Precious Gifts (4 page)

“I'm in Chicago, but I should be back by tomorrow night.”

“I'll call you as soon as I've organized everything,” she promised, “and of course you're welcome to come to the funeral with us.”

“Thanks, but I'll get my own car.” It would have been crowded with him riding with them, but she still felt an obligation to ask. She was the only mother he had had growing up, even if he hadn't been an endearing child. He had lied at every opportunity and been nasty to his sisters. He was always making one of them cry. And there was no love lost between them now. They had all written Bertie off. Only Véronique was still pleasant to him, although she wouldn't give him money, which was all he cared about.

Knowing how upset Paul had been about him, she couldn't help wondering what his father had left him in his will. He had never told her. Paul didn't have much left, and was always short of money himself, but he still had some of the settlement she'd given him, although it had been dwindling fast. He had always lived beyond his means, making grand gestures, and he had spent too much on women. He had never changed. And Paul still had the château in France that she had bought for them and given him in the divorce. He had wanted it desperately as part of the settlement, and then had lost interest in it, as he did with everything. He still owned it, it was boarded up now, and she knew he hadn't been there in a dozen years. She assumed he'd left it to his four children, and now the girls would have to share it with Bertie, or dispose of it together, which seemed more likely. None of them needed the headache of a crumbling château in France and all would benefit more from the proceeds of a sale, particularly Bertie. It was reasonable to believe that Bertie would receive a quarter of his father's estate, even if all of what Paul had had come from her. Bertie was still his son, whether an admirable person or not, and the money Véronique had given Paul was his to bequeath as he chose.

She ended the conversation with Bertie and went to bed that night thinking of all she had to do, and the funeral she had to arrange. Timmie had promised to help her. It was a strange feeling knowing that Paul was gone now. She knew she would miss him. He had been good to talk to and sometimes fun to be with even after their divorce. She was no longer in love with him, and hadn't been for years, which was a relief. But she loved him as someone who had been important in her life. It would be hard to lose that now. She fell asleep thinking about the ten happy years of their marriage, which had been the best years of her life. No one had ever been as dazzling as Paul Parker. There would never be anyone like him. And whatever his failings, it was what his daughters were thinking that night, too. He was unique.

J
oy arrived at Timmie's apartment, from the red-eye flight from L.A., before Timmie left for work. Joy was due at the apartment at seven, so Timmie had agreed to wait, and she had texted as soon as she landed, to confirm that she'd be on time. Joy was as organized and reliable as her older sister, while Juliette had always been vaguer and more fey, and was the most emotional of the three. Timmie had talked to Juliette the night before, and Juliette was distraught over their father, who from hero had become saint, which had irritated Timmie, although she tried not to say it.

Timmie had written a draft of the obituary when she got home from work the night before. There wasn't much to say about him, and she had never been charitable about her father. “Successful fortune hunter dies after a year of illness following stroke, in New York,” didn't seem appropriate. She didn't say that, but she thought it, as she wrote that he had graduated from Princeton, been married twice, and had four surviving children, and listed them by name. His career had been undignified and brief, and had consisted of small, unimportant jobs on the fringes of banking, and then in real estate, until he met her mother, which had been a windfall for him. Véronique never made an issue of it, but it was no secret to their children. The only fortune he had made was from his marriage to their mother. Timmie hated the fact that he had cheated on her and destroyed her mother's illusions about him, and theirs.

Paul had been beautiful and impressive when he walked into a room, and an asset at any dinner table, but he had accomplished nothing, and his penchant for vapid, pretty young women had added little to his life and nothing to his CV. He had lived only in the moment, wanting to have fun, and never thinking of the future, or the consequences of his actions, right to the end. His last female companion had been a beautiful young Russian girl, who had disappeared the moment he got sick. At least they wouldn't have her to contend with, Timmie thought. It would be bad enough dealing with Bertie, who would scramble for every penny. Timmie had no illusions about him, none of them did, and most of the time she forgot about him completely. They'd hardly seen him in recent years, which was a blessing. And he avoided them, too, since staying in touch with them was of no benefit to him. He seemed to have only their father's worst traits, multiplied by a thousand, with none of his good ones to mitigate them. Their father had said as much himself.

Joy looked sleepy when she got to Timmie's apartment, and more beautiful than ever when Timmie opened the door to her. She was wearing a short white skirt and a T-shirt, and even in flat sandals she was almost as tall as Timmie, although they had entirely different styles and appearances. Timmie had the blond aristocratic good looks of her father, while Joy was absolutely dazzling with her dark hair, violet eyes, and creamy skin. She had their mother's looks and father's height. Timmie hadn't seen her in a while, although they talked from time to time. Joy was never great at returning calls or staying in touch. Timmie and Juliette spoke far more often. Joy was too busy with her auditions, go-sees, cattle calls, acting jobs, and waitressing in between.

The two sisters embraced the minute they saw each other, and for a long moment, Joy clung to her, as they both thought of their father.

“I can't believe he's gone,” Joy said in a hoarse voice as she walked in. “I kind of thought he'd go on forever.”

“We all did,” Timmie said, as she poured her a mug of coffee in the kitchen and handed it to her. She was wearing a different plaid shirt, clean jeans, and the same Converse she'd had on the day before. It was a rag-bag unisex look, similar to what everyone wore at the foundation, hardly different from their homeless clients, whereas Joy looked sexy, young, and very L.A. in her miniskirt. Her older sister smiled at her. Joy was unarguably the family beauty, as her father always said. She looked like a taller version of their mother, with a huge dose of sex appeal added to the mix. Their mother looked more demure, but their features and coloring were the same. And with their father's height, they were very striking women.

“Mom's coming in the afternoon,” Timmie filled her in. “She texted me when she got on the plane in Nice three hours ago. I told her you were staying here.” It wouldn't surprise her, since Joy almost always did when she came to New York, which was as seldom as she could. The two sisters liked being together downtown, and it gave them a chance to catch up. Timmie seemed older and more mature, even though they were only three years apart, which had made a bigger difference when they were kids. “I think the funeral will be in three days. Mom will figure it out when she gets here.”

“Is she going back to St. Tropez afterward?” Joy asked her, feeling guilty that she hadn't made time to go there this summer, but neither had Timmie. And Juliette couldn't get away either, since she had no one to relieve her at the sandwich shop, except her bakery assistant, who didn't speak English and wasn't up to it. Juliette had hardly taken a day off in three years, until her father's death the day before. And now she wanted to take the rest of the summer off to mourn and honor him, and take some time for herself. Even though it had been expected, her father's death was a shock to her.

“She didn't say,” Timmie answered. “I think she only has the house till the end of the month, and I get the feeling she's been lonely there.” But she had nothing to do in New York either. Véronique had relied heavily on them to fill her life while they were growing up, and in the past few years, she had been at loose ends.

Véronique was talking about starting to paint again, but had done nothing about it. She had been a very talented portrait artist and had gone to the Beaux-Arts in Paris, but she had only dabbled at her art while the girls were young, and said she didn't have time. Now she did, but had been away from it for too long. She hadn't figured out what to do to fill her days. She read a lot and went back and forth to Paris, had done some charity work, but hadn't found a real focus for her time. She had dated a few men since the divorce, but hadn't had anyone serious in her life since Paul. And she spent just enough time with him to curb her appetite for companionship and keep her from being too interested in finding someone else. Timmie had been wondering the night before if his being gone now would make a difference, and she'd be more open to other men, but Véronique always said that at fifty-two, she was too old, which Timmie couldn't argue with, since she felt too old to try again at twenty-nine, or in her case too disheartened. Timmie was sick and tired of cheating men, but Véronique had never had the bitterness that had tainted Timmie. For now at least, Timmie had no desire to try again, unlike Juliette, who had a revolving door in her life for losers, and Joy, who always had a boyfriend, even if he was never around.

“I'll try to come home early,” Timmie promised, “after Mom gets in. I told her I'd go to Frank Campbell with her. Knowing Mom, she'll have everything worked out and planned before she lands.” They both smiled at the truth in that. Their mother was flawlessly organized and ran a tight ship. She had been a perfect mother and wife, which made it even harder for her now, with nothing to run except her own life.

Timmie gave Joy a quick kiss and left. She was at work later than usual, at eight a.m., and as she walked to the foundation from the subway, she thought about her father again. In many ways, he had been a no-show in their lives, and at the same time, he had been a strangely unifying bond. It was still hard to believe that he was gone.

She had just enough time in the office to sort through the files on her desk, and by nine o'clock there were three people waiting to see her, and they were a welcome distraction from her own confusing feelings about her father's death.

By the time the plane landed at Kennedy Airport, Véronique had already made several lists during the flight. She had to call the caterer, the priest, and the florist, pick a casket with Timmie at Campbell's, make arrangements at the cemetery, submit the obit to the
Times,
and ask several of Paul's acquaintances to be pallbearers at the church. She thought Bertie should be one, and Arnold Sands another, but they needed six more. Paul hadn't had close friends. He preferred the company of women, and most of the people he knew were superficial socialites he saw socially but wasn't close to, and the people he ran into at parties who weren't really friends. Moments like this pointed out what she already knew, that there had been no depth or substance to Paul's life. He was all about having fun, with as few responsibilities as possible. It made it difficult to come up with people who truly cared about him—other than Arnold Sands, his attorney, who had been his best friend, and his only confidant. It already felt strange, knowing Paul was no longer there. And Véronique was grateful to have the funeral to arrange so she didn't have time to think, but her sadness over his death kept creeping in anyway.

A representative of Air France came to escort her off the plane, and whisked her through immigration and customs, since she had nothing to declare. She had worn a simple black cotton dress, which seemed suitable, given the reason for her return. She wasn't his widow, but it almost felt like it. She had to remind herself, as Timmie had when they spoke, that she and Paul were no longer married. But she had just lost a big piece of the history of her life. And it reminded her of the agonizing sadness of losing her parents when she was young. She had had only Paul to rely on after that, after they met. And now she had only herself. Especially in recent years, and since the divorce, she had never relied on Paul to make any decisions, but rather the reverse. Particularly as he got older, she was the one he turned to when he needed something, had a problem, or wanted advice. She was by far the wiser of the two once she grew up, and he knew it well. He expected her to decide everything about their children and didn't want to know about their problems, only their victories and joys. He was the original good-time guy. And she was the rock, the foundation that their lives were built on, the person everyone knew they could count on. He was a figurehead and nothing more.

Her housekeeper was waiting at the apartment when Véronique arrived. Carmina told her how sorry she was about Mr. Paul. “He was a good man,” she said, making the sign of the cross. She hadn't known Paul when he had been misbehaving during their marriage, but as he was to everyone, Paul had been sweet to her. He was an easy man to like, if you expected nothing from him.

Véronique went to her study and made all her calls, while Carmina unpacked for her. And then she texted Timmie to tell her she was home. She sat back at her desk then, and had the cup of tea Carmina had left there. She only worked for her in the daytime. Véronique didn't need anyone there at night, and preferred to be alone. She made herself something to eat when she was hungry, and didn't want the pressure of someone preparing meals for her. She had the same arrangement in Paris, with a maid who came in during the day. Once the girls had grown up, she had simplified her life and had very little staff. During Paul's tenure and when the girls were young, he had insisted on many employees. Her current setup suited Véronique much better. She didn't like being waited on, although she was grateful to have Carmina now, and her apartment on Fifth Avenue was large.

Véronique had two guest rooms, and her own suite, and a beautiful view of Central Park, and the perfect walls for her art. She still had a remarkable collection of her grandfather's Impressionist paintings, and had sent a few to Paris. In the New York apartment, there were several Renoirs, two Degas, a Pissarro, a Mary Cassatt she loved in her bedroom, a Chagall she was crazy about, and a Picasso in her dining room, and countless smaller paintings by Corot and other artists, and a series of Renoir drawings. The apartment was elegantly decorated in soothing tones. She preferred simple things of great quality, and had always had a passion for art.

And in the hallway leading to the bedrooms, she had hung several of the portraits she'd painted, including one of her father. She had done large impressive oils, and women in a John Singer Sargent style. There was no question that she had talent, although she had done nothing with it for years. She sketched occasionally, but that was all. And she had done lovely portraits of her children, which were in her dressing room. One of her great fascinations had been studying and researching forgeries, which she knew her grandfather had been intrigued by, too. But she had never pursued that path either, although she had an eye for great fakes. And her mother had painted watercolors, which Véronique had hung in the guest rooms. They were peaceful and pretty. Art was in their genes, although none of Véronique's daughters had ever wanted to draw or paint. The passion for it seemed to end with Véronique.

Timmie called her at four o'clock and said she'd meet her at Frank Campbell, and Joy had decided to join them. They met in the lobby, after Véronique walked over from the apartment. Timmie was still wearing her work clothes, and Joy had changed into an even shorter black skirt and high heels. She looked like she'd just stepped off the cover of
Vogue.
Her mother was pleased to see them, kissed both girls, and thanked them for meeting her.

They were three very beautiful women as they met with the director to organize Paul's funeral, and a rosary the night before. He hadn't been religious, but Véronique was, although she wasn't planning to do anything excessive. And she had spoken to the priest at St. Ignatius that afternoon, and they had set a date and time for the funeral mass in two days. She had all the information ready when they sat down in the director's office, and neither of the girls was surprised. Véronique already had Paul's funeral planned.

They dealt with all the unpleasant tasks at Campbell, and the director kept addressing Véronique as the widow—it was pointless to explain that they had been divorced for twenty years. And afterward they all went back to Véronique's apartment, and Juliette joined them. She had been too upset to meet them at the funeral home. She looked disheveled and distraught when she arrived at the apartment, immediately burst into tears, and sat sobbing in her older sister's arms. Timmie refrained from making acerbic comments about her father, but Joy could see in her eyes what she was thinking. It was no secret among them how critical Timmie had always been about him. It took an hour for Juliette to calm down, and then they went to the kitchen to have something to eat. Carmina had already left for the day. Véronique suggested they order in takeout food, but no one was hungry, and Juliette had brought a box of pastries with her, but no one wanted to eat them. Her slightly rounded figure was testimony that she sampled her own wares, whereas her sisters and mother were far more careful about what they ate and it showed. The pastries went untouched, except by Juliette, who nibbled at a chocolate croissant.