Moonlight Over Paris(67)

“Thank you,” Daisy said, trying to smile. “I suppose I ought to explain.” She took a deep breath, as if to settle her nerves. “My father died the day before yesterday.” Before they could respond, she rushed on. “He’d been ill with a cold for weeks, but then it settled into his lungs, and he got pneumonia, and that was . . .”

Daisy’s eyes welled up with tears, but she brushed them away impatiently with the back of her hands.

“I am so very, very sorry to hear it. We all are,” Helena said.

“He was very agitated at the end. He kept asking me to forgive him, to please forgive him, but I thought he was talking about the way he’d kept such a close watch over me.

“He died at dawn, and it had been days since I’d slept, so I went to bed for a few hours. And then I woke, and I knew I had to make some decisions. Daddy hadn’t ever talked about where he wanted to be buried, or what he wanted for his funeral, and I thought it might be recorded in his will, or somewhere else in his papers. So I went into his office, and I searched through his files, and I found . . .”

She paused and, accepting the brandy that Mathilde offered her, took a large sip, coughed delicately, and handed back the glass.

“Did you find what you needed?” étienne prompted.

“I did. He wanted to be buried at home, in America, next to Mother, although he didn’t say anything about a funeral, so I’ve no idea what to do about that.”

“Perhaps one of his friends at the hospital?” Helena ventured.

Daisy shook her head. “It’s not . . . there’s more. I found something else. Something awful.”

étienne grasped her hand. “Go on, ma belle.”

“One of the drawers in his desk was stuck, and I pulled at it, and it came flying out and tipped onto the floor. And inside it was . . . was . . .”

They waited for Daisy to find a way to describe what she had found, and as they did so Helena couldn’t stop her imagination from running wild. Demands from creditors? Evidence of a mistress? Risqué photographs?

“Inside was a letter,” Daisy said at last, her voice shaking. “It was from the man I loved, and for so long I’d thought him lost, but he wasn’t, and all this time . . .”

She began to cry, wrenching, tormented sobs, and étienne gathered her close, whispering soft, encouraging endearments into her ear until she was able to speak again.

“I met him in 1918, right at the end of the war. We didn’t know one another for very long, but I loved him. I did. He was sent back to America, and we weren’t able to say good-bye, and I tried to find him. I even asked Daddy for help, but he said it was no use. That it was better to forget. And I believed him. Why did I believe him?”

“Are you speaking of Daniel?” Helena asked, recalling their conversation about Daisy’s time at the Studio for Portrait Masks.

“Yes. Daniel Mancuso.”

“How did his letter come to be hidden in your father’s desk?” étienne asked gently.

“It wasn’t for me. Daniel had heard I was sick with the flu, and came by the house to ask after me. Daddy told him I was dead, and Daniel sent a letter of condolence. That’s what I found. I don’t know . . . I mean, I don’t understand why my father didn’t simply destroy it.”

Daisy reached for the brandy and took another fortifying sip. “I know I ought to be sad, and grieving for my father, but I’m so angry right now. How could he do such a thing? He didn’t even know Daniel.”

“What will you do now?” Mathilde asked.

“I have to take my father home. He wanted to be buried next to my mother. I guess I owe him that much. After that . . . I’m not sure.”

“Do you know how to find him? Your Daniel?” étienne ventured hesitantly.

“I know he was an engineer before the war, and that he grew up on the Lower East Side in New York. I suppose I’ll start there.” She wiped her eyes decisively and took a deep breath. “I’m leaving in two days. I’ll worry about the house and everything in it later.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Helena asked, her heart aching for her friend.

“Listening to me, just now. That was enough.”

“Where is Louisette?” étienne asked. They hadn’t noticed before, but for the first time since they’d met Daisy, she was alone.

“Gone. Sacked. But I’m not heartless,” she said. “I gave her a reference, and enough money to live on for a while.”

“You were perfectly justified,” Helena assured her.

“I couldn’t bear the sight of her. I couldn’t. She was always so unfeeling. So cold. I thought of asking her why, but in the end I didn’t. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“What of your paintings?” Mathilde asked.

“Do you think you could take care of them? At least until I’ve a better idea of what will happen.”

“Of course we will.”

“I need to go. I’ll write as soon as I arrive.”

“You must write,” Helena insisted. “We shall all be holding our breath until we hear from you.”

Daisy hugged them, one by one, and stood back to take a last look at the studio.

“Au revoir, mes amis.”