Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

“But free love,” the woman continued, “love that has no constraints and is open to all pleasures-that is a positive force.”

“Is that Anthony’s interpretation of this piece?” asked Beryl.

“It’s how I interpret it.” Annika shifted her gaze to Beryl. “You are a friend of Anthony’s?”

“An acquaintance. I know his mother, Nina.”

“Where is Nina, by the way?” asked Reggie. “You’d think she’d be front-and-center stage for darling Anthony’s night of glory. ”

Beryl had to laugh at Reggie’s imitation of Nina. Yes, when Queen Nina wanted an audience, all she had to do was throw one of these stylish bashes, and an audience would invariably turn up. Even poor Marie St. Pierre, just out of the hospital, had put in an appearance. Marie stood off in a corner with Helena Vane, the two women huddled together like sparrows in a gathering of peacocks. It was easy to see why they’d be such close friends; both of them were painfully plain, neither one was happily married. That their marriages were not happy was only too clear tonight. The Vanes were avoiding each other, Helena off in her corner darting irritated looks, Reggie standing as far away as possible. And as for Marie St. Pierre-her husband wasn’t even in the room at the moment.

“So this is in praise of free love, is it?” said Reggie, eyeing the bronze with new appreciation.

“That is how I see it,” said Annika. “How a man and a woman should love.”

“I quite agree,” said Reggie with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Banish marriage entirely.”

The woman looked provocatively at Richard. “What do you think, Mr…?”

“Wolf,” said Richard. “I’m afraid I don’t agree.” He took Beryl’s arm. “Excuse us, will you? We still have to see the rest of the collection.”

As he led Beryl away toward the spiral staircase, she whispered, “There’s nothing to see upstairs.”

“I want to check out the upper floors.”

“Anthony’s work is all on the first floor.”

“I saw Nina slink up the stairs a few minutes ago. I want to see what she’s up to.”

They climbed the stairs to the second-floor gallery. From the open walkway, they paused to look over the railing at the crowd on the first floor. It was a flashy gathering, a sea of well-coiffed heads and multicolored silks. Annika had moved into the limelight with Anthony, and as a new round of flashbulbs went off, they embraced and kissed to the sound of applause.

“Ah, free love,” sighed Beryl. “She obviously has samples to pass around.”

“So I can see.”

Beryl gave him a sly smile. “Poor Richard. On duty tonight and can’t indulge.”

“ Afraid to indulge. She’d eat me up alive. Like that bronze statue.”

“Aren’t you tempted? Just a little?”

He looked at her with amusement. “You’re baiting me, Beryl.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are. I know exactly what you’re up to. Putting me to the test. Making me prove I’m not like your friend the surgeon. Who, as you implied, also believed in free love.”

Beryl’s smile faded. “Is that what I’m doing?” she asked softly.

“You have a right to.” He gave her hand a squeeze and glanced down again at the crowd.

He’s always alert, always watching out for me, she thought. I’d trust him with my life. But my heart? I still don’t know…

In the downstairs gallery, a pair of musicians began to play. As the sweet sounds of flute and guitar floated through the building, Beryl suddenly sensed a pair of eyes watching her. She looked down at the cluster of bronze statues and spotted Anthony Sutherland, standing by his Madonna with jackal. He was gazing right at her. And the expression in his eyes was one of cold calculation.

Instinctively she shrank away from the railing.

“What is it?” asked Richard.

“Anthony. It’s the way he looks at me.”

But by then Anthony had already turned away and was shaking Reggie Vane’s hand. An odd young man, thought Beryl. What sort of mind dreams up these nightmarish visions? Women nursing jackals. Couples devouring each other. Had it been so difficult, growing up as Nina Sutherland’s son?

She and Richard wandered through the second-floor gallery, but found no sign of Nina.

“Why are you so interested in finding her?” asked Beryl.

“It’s not her so much as the way she went up those stairs. Obviously trying not to be noticed.”

“And you noticed her.”

“It was the dress. Those trademark bugle beads of hers.”

They finished their circuit of the second floor and headed up the staircase to the third. Again, no sign of Nina. But as they moved along the walkway, the musicians in the first-floor gallery suddenly ceased playing. In the abrupt silence that followed, Beryl heard Nina’s voice-a few loud syllables-just before it dropped to a whisper. Another voice answered-a man’s, speaking softly in reply.

The voices came from an alcove, just ahead.

“It’s not as if I haven’t been patient,” said Nina. “Not as if I haven’t tried to be understanding.”

“I know. I know-”

“Do you know what it’s been like for me? For Anthony? Have you any idea? All those years, waiting for you to make up your mind.”

“I never let you want for anything.”

“Oh, how fortunate for us! My goodness, how generous of you!”

“The boy has had the best-everything he’s ever wanted. Now he’s twenty-one. My responsibility ends.”

“Your responsibility,” said Nina, “has only just begun. ”

Richard yanked Beryl around the corner just as Nina emerged from the alcove. She stormed right past them, too angry to notice her audience. They could hear her high heels tapping down the staircase to the lower galleries.

A moment later, a second figure emerged from the alcove, moving like an old man.

It was Philippe St. Pierre.

He went over to the railing and stared down at the crowd in the gallery below. He seemed to be considering the temptation of that two-story drop. Then, sighing deeply, he walked away and followed Nina down the stairs.

Down in the first-floor gallery, the crowd was starting to thin out. Anthony had already left; so had the Vanes. But Marie St. Pierre was still standing in her corner, the abandoned wife waiting to be reclaimed. A full room’s length away stood her husband Philippe, nursing a glass of champagne. And standing between them was that macabre sculpture, the bronze man and woman devouring each other alive.

Beryl thought that perhaps Anthony had hit upon the truth with his art. That if people weren’t careful, love would consume them, destroy them. As it had destroyed Marie.

The image of Marie St. Pierre, standing alone and forlorn in the corner, stayed with Beryl all the way back to the flat. She thought how hard it must be to play the politician’s wife-forever poised and pleasant, always supportive, never the shrew. And all the time knowing that your husband was in love with another woman.

“She must have known about it. For years,” said Beryl softly.

Richard kept his gaze on the road as he navigated the streets back to Passy. “Who?” he asked.

“Marie St. Pierre. She must have known about her husband and Nina. Every time she looks at young Anthony, she’d see the resemblance. And how it must hurt her. Yet all these years, she’s put up with him.”

“And with Nina,” said Richard.

Beryl sat back, puzzled. Yes, she does put up with Nina. And that’s the part I don’t understand. How she can be so civil, so gracious, to her husband’s mistress. To her husband’s bastard son…

“You think Philippe is Anthony’s father?”