finding a smile, Megan went on, ‘I think I’ll have a cup of tea. I need it after all this.’ As she spoke she reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup.
Owen said, ‘I’m glad I helped Laura to become an athlete. It’s served her well, and will in the future.’
‘Laura’s always been brave, Owen, even when she was a small child. And quick thinking, as well.’
‘She idolizes Claire,’ Owen remarked, thinking out loud. ‘She’ll always rush to her rescue whatever the circumstances.’
‘I know.’ Megan sighed and looked across at Owen.
‘What is it?’ he asked, frowning. ‘You look troubled.’
‘Claire’s back is covered with old bruises.’
‘What?’ He sounded startled.
‘I saw them when she came out of the shower. She said she’d fallen off her bicycle in the park,’ Megan explained. ‘But you don’t believe her?’ ‘I don’t know whether I do or not.’
‘I’ve always thought the Bensons were a bit odd,’ Owen said, bringing his hand up to his generous mouth. He rubbed it thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘She could have fallen, you know.’
‘Yes…’ Megan was silent, but eventually she said, ‘I hope you and I live a long time, Owen, so that we can look after Laura and Claire, be there for them.’
Reaching out, he put his hand over hers and smiled at her lovingly. ‘So do I. But remember this…those two will always be there for each other.’
Winter
1996
Whenever she was in Paris on business and had an hour or two to spare, Laura Valiant inevitably headed for the Musée d’Orsay in the seventh arrondissement on the Left Bank.
Today was such a day. The moment her lunch with two prominent art-dealers from the Galerie Theoni was over, she thanked them, promised to be in touch about the Matisse, and said her goodbyes.
Leaving the Relais Plaza, she crossed the lobby of the Plaza Athénée Hotel and stepped out onto the avenue Montaigne.
There were no cabs on the rank in front of the hotel and none in sight, so she decided to walk. It was a cold December day with a hint of rain in the air. She shivered and shrugged further into her black overcoat.
Laura was dressed entirely in black, from the topcoat to her smart woollen suit underneath and soft leather boots that stopped just short of the knee. Her jet-black hair, styled in a short, sleek cut, accentuated both her pale face and her eyes of a blue so brilliant they seemed supernatural. A slender tall young woman, she looked much younger than her thirty-one years.
Laura was a striking figure as she hurried along; many a male head turned. But she did not notice those admiring glances, so intent was she in her purpose.
She lifted her head and looked up at the sky. It was leaden and grey this afternoon; a watery sun was trying to push through the clouds without much success. But the weather was irrelevant here. To Laura, Paris was a city full of nostalgia and memories, memories happy and sad…so much had happened to her here.
First love – oh, how she had loved him and willingly lost her virginity at eighteen – and first heartbreak, when he had said it was over and had left her with such sudden abruptness that she had been stunned. And oh, the terrible jealousy when she had gone to see him a few days later and found him in bed with another girl. But there was more self-love than love in jealousy, de la Rochefoucauld had written long ago; she had taken those wise words to heart on that awful day and made them her own personal motto over the years. And she had fallen in love again, more than once, even though she had believed she never would. Miraculously, or so it had seemed to her at the time, she had eventually recovered from her broken heart to discover that there were other attractive young men in the world, and many were available.
It was her mother who had first brought her to Paris when she was twelve, and she had been captivated. At the age of eighteen she had returned to study art history and literature at the Sorbonne. In the two years she had lived in Paris as a student she had come to know it as well as she knew New York, where she had been born and raised. Whether shrouded in spring rain, wrapped in the airless heat of summer or coated with winter snow, Paris was the most beautiful of cities.
City of Light, City of Lovers, City of Gaiety, City of Artists…it had so many names. But no matter what people chose to call it, Paris was a truly magical place. She had never lost her fascination with it, and whenever she came back she immediately fell under its spell once again.
Mostly, Laura thought of Paris as the City of Artists, for had they not all worked and lived here at one time or another, those great painters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? Whatever their origins and from wherever they sprang, they had eventually come here, armed with their palettes and brushes and paints, and their soaring talent. Gauguin, Van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Cézanne, Vuillard, Degas, Sisley and Seurat. The Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters she most admired, and in whose work she was an expert, had all converged on Paris to make it their home, if only for a short while.
The world of art was her world, and it had been for as long as she could remember. She had inherited her love of art from her mother Maggie Valiant, a well-known American painter who had studied at the Royal College of Art in London and the École des Beaux Arts in Paris.
But Laura was the first to admit she lacked her mother’s talent and vision as a painter, and when she was in her early teens painting became an avocation rather than her vocation. Nonetheless, she had decided she wanted to work with art once she had finished her studies, and after her graduation from the Sorbonne she did stints with several galleries in Paris before returning home to the States. Once back in New York, she did gallery work again, and then completed a rewarding four years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
One of her superiors at the museum, impressed by her unerring eye, superb taste, and knowledge of art, encouraged her to become an art-adviser. And so three years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, she and Alison Maynard, a colleague at the Metropolitan, had started their own company. The two of them had made a great success of this venture, which they had named Art Acquisitions. She and Alison bought art for a number of wealthy clients, and helped them to create collections of some significance. Laura loved her career; it was the most important thing in her life, except for her husband Doug, and the Valiants.
A few days ago she had flown to Paris from New York, hoping to find paintings for one of their important clients, a Canadian newspaper magnate. Unfortunately, she had not found anything of importance so far, and she and Alison had agreed on the phone that she would stay on a bit longer to continue her search. She had a number of appointments, and she was hopeful she would find something of interest and value in the coming week.
Increasing her pace, Laura soon found herself turning onto the rue de Bellechasse, where the Musée d’Orsay was located not far from the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides. She had made
