But first," the tall man said, "you must help us understand."

"I don't know who you are. This isn't the police," Julia said in defiance. "I don't have to answer your questions. I want to speak to someone in the embassy."

The tall man shook his head but his voice carried sympathy. "So you obviously know Isabelle Desjardins, but you deny it. You pick up your pictures in a shop that work with the communist underground."

"I did not."

"You did not what?"

"I don't know anything about communists. I am an American."

"Once again," the tall man said, in an impatient voice, "here we are. You don't know her, but she shakes her head, you don't know her but you live in the same building, on the same street. And then—" He came around the table to stand over her with the pictures in his hand. He pointed to them. "You take pictures of the Paris Police Headquarters. For what? To help the communists, I am sure."

"I didn't. I took those pictures for my little girl. I didn't even know that was a police building."

He waved his head back and forth in mock sympathy. "Even though that's the building where you picked up your travel permit."

Julia's hands shook on her lap. She looked up at him, pleading. "That's just a picture outside the US embassy."

His face twisted into a contortion of disgust. "It's a picture of the police building."

The short ugly pockmarked man walked over to Julia. He took a dark object out of his pocked and hit her knee.

Julia screamed in pain and fell out of the chair. She tried to get up but the brutal pain in her knee kept her on the floor.

The tall man lifted her up and put her back in the chair. He spoke to her in English in a German accent. "It doesn't matter. We have our evidence. No, you are probably not a communist. But you have helped a communist. I can't help you. Tomorrow the German army will enter Paris. Then we will take your friend Isabelle and her collaborator Jacques to police headquarters and extract all the information we want out of them."

Julia rubbed her knee, trying to soothe the pain, but it didn't help.

"As for you, Miss Stuart, you are an enemy alien, and as such you will be put into a camp where you can safely wait until the Third Reich has conquered all of Europe. And after that, who knows." He leaned over to get close to her, hatred in his eyes. "There, they will have an opportunity to interrogate you about your family background. We don't have the luxury of a long interrogation. They do."

They took Julia outside to a waiting car, who brought her to the rue de l'Odéon. There she was put on a truck and brought to the forest on the outskirts of Paris. She found herself in a warehouse, where she waited with other foreign women.

She lined up the next morning for an interview with the German Red Cross. Three stout women in dark gray coats with the red cross emblem on the chest and sleeve, sat at a table in a corner of the warehouse. Julia sat opposite a woman with gray eyes and hair, and splotchy skin. She was at the end of the table, and the two other women to her left were speaking in French. The Red Cross woman opened her coat and inside, on her shirt, Julia saw a small swastika.

"I am here to help you," the woman said, her eyes impassive, her face cold."

"I am an American," Julia said, hoping another time that someone would listen to her.

The woman nodded. "I understand. This is not a political interview. I am here to help you contact your relatives and see if you need any other help. We are an international organization, you see."

"So what can you do?" Julia said, but her tone indicated more derision than curiosity.

"If you give me your address, we can contact your family. Also, any friends." The woman poised a pen on top of a sheet of paper with Rotes Kreuz written on top, and an address Julia could not make out.

Julia gave her the information.

The woman smiled. "You have a little girl?"

Julia nodded.

"How old is she?"

"She is two."

"I see," the woman said, puzzled. "Well, then assuredly you will want to do everything you can to be reunited with your little girl."

"Of course," Julia said, holding her stomach.

"Then this is my advice to you." The woman leaned forward to look more sympathetic. "Just do as you are told. Stay out of trouble. Then you will see your little girl sooner."

Julia leaned back, away from the woman, and narrowed her eyes, but she did not respond. That was not advice. It was more of a threat.

The woman saw that Julia wasn't accepting her admonition. She nodded and smiled. "Let me tell you. From experience. It's best to help them out. It's mutually beneficial."

Now Julia understood. This wasn't the Red Cross, it was just a Nazi in disguise, hoping to get information out of her. She decided to accept the threat. "Yes, I understand. That is very helpful advice. Thank you." She stood, and winced deeply from the sudden pain in her knee.

The Red Cross woman stood too, and leaned across the table to help Julia. Julia pulled away.

"Your knee, or leg, what is it?"

Julia glared at the woman. "It's nothing. It will get better."

"But, still, you should be careful of your movements." The woman looked left at the others at the table, then, as if she were being stealthy, took a small box out of her pocket. "Here, here is some aspirin. It will help. As soon as you get where you are going, you should have a doctor look after your leg." Then, without waiting, she called out, "Next," and pointed for someone behind Julia to come forward.

Julia moved out of the way and limped back into the center of the warehouse. She took some aspirin, and was grateful for it, but she knew absolutely it was just a ploy to gain her confidence. It didn't work.

Two hours later, she was told that the American Embassy was waiting to see her. Julia went back to the same tables used by the Red Cross, and saw a lone woman sitting at the table. Her spirits lifted when she recognized the woman as Marlene, the receptionist from the embassy. She was wearing a dark blue suit, with a card hanging from the breast pocket that identified her as from the American embassy.

"Hello." Julia smiled and offered her hand to the woman. She didn't feel any pain as she sat down, a very good sign.

"Hello. I'm Marlene Lindquist, from the embassy." The woman smiled and looked intently at Julia.

"Yes, I remember you."

"You have a slight limp. You didn't have that when you came to the embassy. Are you all right?"

Julia wanted desperately to tell Marlene what had happened to her, but she wasn't confident that anyone could be trusted. Not in this place. "I'm all right. I think my knee will heel. Thank you."

"Do you know why you are in here?" Suddenly, Marlene's tone changed. Friendliness was replaced by seriousness.

"Know why? No. Not really. They saw a picture I had taken, and they said it—"

Marlene shook her head. "No there's something else. It's rather serious, actually. It's your passport?"

When she heard those words, Julia understood and knew there was nothing she could say. But she decided to keep it to herself. "What about it?"

"The French police called us. It seems you gave them a passport, and they called us to verify it. We did say we knew you, that you had been in to get an exit visa. That was fine. But the number on your passport is not the number we had in our records. There was nothing we could do."

Those words—nothing we could do—hit Julia like a knife in her heart. "I—I—I lost my passport."

Marlene's voice became sympathetic, as she raised her hand. "I'm so sorry, Julia. The matter is out of our hands. Why didn't you come to us first?"

"My friend said she could help me. I didn't think there was time, and the French police wouldn't give me a new travel permit. I didn't ask for the passport. I was going to go to the embassy, but then the police came."

Marlene's eyes softened and she put her hand on top of Julia's. "I am sorry, believe me. We are not sympathetic to the Gestapo. Do you have anyone who can help you?"

Once again, Julia gave the information about Hugh, and Lizzie. Marlene promised that they would contact her husband. Before she left, she gave Julia a pen, paper and envelope, and waited while Julia wrote a letter.

"I will make sure this is not the next diplomatic pouch, so it can be mailed quickly to New York."

Marlene stood, hugged Julia, and walked away.

On the fourth day, they were all put back on trucks and transported to the Pantin Station, where German soldiers accompanied them for a day and a night to the town of Vittel and internment. They were told they would stay there until Germany had conquered all of Europe. And then their fate would be decided.

X, Carolyn 1980 Paris

Carolyn picked up her phone again and talked to the operator and wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when the operator, after listening to her story, gave her the number of the International Red Cross in Paris and the number for Geneva. The Red Cross in Paris told her that she needn't call Geneva. The place she wanted was Bad Arolsen in Germany.

Bad Arolsen? That didn't make any sense. But she learned that the German government, after the war, had set up the International Tracing Service. Because, after all, the Nazis had kept the best records. And everything eventually became centralized there. It was housed in an old SS barracks in a town that hadn't been bombed during the war. If there was any information on Julia Stuart, that's where it would be.

She called the Tracing Service and was at first surprised by the extraordinary warmth and sympathy in the voice of the woman on the other end of the line. Then she came to realize that this person was used to talking to people who had lost mothers and fathers in concentration camps.

"My name is Frau Hanne Koehler. What is it you are looking for?"

"I'm trying to find out what happened to my grandmother, an American. I believe she died in France in 1943."

"So, I'm sorry that you must undertake this difficult task. I hope we may be able to help you."

"Thank you Frau Koehler."

"Sometimes it is easy, sometimes not so easy. Let me first inform you of how the process will take place. We cannot do this over the phone. We have records, and we even have an alphabetical listing, a central name index. But after that, it's going through a warehouse of records in any number of records. You do understand this?"

"Yes, I do." But Carolyn felt relief already.

"Then you can do this through the mail. I can send you a form—"

"But—"

"But what? I know what you are going to say. First, what is your name please?"

"Carolyn Stuart."

"I see. Miss or Mrs.?"

"Miss."

"Yes, then, Miss Stuart. We have people dedicating their lives to helping others connect to refugees, victims and people who have simply disappeared. The number is in the millions."

Carolyn shrank inside herself. Here she was again, just as she was with Marthe, unable to get beyond her own limited feelings. She determined to change. Now.

"Frau Koehler, I am immensely grateful for any help you can give me. I want to do things the proper way."

"All right, Miss Stuart, the proper way is the most efficient for you, I assure you. We need a form. You understand when you are looking up boxes and boxes of paperwork you need to have something appropriate to guide you."

"Thank you. How may I obtain a form?"

The voice resumed its earlier sympathetic tone. "I will be happy to mail you a form. You mail the form back to us and it usually takes eight weeks for a reply. The reply will be a statement of what is in the Central Name Index. Of course, there is another choice."

Carolyn felt a strong desire to be still and let this woman's voice carry her into the future. "Please, what is the other choice?"

"You can come here yourself. We give priority to people who come here in person. We understand it is more important for some people. Mostly it is people doing research for a refugee group or the government, but sometimes, we recognize, it is for people such as yourself, who are willing to make the effort. If you are really willing to make the effort."

"Thank you for that information. Yes, it certainly is worth it for me to come there in person. It makes me feel already closer to my grandmother."

"You are where, now?"

"In Paris."

"Paris. All right. You have our phone number in case you get lost. But you take the train. There's a German Railway train from Paris, the Gare du Nord, to Cologne, then you transfer to Frankfurt, and from Frankfurt you will arrive here. It's a whole day's trip, but it's straightforward. You will arrive too late to talk to us. But the next morning you can come here, talk to someone, me if you like—am I—are you following me?"

"Oh, yes, Frau Kohler, I have heard everything you said. And I do understand the chances are small. But it is important to me to come, even if I leave with nothing. If I don't find my grandmother, you have all those other records of people who were there when she was. When can I come?"

"Well, Miss Stuart, you are serious. The real question then, is when will you be arriving?"

"I can leave tomorrow, and see you the next day. And it will take eight weeks after that?"

"Oh no, if you make the effort, so will we. If you come promptly at eight o'clock in the morning, we will have someone available to spend the day searching our records. You can see the city, have lunch, come back and we'll know what our records are. It's after that when things can get complicated, depending on what we find."

"I'll see you the day after tomorrow."

And she did. And she returned to Paris two days later. And called Marthe.

"Hello?"

"Marthe, it's me, Carolyn. I'm back from Germany."

"Oh, that's interesting. A week ago you were completely distressed. Now you're back from Germany. That's very impressive. You must have found something out."

"I did. It's like good news and bad news."

"Oh, always give me the bad news first."

"My grandmother. They lost trace of her, and that's a bad sign. For someone who was interned in World War II by the Nazis."

"I understand that, dear girl. For us, the French, it is a common story. Now tell me the good news."

"It's not exactly good news, I shouldn't have said that. But I learned what happened to her. She was put on a train in Paris in 1940, and sent to Vittel."

"Ah, I know Vittel. A spa town. Luc knows those camps better than me. He knows people. And then?"

"Then, that's the end. She went to Vittel and did not come out."

"You mean she died there?"

"No. Well, that's probably what happened to her, but there's not record."

Marthe's voice became more sympathetic. "Carolyn, my dear, I'm very impressed with what you have done. You knew already that your grandmother was dead. So this is not a surprise. But in a very important way, you have become closer to her. And you have proven to yourself that you loved her. You went through a lot of trouble to find out what happened to her."

"I must again thank you, Marthe. For teaching me how to be more serious about my life."

"So now you can go on with your life. Now you are living it a little more deeply than before."

"Yes. It's not completely over. In two or three months they will send me a document with the details, of what they have, what they know from French sources, Germans, the Red Cross."

"Until then, why don't you come over to Senlis and have tea with me? I have framed your picture and I want you to see it."

"I would love that."

Carolyn took the train to Senlis and felt the warm sun on her face as she watched the beautiful green countryside pass by the train window. She looked up in the sky, trying to find figures in the clouds. She found several, including a teddy bear, but quickly realized she was finding what she wanted to see.

When she rang the bell in front of Marthe and Luc's mansion in Senlis, the door opened immediately.

Marthe came out laughing. "Sorry," she said, "we saw you coming up the driveway. We were upstairs. I made it to the door just in time, I thought, but then the bell rang." She shook her head and waved the thought away. "Never mind." She embraced Carolyn and kissed her on both cheeks. "Luc is inside with some special wine for you. We're both very interested in hearing all about your trip."

The warmth in Marthe's light blue eyes drew Carolyn in. "I can't thank you enough, Madame, for your advice."

"Oh, come now, it's not Madame for you and me. Not anymore. Luc's waiting for us, he wants to hear all about it. You have awakened his interest in his family and friends. He was interned, too, you know."

Carolyn suddenly felt guilty. She had not talked to Luc about his experiences during the war. She had just been fixated on her own interest. She resolved to make up for it.

Inside, Luc was standing next to a chess table, apparently playing a game with himself. When he heard them come in, he looked up, smiling with his mouth, but more with his eyes. "Carolyn, how nice to see you. We are both waiting to hear what you have learned in Germany."

"Oh, thank you, Luc. Both of you have been so kind to me, and you're the ones who gave me the impetus to do all this. And I have never asked you about your experience. After all, you were here during the war. And I remember the first time I was here, you mentioned that the Germans took over this house. I really want to hear about that."

Luc made an almost imperceptible nod. "Yes, in time. But tell us about Bad Arolsen. We want to hear from you first." He pointed at his wife. "Marthe tells me too little."

Marthe waved his statement away. "Yes, tell us everything."

Carolyn began the story with her conversation with Frau Koehler. At the center in Germany, they took her information, and when she came back in the afternoon, Frau Koehler was waiting with her information.

"And, what did you learn?" Marthe said, closing her eyes and sighing with impatience. Then she smiled, but looked at Luc with a sense of guilt. "I haven't told him. I wanted for him to learn for himself."

"Oh," Carolyn said, surprised. She turned to Luc. "Um—I went there, the lady, Frau Koehler, she was very nice, very sympathetic. She took my information. It seemed odd to me, but it's such a big place, several floors, lots of doors and cabinets even in the hallways. Frau Koehler took me into a room, in the afternoon, after they'd done their research."

"They don't let you look yourself?" Luc said, frowning.

"Well, they would," Carolyn replied, "if I was doing research, but just coming in off the street, they don't. But Frau Koehler showed me the microfilm they had. She told me, in the middle of explaining the images, that they sometimes had to leave because they hated seeing swastikas on everything, day in, day out, even on birth certificates."

"Ah, yes," Luc said, nodding in contempt, "the Germans, that would be natural for them. More efficient. More horror for those that have to look at them. It's as if they are screaming at us from hell."

"Luc, let her continue," Marthe said, with criticism in her words, but not in her voice.

"That's it. There is a record of her being put on a train for Vittel, and a record of her in a census in Vittel. But that's the end of it. Frau Koehler said there are records of people leaving Vittel at the end of the war, and some Americans leaving it during the war, but it seems my grandmother just disappears."

Luc was a little agitated. "The maybe she escaped."

Marthe shook her head. "Well, if she did, there's no record of that." She quickly looked sad. "I'm sorry, Carolyn, I shouldn't have said that. Luc's unwarranted optimism made me do the opposite. I am sorry."

"No, that's just fine," Carolyn said. "It's over with now. I feel I made contact with my grandmother, that's what's important. I never really thought I would find her."

Luc pursed his lips. "Why not? Did you just give up?"

"It seems to me, if my grandmother were alive, she would try and contact us, wouldn't she? Wouldn't she want to find us, too?"

"Yes, that's absolutely true," Luc said.

"But, I understand you," Marthe said, "and you have her grave back in New York. Didn't you say that."

"Yes. I've been there. I touched her gravestone. It's not very nice, just a square piece of stone flat on the ground. My mother does that every time she's in New York, and she's the one that said I should do it."

Luke looked very puzzled. "Then tell me, why have you been looking for your grandmother?"

Marthe looked at him with darkened eyes. He returned her look with raised eyebrows.

"It feels like I'm in amongst the trees looking for the forest. I only wanted to find out how and where she died. Now I know at least that they put the wrong place on the gravestone. It wasn't Versailles, it was Vittel."

"But this is very curious," Luc said, standing. He put a finger in the air. "It's odd that she died in France, though, and then they were able to get her body back to the United Sates. In the middle of the war."

Carolyn nodded, but said, "Yes, I understand, but my grandfather was wealthy enough to do it. It's just kind of odd."

"What?" Marthe said.

"Well, it's a wonderful thing to do, don't you think? And a lot of expense. He must have had connections. And then—" But Carolyn didn't want to continue. She didn't want to drag these generous people deeper into her own history.

"What is it?" Marthe said, concern showing in her voice.

"It's just that he disowned my mother."

"Disowned her? What for? Oh, never mind, Carolyn, it's your family business, not ours. We have no right to ask you about this. Now this is strange. You not only feel closer to your grandmother, you're making us feel closer to her. And you." Marthe touched Carolyn on the arm. "You don't have to go on like this."

Carolyn felt guilty about dominating this conversation. "I'm sorry. Let's—I want to drop this. I know more than I ever thought I'd learn about my grandmother." She turned to Luc. "Marthe said you had some special wine. I would love to taste it. And I haven't forgotten your promise to show me your vineyards."

Luc smiled and stood, said he'd be right back, and left the room.

Marthe turned to Carolyn. "Your grandfather disowned your mother. People are a mystery, My Dear, and the farther away in time they get, the more mysterious they become. I think now it's time for you to concentrate on your own life. Don't you agree?"

Carolyn nodded and sighed. "You're absolutely right. I'm starved, and I can't wait to see what wine Luc has to show me. But before he gets back, there is one thing that interests me."

"What is that?"

"You—or Luc—said the Germans took over this house during the war? What did you do?"

Marthe nodded, and became serious, her eyes darker. "Yes, we lived in one of the houses up the road. They were part of the property then. Now they've been sold as separate houses. We stayed there and they used this big house as some kind of headquarters. We never saw much activity, just cars coming and going, generals, that sort of thing. Oh—" She sighed and shrunk into herself for a moment. "I'm sorry—now I'm going to get into family history. I'm just thinking back what a scare it was. They gave us a week's notice. Which was lucky. We were able to avert a tragedy?"

Carolyn now completely forgot herself. "A tragedy? What?"

"We have an attic. One day a man, a carpenter he said, well he looked like it, overalls, tools, paint on his boots, he said he worked for the Resistance and he was going to build us a secret room. He knew how to hide it. I was in shock. I didn't order someone to come to the house. But of course, instantly, I knew it was Luc. It was what he would do. So he came in, and when he was through, in the top floor, the attic, you would never know there was anything there. So we had whole families stay here. Never very long, it was too close to Paris, but they always came in the back door at night, and up the back staircase without lights, and up to the hidden room in the attic."

"Oh my god, you're brave."

"Yes, maybe brave like your grandmother. But one day a very handsome German officer came and said we had to vacate the house. We had a week's time, and the Resistance came and took these people away, and the carpenter sealed up the hidden room so no one could ever find it. And we moved out."

"Here I am," Luc's jolly voice announced, "with our new wine."

"Oh, my, I didn't know you had new wine so fast," Carolyn said.

"It's not really new," Marthe said. "It's just he has a new partner who's bringing in a new wine from Alsace."

And so Carolyn enjoyed the wine immensely, grew closer to Marthe and Luc, learned more about their experiences during the war, and before leaving, was thrilled to see her drawing of Marthe hung with an expensive gold frame in the hallway.

When she arrived home and looked out the window to the park on rue de Sévigné, she still didn't know what she was going to do with her art. Yes, she had some talent for portraits, but that was not enough. There was something puzzling about it. She still did not have enough self-confidence to just go about drawing in the beautiful scenic places in Paris and its surroundings.

Eyes that told stories, hearts that express themselves on the skin. But that wasn't enough for her. She just didn't want to be someone who drew pictures of people. She needed to know what art was like today, what were artists doing, what were they showing. And there was only one way to do that. It didn't involve continuous sketching on her own. She determined to do that, and formed the idea that she must leave the city full of tourists and find someplace, someplace like Senlis, where Marthe and Luc lived, where the people were simple. No, she thought, that wasn't right. Those two people were not simple. They just lived simple lives, never in a hurry to go someplace. That's what she must find.

At the same time that she could find people to sketch that would be patient for her, she could see what the great Paris art scene was showing. She laughed as she remembered how insulted she was back in New York when she was offered the opportunity to pursue a certificate in art dealership at NYU. She wasn't going to get a certificate out of this, but she was going to find herself. That's all she wanted, that's all she needed.

The next morning she went down to the park across the street, just for practice. She didn't plan on the finding a weather-beaten face full of love and pain, just a couple of mothers and kids to practice on. Practice blending in with backgrounds, filling in with shadows, shaping the eyes and mouth. She found plenty of that and produced a dozen sketches, and made a couple of friends as well. She decided she could take her time looking outside the city for now. Every day she went down to a different park to find material for her sketches. She began to wonder if she was fooling herself, about needing to go outside the city to find the human face that she could relate to. She decided to very her day. Sketching in the morning, galleries in the afternoon.

She sat a couple of days later in the Park across from her apartment, by herself, and enjoying it. She had her sketch pad and found she could do to trees and flowers. She felt very proud of herself, not so much of her work, but rather of her ability to move beyond faces to simple, small landscapes. If that was what you could call them, just leaves and bushes and paths, nothing whole, nothing majestic. She thought of Renaissance masters drawing hands or muscles in the legs, and laughed to think she could even compare herself to anyone else. Still, she was making progress.

She put her pencil down as she felt the cool wind on her face and looked up to see a familiar face. Familiar but she didn't know who it was, she didn't remember where she had seen that face. A young man with a dazzling smile under hazel eyes, his neat black hair waving off his forehead in the wind.

"Carolyn," he said. "How nice to see you." He was carrying something in a small case that he put down on the bench between them, then he sat down. He looked at her, waiting to see if she recognized him.

She smiled, but with politeness. "I'm sorry, you're going to have to help me out. I apologize for not remembering."

He was handsome, with beautiful lips and a strong jaw. He was wearing neat blue jeans and a black jacket over a grey sweater.

"I'm afraid I have an advantage over you. Your aunt Béatrice gave me your address."

"Béatrice?" She put her hand on her mouth. "Oh, yes, New York, the hockey game, the bar." She nodded knowingly. "Now I do remember. You didn't make a very good impression."

He laughed sheepishly. "Yes, you walked out on me, and I don't blame you. I was acting like a fool. But I think I'm over that stage."

She sensed that he was somehow different now. The neat hair and jeans. The way he respected the distance between them. The way he looked at her, just at her face. "So, my aunt, she just gave you my address, like that, and now you're here? Not like it's a coincidence or something." She found him handsome and attractive, but not yet believable.

"No, it's no coincidence at all." He spoke earnestly. "I'm here for my film."

"Your film? Wasn't it about subways or something?"

"Yes it was. Well, remember, part of it takes place in a subway. I thought I could fake Paris by using the Montréal or New York subway. I shot some film, but my mentor said I had to do the real thing. So here I am." He picked up his case.

"What's that?" she said. She looked at the case, pointed at it even, but she was studying his eyes.

"My camera. 8mm."

"8mm? For a film?"

He hefted it up and down in his hand and sort of smiled. He seemed genuinely more reserved, less confident and overbearing than she remembered back in the bar after the game.

"Film is expensive. 8mm is affordable. I just need to scout locations, as many as I can, to see what I want to use."

"How long have you been doing this here?"

"In Paris. Not long. A couple of days."

"Oh. It didn't take you long to find me."

"Well, I have a precise address, so I didn't need a lot of time. Anyway," he said, leaning a little toward her, running his hand through his hair to keep it down in the wind, which it didn't need, "I am here, and your aunt knows I'm here, and I'd like to take you out to dinner. If I may."

His smile was sincere, but maybe mischievous, maybe playing. Whatever it was, it drew her in.

"Dinner. Do you know Paris well?"

"I know a couple of restaurants, if that's what you mean. I'll take you anywhere you like. But I did make a reservation at Restaurant Colbert. Do you know it?"

"I do, le Grand Colbert, but not recently. It's pricey. And touristy."

He shook his head and frowned. "Touristy if you want, but it's beautiful turn-of-the-century, and Parisians love it, too."

"Aren't you presumptuous to make reservations?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but I can just as easily unmake it. Nothing lost. I just wanted to have someplace impressive to take you, that's all."

Carolyn studied him. He seemed at the moment to be out of place in Paris. A face from the past. A funny Quebec accent. But his hair had changed, that was in his favor. His manner was much more civilized. Not arrogant.

No. He was still arrogant. Now she remembered. In New York he had ordered her drink for her without asking. And here in Paris here he shows up with reservations at one of Paris's most elegant restaurants. Again without asking. Without having had a conversation with her.

Still, he got his hair fixed. And he's nicely shaved.

"Good," she said, trying to instill arrogance in her own voice, "you can unmake it."

He was taken aback by her words. "What? I'm sorry, but why?"

"Because you just come barging into my neighborhood and think you're going to make decisions for me. It's a lot like ordering things for me in New York and I don't care for it."

Robert, confusion in his eyes, sat still for a moment, looking back and forth between her eyes. Then he seemed to grasp her meaning. "Of course. I understand. That isn't at all what I wanted to do." He sat back on the bench and pursed his lips, preparing what to say. "I didn't mean it that way. I thought I was being nice. I apologize, sincerely, I do."

Carolyn didn't know how to take Robert's words now. Was he really being sincere, or was he still trying to sweet-talk her into drinks and dinner and whatever came after? She turned to him to say what was on her mind, but he began to talk.

"Tell you what. Let's start over. I'm hungry. Do you know a little place around here where we could get something to eat?" His voice was low and apologetic. He held his hands out to the side, palms up in supplication.

Carolyn smiled, impressed with his willingness to make things right. "Sure. It is nice to see you Robert."

She put out her hand as a way of showing him that she wasn't ready for any kind of relationship. And she resolved to not invite him up to her room any time soon. She wasn't ready for that invasion of privacy at all. Let alone intimacy.

"Walk with me," she said. "We'll find someplace close."

"Thank you," he said, smiling but making sure he didn't get close to her as they walked. "I really am hungry."

"I like l'Osteria, just down the street."

"That's fine with me," he said, showing relief in his voice. He picked up his film camera and followed her, being careful to avoid bumping in to her.

That's nice, she thought, he didn't back away. I'm glad. But that's all. It's just nice.

At 10 rue de Sévigné, she took him inside the small restaurant, with no name on the street, just windows with weather-beaten brown woodwork and three-quarters lace curtains giving the patrons some privacy. They took a small table along the earthen-brick walls underneath black and white photos of scenes in Venice.

A waiter with a strong Italian accent took their order and served them glasses of dark red Amarone, recommending it as being the best of Veneto, the region surrounding Venice.

As they ate pizza, they laughed and shared their guilt at paring the really good wine with really good pizza.

Carolyn took note of how easily they laughed together. How welcome it was that Robert, when he was relaxed, had a really great sense of humor.

"So, tell me," she said, enjoying the last sip of delicious wine from her glass, savoring, for the first time she was in Paris, the complexity of the wine, some sort of earthy fruit. The thought jumped out in her head that she could really like wine tasting with this man. "Tell me again why you are in Paris?"

He looked down at his glass, as if he were studying his fingers through the glass as he started talking. "Well, I had a rough time in New York. I made a small film with these romantic scenes in the subway. Just a short film, only 15 minutes." Then he hesitated and drank the last of his wine without tasting it.

Carolyn thought she could teach him to drink wine, then realized that was the last thing she wanted to do.

"So, why was it rough?"

He looked at her and then around the restaurant. "When I showed it to a group at a film club, they laughed. It was quite humiliating."

Carolyn frowned and a wave of sympathy came over her. "Oh. I'm sorry. What do you think happened?"

"I realize it now. It's called production values. The romanticism of the film, what was there in the script, was lost in the shooting."

"But, I don't see why? Explain that to me?" Carolyn was quite happy to be having an impersonal—and personal—conversation about a professional subject.

"The film was in French, the scenes were supposed to be in France, but the subways were in New York and Montréal. It was obvious to the film club people."

"That wasn't very nice of them to be laughing at your film. I would have thought they would be more appreciative—and I would like some more wine." She signaled to the waiter.

"While we're waiting—" she said.

"Yes. It doesn't matter. Other filmmakers are very competitive, you know. And arrogant. They were quite happy about my film's problems. They all made these social films, you see, that was part of it. They showed homeless people and cruel bureaucrats. My film was about romance. So hopelessly outdated."

"But there are lots of good romantic films made," she said, clearly bothered by the insult from the other filmmakers. As if they were insulting her.

Robert was also clearly viewing Carolyn with sympathetic eyes. He nodded and said, "Perhaps you're right, but that just makes my point. Yes, there was another film, about two old people, and the man's jealous. They didn't laugh at that, but they just sat quietly bored all through it. Anyway, since you asked, that's why I'm here in Paris. So that the location doesn't take away from the film."

She was puzzled. "Why didn't you just make the film in New York? Make it a New York film."

"Oh, I can't do that. I'm supported by the Quebec Film council." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, happy to share his story." It's a story about French Canadians. Besides, I don't have any money on my own. Well, not enough."

Carolyn took a long sip of her wine. The thought occurred to her that Béatrice might have told him about her trust fund. Then she dismissed the thought. Béatrice wasn't like that. She looked intently at him to drive away the idea she wasn't paying attention. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you with all these questions."

"No, no. Not at all. I'm very happy to talk to you about it. It's—it's kind of refreshing, actually. You know what they say. It's just as hard to make a bad film as a good one."

She laughed. "Oh, I heard that too, about painting. And writing." She also wanted to ask him how long he was going to be in Paris, but was afraid he might then think she was serious. And she wasn't. He was just a nice guy she knew. Nicer than he was the first time. But he was interesting, too. "But you aren't letting them get to you, are you?"

Robert smiled. "No, I'm not. That's why I'm here. I learned from my mistake, so now I'm here where my story is now set."

"Do you have actors, too?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm just scouting. I have my little camera and I will go around and film locations inside the metro until I find the three or four locations I need."

"How will you know they're right?"

"Ah, that I learned from my first attempt. They have to be unmistakably Paris, you know, Metro signs, direction signs, trains arriving with Paris Metro destinations on the front."

She furrowed her brow. "Forgive me for acting like a producer, but what good are the Metro locations without actors?"

"When I'm ready, I'll just get some French Canadian actors in Paris—look, Carolyn,—" he drained his glass of wine, "—this was really nice, meeting you. I'm really glad your aunt helped me see you again. But I don't want to take up your time with talk about my movie."

Carolyn felt guilty, not about taking up time with his film, but about maybe giving him the false impression she was really interested in him. She also felt pulled in two directions. She didn't want to get involved. But she did want to see him again. And she didn't have confidence in her ability to manage it. Except that she was sure that she wasn't going to invite him up to her apartment. She couldn't imagine being ready for that with anybody. And she was immediately bothered that she was thinking about it.

"I've enjoyed it, Robert. I'm glad, too. It's nice to see someone from New York."

He twisted himself around to pick his jacket off the chair, then picked up his camera.

She got up and they walked out to rue de Sévigné together. Now she was winging it, and realized she could do anything she wanted and didn't have to worry any more about whether she could control herself.

He studied her, his jacket over his shoulder, film camera at his side, smiling. "Look, what about your art? We haven't even talked about it. Could we meet again, in a couple of days and we'd just talk about your art?"

Nice. Very nice, she thought. "Why not. I don't have any art to show you. But we could meet at a gallery and talk there. Is that okay?"

He smiled warmly. "That's fine. Can I call you and set it up?"

"I'd like that. Let me give you my number." She wrote it on a piece of paper, thinking that he probably already had her number anyway from Béatrice.

"Thank you," he said. He took out his wallet and folded the paper neatly inside so she could see that he was taking this seriously. "Can I give you mine?"

Carolyn smiled and nodded.

He held his hand out to her with a small card, but she instead kissed him on the cheek. And took the card.

"See you in a couple of days," she said. She turned toward home, saying "I'm going this way."

"I'm afraid I don't know which way I'm going."

"Where do you live?—Oh—maybe you're not going home."

"No, I am going home. I live on Montmartre, on the backside. Rent's more to my liking there."

"Well, that's the opposite direction. The Saint Paul Metro is down there." She pointed to the end of the street to rue Saint Antoine.

"Ah, yes," he said, finger in the air, "that's where I came from." He turned around, stepped backward and said, "Au Revoir," then turned to walk to the subway.

"Au Revoir," she said. She stood and watched him walk down the street. Then impulse took over her again. "Wait," she called out.

He stopped, turned and smiled. "Yes?"

"Are there any art galleries near your apartment?" And she instantly regretted saying that as a hot flush filled her face. "Oh, don't take that the wrong way."

He shook his head. "No, of course not. And I didn't." He walked back to where she was standing, outside a fabric shop with a clear glass front.

When he stood next to her he said, "Art gallery? I haven't looked. But this is Paris, there must be."

She nodded and smiled without saying anything.

He hesitated, but when she didn't talk, he said, "I know. I'll call you and let you know what there is. Would that work?"

She didn't want to say anything. She was shocked to find herself mesmerized by his presence.

He lowered his head as if to study her. "Would that work? Or we could do something later, if you like. And it was just nice to meet you."

"No," she said, in a quiet voice. "This is Paris. There will be galleries. Call me."

"I will," he said, as he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and then walked away, turning back once to wave to her.

Carolyn wanted to watch him to the end of the street, feeling still flushed and warm, but she forced herself to turn toward home. When she arrived at her apartment, she opened the window, her view of Paris, and let the cool fog-like breeze rush past her into the room. She looked out over the rooftops, at the darkening sky, and put her arms across her chest and held herself tight. I've only just arrived, she thought, and already so much has happened. Nathalie, Marthe and Luc, Bad Arolsen. She felt so close to her grandmother Julia. She thought of Julia walking below, anyplace out there. What was she doing here? Why had she come? Maybe the report that she'd be getting in a couple of months from Bad Arolsen would answer that question.

Why hadn't her mother Elizabeth tried to find out? Why did Elizabeth go every year to Julia's grave in New York and never go to France to find out what happened to her? What about Julia's painting? Did she do any of that here?

The air cooled Carolyn down too much. She closed the window and went into her bedroom-studio. I, at least, she thought, will follow in Julia's footsteps. I will develop my talent as an artist. When I feel comfortable with myself, and maybe then feel close enough to Julia, I will get my mother to come to Paris and we will search for the spirit of Julia together.

Yes, she said to herself, that's what my mother is missing. She has given up on her own mother. I have not. Our time will come.

The phone awakened Carolyn the next morning. Béatrice. Carolyn wanted to ask her why she hadn't told her about Robert. But as soon as she had the thought, she knew she was happy about it, with or without advance notice. Because it meant she was over Damian and that she was in control. Béatrice apologized, saying she had meant to call. Carolyn just said it was fine, he was quite nice, and she's going to see a couple art galleries with him. Béatrice then delicately brought up Carolyn's mother, who had asked about her. Carolyn responded with scorn that she'd get around to it when she got around to it. When Béatrice contested, Carolyn reminded her that Elizabeth had called New York to find out what was going on, not Paris. And she asked Béatrice to not bring it up again. Carolyn began tapping her fingers on the table, anxious to end the conversation. With one call, Béatrice had moved out of Carolyn's universe.

She wanted to call Nathalie, or Marthe, and then even wanted to talk to Julia.

At the thought of Julia's name, she remembered back to San Francisco, to the picture her mother had, of Elizabeth as a little girl in Central Park. She felt sick, wishing she had remembered that picture when she was in New York, or better yet, wishing she had made a copy, or even stolen it. She could figure out where it was in Central Park, and go to that spot and—, but that wasn't going to happen.

She really had only one person she could talk to, now. Robert. The new Robert. Just on the other side of Sacré-Coeur, down the hill.

Hell. She took the card out of her purse and called his number. He answered. She said Hi. He said it. An hour later, she took the funicular up to Sacré-Coeur and met him in front of the basilica. Together they walked to Place du Tertre and wandered around looking at all the art, stopped in the church of St. Pierre, where Robert said that Dante had come to pray, and then went down the steps of rue du Mont-Cenis and further down, turning left for a long walk past the Moulin Rouge, before finally walking down into the lower heart of Montmartre. The Montmartre with the farmers market, that tourists didn't even know existed. He took her to Place Emile Goudeau, where Picasso, Apollinaire, Modigliani all worked. That really meant something to her, not the famous people, but Robert's interest in what she cared about.

At the end of their walk, they sat in the rickety chairs outside le Lapin Agile. She took her sketchbook and made Robert assume a pose while she worked on the outline of him, the whole person in the chair, relaxed, quiet, smiling, humble, unassuming, and whatever else she might have thought was true about him. They sipped an aperitif until dusk overtook rue des Saules and the rest of the back of Montmartre.

She went home without him, without showing him her sketch, but with a plan to meet again the next day and combine their efforts. He promised to follow her into as many galleries as she liked, and she offered to take a subway anywhere he liked and search for galleries around the Metro exit.

They did this for the next three days. He shot at Pigalle, Louvre, the art nouveau Abbesses, Concorde, Varenne with its Rodin Thinker statue. And then Palais Royal with beautiful glass beads at the entrance, Arts et Métiers which looks like the inside of a submarine, and finally, the Bastille, with its murals of the French Revolution. Carolyn was in a state of benign shock at the beauty available among Metro stations, and became even more impressed with this young man.

He was true to his promise, and at each station they visited they left the Metro and went up to find galleries. They went inside 59 Rivoli, the cool Galerie W, the hip Point Ephémère, the huge green plants that overtake the interior of the boxy, clear-glass Fondation Cartier.

Each day, the finished their work with dinner in a small, inexpensive restaurant near the last place they visited, and each day they parted company with the French kiss on either cheek, and a promise to continue tomorrow. Neither of them said a word about when this might have to come to s top.

The next day their dynamic changed, when Carolyn said she wanted to see some of the film they were shooting. Robert was delighted. Together they went to Pathé Film Studios near his apartment on rue Caulaincourt, just a quick left turn at the bottom of the steps from rue du Mont-Cenis. His French-Canadian contacts allowed them the use of a small 8mm film editor and splicer, and they sat close together to see the small picture float across the 4-inch screen. They laughed as they saw funny people getting in and out of subway cars. He had taken many shots of her without letting her know, and she was both shocked and thrilled to see them.

And Carolyn learned something else. She could do more than just follow him around. She could help him with his film. With his script in hand, she was going to be able to quickly draw storyboards. She wasn't just following him. She was part of it.

And then, again, at the end of this day, they said goodbye again. Carolyn turned to go a few hundred feet to the Lamarck-Caulaincourt subway station. Across the street the glint on the window of a store caught her eye. An art gallery with the name of Galerie Petit Moulin. She took Robert by the arm.

"Come on, just one final visit. Then we'll stop and get dinner."

"Of course," he said. She knew he couldn't say no after her generous offer of doing storyboards.

The gallery was small and narrow. The walls were filled with paintings, all of them figurative. Nothing abstract or absurd. Carolyn felt warm in the room. A tall thin young man sat quietly absorbed in a book at a table against the back wall. He wore black jeans and black turtleneck . Carolyn glanced at some books on a table, The Art of Religion, Picasso et les écrivains, Ansel Adams. On the wall in front of her were landscapes, moonlight, coastlines, a horseman on a dusk-darkened golden field. She felt drawn to that, the horseman, looking for something urgent.

"Look at this." Robert's voice behind her.

"What?" She turned toward his voice.

On the opposite wall Robert was looking at portraits. Portraits. A wall of landscapes, a wall of portraits. How interesting.

He didn't reply, but waved her over. "It's you," he said.

He was right, in a way. It was her. Her substance, but also her thick blond hair, bright hazel eyes, the oval face, the confidence.

She smiled condescendingly. "Well, yes, it does resemble me." She studied the painting, becoming unnerved as she seemed to be looking into a matted mirror. "You think?" She looked at Robert, frowning. She didn't know what to make of it. It was uncanny, but not really believable. Coincidences happen. She leaned in, searching for the title, the artist. There was none.

"That's odd," she said. "No name."

A deep but quiet voice came from behind her. "That's because it's the owner's." The thin tall man stood behind her, very tall, with a small blemish on his left cheek, a high forehead beneath thick brown hair, short and naturally wavy. He smiled mysteriously. "And I must admit, it does look just like you. But I don't think it can be."

"Well," Carolyn said, curious, "it's not, I know, but how can you be so sure."

"Because it was painted about twenty years ago." He put his fingers up to his lips as he studied Carolyn. "Would you excuse me just a moment?"

"Of course," Robert said. "It's your gallery."

"I don't mean that, I mean, you won't go anywhere will you?"

"It's late, and we're really not here to buy anything," Carolyn said, half irritated, half curious.

"I won't be long. Just wait here." He took a step, turned to put his finger in the air to get them to stay where they were, and disappeared.

"What's this all about?" Robert said.

"I don't know. We'll give him just two minutes, and then I'm hungry," Carolyn said.

Within one minute, he returned, with an older woman, looking younger, maybe in her fifties or sixties, petite. She had Carolyn's blonde hair. She was wearing elegant tan pants and a cream blouse with pearl earrings and a pearl necklace. Her hazel and green eyes studied Carolyn, then Robert as she approached. She favored her right leg, almost a limp.

She stopped, looked at the painting, then back to Carolyn, then back and forth again. She turned to the young man. "Yes, Vincent, I see the resemblance. Quite remarkable, actually." She smiled at Carolyn. "I'm sorry, Vincent here is very nice to bring me out, and you do look like the woman in the portrait. But, if I may judge from your faces, I agree with you. I don't quite see the point."

Carolyn could not take her eyes off the woman. "You're right," she said, "but it's not about the point. There is no point. But the resemblance is remarkable. Maybe that's the point."

"Fine," the woman said, "but if you'll excuse me, he said you weren't interested in any of the art, and I thank you for stopping by. Good day to you both." The woman turned to leave, then stopped. "But, as long as you're here, why not take one of my cards." She nodded to Vincent, who practically hopped over to the desk, picked up a card and brought it back to Carolyn.

Carolyn looked at the card and her heart stopped. She couldn't breathe.

"What's the matter, are you all right?" the woman said. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Here, come sit down. Vincent, go get a glass of water."

Carolyn couldn't move. "No, I'm fine. Really." She couldn't say more. She looked again at the painting, then at the woman. "I don't have a card, Madame, but if I did—". She choked, her throat gone dry, the air hot. "If I did, it would say 'Carolyn Stuart. Spelled the same way."

The woman put her hand on her chest. "You are very beautiful, young woman, and you look like me when I was your age, the painting attests to that. It's a wonderful coincidence. But it's hardly more than that."

Tears overwhelmed Carolyn's eyes. Robert swallowed hard and took her hand.

"You're my grandmother. I've been searching for you all over Paris."

Julia took Carolyn's other hand. Carolyn almost fainted from the electric shock of the warmth of the woman's hand.

"I know the names may be the same, young woman—Carolyn—," Julia looked at Robert and Vincent, as if looking for corroboration, "but I don't have any children, and so—" and now Julia began to cry— "you can't be my granddaughter, as lovely as it would be."

Carolyn's voice shook with pleading. "But it can't just be a coincidence. It's not possible."

Julia held Carolyn's shoulder and stared intently into her eyes. "My Dear, my daughter Elizabeth—"

Carolyn let out a scream. "That's my mother's name." Robert put his arms around her to keep her from falling.

Julia shook her head. "As I was saying—." She spoke with a hard voice. "My daughter is dead. She died when she was two years old."

Carolyn moved her head back and forth slowly. This was not possible. She was not giving up. "No. She isn't dead. She's my mother, she lives in San Francisco, and she's your daughter."

Julia looked at Carolyn with pity. "Please, don't keep this up. My daughter, my Elizabeth, maybe the same name as your mother, she's buried in the ground. I saw her death certificate. I saw her gravestone in the New York Marble Cemetery on Second Avenue. So you see, young lady—," Julia glanced sadly at Vincent, "I can't be your grandmother."

Carolyn's eyes opened wide. She looked at Robert. She looked at Julia again. Her voice trembled, she held out her hands in supplication. "I saw your gravestone, Julia Marie Stuart, in the New York City Marble Cemetery on Second Street."

Seeing the terrified face of Julia, Carolyn continued with confidence. "You were born May 23, 1920 in Lewiston, Maine."

Julia collapsed. Carolyn and Robert helped her up. She was unable to speak. Great sobs wracked her body. Vincent brought her a tissue and she calmed down and wiped her face. Now she looked up in supplication at Carolyn. Her voice came out in little whispers. "And—, and—," but she couldn't continue. She took several long breaths. "My little Lizzie?" Her mouth twisted in trembling disbelief in her face red with tears flowing down and dripping on her blouse. "My little Lizzie?"

Carolyn saw that it was too much for her grandmother, too much to take in. How is this possible? How could there be gravestones for both Julia and Elizabeth? Both so close and so far apart.

Julia reached out to Carolyn and drew her in. They hugged each other with silent tears and quiet breathing. Julia pulled back.

Her voice was now calm, but came out like an angel's voice. "Tell me, Carolyn—," but then her voice changed to something hard in disbelief, as if she suddenly thought this could all be a hoax, "where is your mother Elizabeth?"

Carolyn saw the strange new look in Julia's eyes. "My mother is in San Francisco. She doesn't know about you. But she goes every year to visit your grave. She made me promise to do it to. I went there with Béatrice a month ago."

All disbelief left Julia. "Béatrice?" Then she continued as if testing Carolyn. "Béatrice who?"

"Béatrice, my aunt, in New York. She lives on Park Avenue, in the house left to her by Hugh Stuart."

At the mention of that name, Julia's eyes darkened and her lips joined tight. She nodded slowly as she spoke. "I see. Now I see everything."

"Do you have a telephone?" Carolyn said.

"Of course. In the back."

"I'm going to call my mother so you can talk to her. You thought she was dead. She thought you were dead."

Julia held tight to Carolyn and led her to a small room in the back of the gallery. Carolyn picked up the phone and started to dial her mother's number in San Francisco. She turned to Julia. "I'll let it ring till she wakes up." Her eyes opened wide when she saw the picture. She pointed to it and put the phone down. "That picture—that's you and Elizabeth and Hugh in Central Park. My mother has that picture on the mantelpiece."

Julia picked up the picture and held it tight to her chest. She watched Carolyn dial, obviously still not believing this was happening.

Carolyn waited an eternity as the phone rang. She was about to give up when a sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"

Carolyn jumped up and down. "Mama! Mama!"

Elizabeth's voice was groggy and irritated. "Carolyn? What's wrong? Are you okay? Do you know what time it is?"

"Oh, Mom—."

"Carolyn, what is this Mom and Mama? Are you on something?"

"Mom, I'm going to make you so happy you will think you're in heaven. In fact, I'm going to give you a gift that only people who go to heaven ever get. I'm going to give you your mother?"

"What?" The voice was even more irritated.

"Mom, your mother, Julia Marie Stuart, is here with me. I found her. I found her. You know what? She has the same picture on the table here that you have. Of you and Hugh and Julia in Central Park."

Dead silence on the other end of the phone, but Elizabeth's breath was fast and deep.

"Mom, I'm going to pass the phone to your mother."

Tears filled Carolyn's eyes so she could not see Julia's face. She gave Julia the phone and helped her sit at the table.

"Hello? Hello?" came a tiny voice from the phone.

"Lizzie? Is that my little Lizzie? Is it really you?"

The only answer that came out of the earpiece was a series of sobs, then sniffling. "Mama? Mama?"

Julia shook her head, looked at the phone in disbelief, then put it back up to her ear. "All these years he stole from us, your father. He put you in one cemetery and me in the one next door and stole you from me."

Julia couldn't talk any more. She was breathing too hard and crying. She handed the phone to Carolyn.

"Mom?"

"My mother, where's my mother?"

"She's overcome, Mom. You have to come. You have to come."

"I will be in New York and on the Concorde as soon as I can," Elizabeth said.

XI, Elizabeth in Paris, 1980

The Concorde flew low over the green pastures of northern France, along the meandering Seine, and into Charles de Gaulle airport. Elizabeth and Béatrice got off the plane and walked as fast as they could out to the customs. No luggage, no hindrance. The officer stamped their passports without delay. They walked on, hand in hand.

At the end of a long steel gray hallway stood Julia and Carolyn, arm in arm, with their blonde hair and hazel green eyes. Elizabeth dropped Beatrice's hand and ran to her mother and daughter, out of breath from laughing. The three of them hugged each other tightly, and when Béatrice arrived, Julia hugged her, and then the four of them stood for a long, long, time in tight embrace.

A taxi took them to Julia's apartment at 32 rue du Mont-Cenis, in the shadow of Sacré-Coeur. They opened a bottle, two bottles, of $20,000 Krug 1928 champagne. They laughed. They cried. They stared at each other. They ate Almas caviar, goose foie gras with Italian White Alba truffles. Until they were sick.

And they were ready to hear Julia tell them what happened to them. Lizzie held her mother's hand, and said she remembered the ship and being taken away and put in the back seat of the limousine with Grace. They were all in silent tears with the death of Christine and the disappearance of Isabelle.

They heard that Julia had never been to Versailles, that she was in Vittel until the end of the war. She had come back to Paris, found that the neighbors had kept the apartment in the hope that Isabelle might come back, and when Julia showed up, they were happy to let her stay there.

"But, Mama, why didn't you come back for me?" Elizabeth said.

Julia nodded in sorrow. "I did. I came back as soon as it was possible after the war. I came to New York to look for you. I was sure you would go back to Paris with me." She took a drink of champagne, put her hands on her lap and signed. "I came to the house, and Mrs. Willow answered the door and almost fell over with shock when she saw me. She said that Lizzie wasn't there, and I would have to talk to Hugh. She said come back later. Later? Later when, I said, this is my house. No, you will have to talk to Mr. Stuart. In an hour, he will be back.

"So I came back in that one hour and he was there. He wouldn't let me even in the house. Julia, he said, Julia, Lizzie has died. But he didn't have any tears in those eyes. He showed me the death certificate, signed by Dr. Rivlin."

She looked intently into Lizzie's eyes. "He showed me that. Then he got in the car and he took my down to Second Street and he showed me your grave, Lizzie." Julia broke down and put her hand on her forehead, and sighed deeply. "So what was there for me? I had made friends in Paris, I had a life there. I could do something with art. Not paint." She turned to Carolyn. "Only the one painting, the one painting that has been waiting for twenty years for you to come and see it." She turned to Lizzie. "Oh, you must come tomorrow. Oh, of course you will, come to my little gallery, it's just around the corner. To see the painting that has made a miracle."

Lizzie shook her head slowly. "Now I see. My father. Hugh Stuart. A monster. When I was five or six, or maybe older," she brushed her red hair away from her face, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead. "He took me in his office, and he seemed so sad. He said that you had died of fever in France, that he had brought you home. And we went to that cemetery on Second Avenue, the Marble Cemetery. I never even knew there was another one. It was so beautiful, along the side walk, with a wrought iron fence, and I could see your grave even from the street. I've gone there on your birthday every year of my life. I even flew in from Stanford, I wouldn't tell anybody."

When she finished the silence that filled the room kept the heaviness of all those years around them.

"To think," Béatrice said, looking at Carolyn, "we went there." She turned to Lizzie and Julia. "We went into that cemetery on Second Street, we almost found your grave, Lizzie, but it didn't look right, so we left."

The next morning, they all went to Julia's gallery, and then Carolyn's apartment, and they met Robert, and went out to Senlis for a startling introduction to Marthe and Luc.

In the afternoon, they went to Notre Dame cathedral and lit candles before a statue of the Virgin.

Julia took a match and lit two more candles. "For Christine and Isabelle," she said. She put her arms around Lizzie and Carolyn and prayed for a long time.

Lizzie took Julia's arm on her left, and Carolyn's arm on her right, and held them tight as they walked out beneath the rose window into the bright Paris sunshine.

