There was no look of recognition in his blue eyes—I almost sighed out loud from relief. He only saw my aunt that night. I sat down and placed the tote on my lap.
“Jack McCrae is a talented photographer. I’m an admirer and flattered that he wants to use the restaurant for one of his shoots.” Girard returned to his seat. “I’m especially drawn to his personal collections. I have a piece hanging in my house from his Prague architectural series.”
I remembered this collection. It was the exhibition in San Francisco where I had introduced Uncle Michael to Jack. There were buyers from all over the world. My uncle was ecstatic with his purchase.
“Which one?” I asked.
“The exterior shot of the House of the Black Madonna.”
“Ah, the cubist building. One of my favorites. Black and white or color?”
“Black and white.” A smile teased the corner of his lips. “I should have known that his assistant would know all of his pieces.”
I nodded. That particular collection had a significant memory attached to it. I hoped he wouldn’t quiz me about the rest.
Before the conversation continued, I opened my tote, withdrew the cardboard envelope containing his photograph, and slid it across to him facedown.
He picked it up and pulled out the photo. A kaleidoscope of emotions—surprise, shock, regret, fury—shifted across his face. He closed his eyes as his fingertips brushed against the edge of the paper. His other hand held the edge of the desk, knuckles white from the tight grip, his breath ragged. After a stretch of silence, he asked, “Where did you get this?”
“This was you, when you were in love with my aunt.” My reply was quiet, but firm. “You loved her then.”
“Did this come from her? Did she hold on to this?”
“No. She doesn’t know I have it. I came here to show you this and to ask you to call off the boycott and to help dispel the rumors about her.”
His handsome face was implacable.
All traces of his earlier emotions had vanished. “What happens to her business is no concern of mine.”
“But this is a bigoted attack on her character! The language in that flyer is inflammatory and racist. You’re supposed to be a man of integrity. Everyone will assume you share the same hateful view.”
His spine straightened as his jawline tensed. “I wasn’t aware of what had been disseminated.” Every word was precise. “I assure you that I will put a stop to it at once.”
“And what about my aunt? She loves you. She moved here for you. She’s risked everything she owns to make a new life here.”
“And she told you all this? She’s made her affections clear?”
“Not in so many words, no.”
“If she feels this way, why isn’t she here? Instead, you’re here. Her family is always interfering and she allows them to. She cares more about them than she ever did about me. She made her choice and she’s made it clear.”
“Yes, she loves her family, but she also loves you. It’s not—”
“You weren’t there,” he interrupted, “when I waited that day at the airport, or the next when I sobbed in the apartment we found together, or the years I spent hoping she would return because I had made my restaurant a reality.”
“But she left us all behind. She sold her house in California, and put everything she owns into her business here, to be with you. Isn’t that enough? What more proof do you need to convince you that she still loves you?”
“Proof? You have no proof. You have a faded photograph from a previous life. You lied to see me. How do I know you’re not lying about everything?” He leaned across the desk. “She could have seen me at any time. She chose not to.”
“She is your match,” I protested.
“Do you know why I named my restaurant Le Papillon Bleu? We were walking through Luxembourg Gardens. The flowers were in bloom and I told her I loved her. All around us, blue butterflies appeared, dancing in clusters. Blue butterflies followed us whenever we were together.
“I told her my dream for this restaurant, and I have made it a reality. I was here, waiting for her. I named the restaurant after our butterfly so she could find me. For years, I waited. She never came.”
“She is here now,” I replied. “She came back for you.”
“I don’t believe you, and if you were me, would you?”
He handed me back the photo and I tucked it into its envelope.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I apologized, and walked out of his office. The door made a solid snap behind me.
He had been waiting for her all these years, and he was still waiting.
Whether she never knew—or had always known—I had to find out.
Forty-Four
I returned to the empty tea shop heartbroken. I closed the door and locked it behind me. My aunt entered from the back room.
“What’s wrong, Vanessa?” she asked.
I pulled out Girard’s photograph and set it on the counter.
She cradled the picture in her hands. “Where did you get this?”
I didn’t answer.
“I haven’t seen this in years. I thought I had lost it in Paris.” Her fingers traced his face. “I always suspected my roommate stole it. Whenever Chloe thought I wasn’t looking, I would find her admiring him. How did you get it?”
“Auntie Faye got it from her. You were right. She did steal it, but she told Auntie Faye you left it behind by accident.”
Bursts of color bloomed in her cheeks. “Wait. Faye found her. They’re investigating me?”
“They wanted to help. When you moved away, you didn’t tell anyone. They were worried about you being all alone here.”
“I should have known you’d be complicit in their demands. I trusted you,” Aunt Evelyn hissed. “And you betrayed me, to them.”
“They are our family. Their methods might be questionable, but we look out for one another. Everyone is worried about how you don’t have anyone here. You push people away when they want to help you.”
“Yes, because unsolicited help is the solution. Interference, subterfuge, gossip, and outright manipulation. That’s what my family is good at. Why did you think I wanted to get away?”
“That’s unfair, Auntie. We love you and are trying to help. We think you’d be happy with—”
“With Girard? ‘We think,’ because I’m too stupid to figure it out myself and you all know what’s best. Is that it?”
I took a deep breath to collect myself. She was too busy being angry to listen. “You’ve done all the work to get here. You made the big move, started your business, you just need to reach out to him. That’s it. That’s the last step, Auntie. He loves you so much and is waiting for you to tell him that you feel the same.”
“And how do you know? Your aunties or the private inspector they hired told you?” She crossed her arms. Her gaze hardened.
“I talked to him myself. He told me everything, about the blue butterfly, his goal of opening his own restaurant, and how long he waited for you. You just have to go to him. Tell him.”
“How dare you, Vanessa. You had no right. This is my life.”
Her anger chilled the room. Frost spread across the glass surfaces in the shop, fogging and obscuring. I shivered, and hugged my bare arms as the temperature dropped. Goose bumps appeared on my skin.
“Why won’t you talk to him?” I asked through my chattering teeth.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Did you know he’s been waiting for you all these years?”
“Of course I knew! He never married, although he’s dated his fair share of women. The restaurant was exactly where he said he would build it. I chose the location of the tea shop because of it. I did all of this”—the fury in her voice broke—“so we could be together.” She stepped back and collapsed against the counter. “For years I’ve kept track of what he was doing and what he’s accomplished. I’ve always known.”
“Then why won’t you talk to him?”
“I can’t. It’s not meant for me. Leave me be.”
“You keep pushing people away, Auntie. People who love you.” I took a step toward her. She waved me away. “Auntie, please.”
Tears of frustration and sorrow ran down my cheeks. I cried because she wouldn’t. Her crippling fear was keeping her from her own happiness. She accepted she was destined to be alone, so she was alone, a self-fulfilling prophecy.
* * *
* * *
I escaped the confines of the wintry shop and made my way back to the apartment. I had given it my best shot. There was nothing left that I, or the aunties, could do. Aunt Evelyn was the master of her own fate and she chose not to act. I was more invested in helping her than she was.
In need of comfort, I sought out Marc’s envelope in my purse. My fingertips ripped the edge clean to reveal another drawing inside. I laughed at the subject: a forlorn, shattered phone in the shape of a heart. The scattered pieces formed the pattern of tiny arrows. There was a short note on the other side of the paper.
The phone is dead. Will need to get a new one. I miss you.
I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you. Boss has bumped up my hours. I’m even busier now. I’m so stressed out and the boys have offered to cheer me up in the little time we have free after midnight. I’d much prefer seeing you.