The Art Of Seduction. Katherine O' Neal
her this way.
Uncertain what to do, Mason glanced back at Garrett and asked, “Stop it? But isn’t that a bit like leaving the bride at the altar?”
“Better that than a life of regret brought about by the wrong decision. Just go to Falconier and say, ‘I’ve changed my mind. The sale is off.’”
She cast a glance at the gallery owner who was unlocking the door, then back at Garrett.
His gaze pierced her.
“You’d best hurry,” he stressed, “before it’s too late.”
Chapter 2
Stop the sale? Before it even got started? On the advice of a complete stranger?
After all she’d gone through, shouldn’t she just be grateful to be selling anything at all?
But then…this wasn’t just any stranger. It was almost as if he’d been sent here by destiny to hold up a beacon to her future. Could there be more in store for her than selling a few paintings at bargain prices?
She had no way of knowing. Her life, since that tumultuous night on the Pont de l’Alma, had been a kaleidoscope of bizarre events that had taught her one thing: What had seemed like the worst catastrophe of her life might well have turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to her.
Two months ago, on the city’s stormiest night in living memory, Mason was flailing in the Seine when suddenly something cracked her in the head. She’d lost consciousness, assuming those were her last moments on earth. But when she awoke sometime later in the night, she found that she’d somehow managed to hook her arm around whatever flotsam had struck her. Either she’d managed to pull herself up with her last ounce of strength, or she’d been saved by a fluke of that same fate she’d earlier cursed. She had just enough presence of mind to heave herself on top of it and out of the frigid water before she’d blacked out once again. After that, there was a sense of moving in and out of consciousness as the rapid current carried her cascading through the night.
When she awoke—God only knew how many hours later—it was in a warm bed under a fluffy down comforter. A woman’s face appeared above her and a kind voice asked, “Are you awake?” Mason tried to respond but couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength to move her lips. A moment later, she sank back into the darkness.
She was vaguely aware of tossing feverishly and kicking off the covers to cool her burning skin. She had bleary memories of moving in and out of the light and of some sort of vile medicine being forced down her throat, bringing with it another heavy sleep.
Then one morning she awoke to a room full of sunshine to see the woman sitting in a chair, mending a stocking. Mason tried to push herself up, but was so weak she fell back into the pillows, exhausted and lightheaded. Finally, she asked, “What happened? Where am I?”
She heard a cry. “She’s awake! She’s all right!” Then the shuffle of footsteps as the family quickly gathered round her bed—the parents, two boys, a little girl, and a toothless grandmother. They all spoke at once, making a fuss, rejoicing in her recovery.
The woman who’d been sewing said, “Dr. DuBois says something hit your head in the water. He says it was a miracle you didn’t drown.”
“Where am I?”
“Rueil-la-Gadeliere.”
Groggily, Mason placed the name in her mind. Renoir had painted there. But it couldn’t be! It was fifty miles downriver!
“How long have I been here?”
“It has been nearly four weeks since the good Lord brought you to us.”
“Four weeks!”
Again, she tried to sit, but her head swam sickly. The kind woman helped her back, adjusting her covers as she introduced her family. They were the Carriers, farmers who lived at the edge of the river. They’d chanced to spot her sprawled on top of the massive tree limb as it had floated by the morning after the storm. In their launch, they’d pursued and rescued her. They were a poor and simple people, and seemed to her blurry eyes as if they’d just stepped out of a painting by Millet. Pere Carrier assured her that they were happy to take care of her and wanted nothing in return.
“And the woman…the other woman…”
They exchanged puzzled glances, and the father said, “There was no other woman with you.”
Mason felt a heavy sadness. She’d wanted so badly to help that poor nameless soul on the bridge. Madame Carrier saw the tears that slipped down her cheek and gently stroked her hair back off her face. “There, there. You’ve been very ill. You must rest and not worry. You will stay with us and let us care for you until you are yourself again.”
Choked with tears, all Mason could do was nod her gratitude. Madame Carrier gave her some more medicine and before long, she’d once again drifted back to sleep.
Three days later, Mason awoke with more strength. She managed to get out of bed and stand for a few minutes. Every day she increased her time out of bed until finally she was able to take walks around the nearby village.
The Carriers were wonderful. They accepted her as a member of the family and gave no indication that they wanted her to leave. As her strength returned, she found herself enjoying being protected within the bosom of this family and being away from the life she’d left in Paris.
It was an idyllic retreat. Her gratitude at having been so miraculously spared blotted out any thoughts of the past or feelings of failure. The air had never smelled so sweet; the sky had never seemed so blue. She savored every moment of life, putting off thinking about where she would go from here. She had no commitments in Paris and she’d told Lisette she might go to Auvers, a village on the Oise River where she often retreated to paint, so there was no need to notify her. For now, it was enough just to be alive.
But then one day she decided to walk into the village. She’d been away from Paris for just over seven weeks by then and had lost a great deal of weight. She barely resembled herself, but she felt wholly refreshed, bursting with energy and robust with health.
Then she saw it: her name on a newspaper lying on an outside table at the local café. She snatched it up and hastily began to read.
The article told the story of how the late American painter Mason Caldwell—whose body had washed up on the shore of Neuilly, just outside of Paris, on the eighth of February—was becoming a posthumous celebrity. The Parisian papers had been in competition to glamorize what they were calling her suicide. According to them, she’d thrown herself from the bridge with the desperate romanticism of Madame Bovary. That was remarkable enough, but even more astonishing was the fact that dealers were actually competing to acquire the right to sell her paintings!
Stunned, she stumbled back to Chez Carrier and, without telling them what had happened, announced that she must return to Paris at once. Asking no questions, they gave her five francs, and she set out to correct the ghastly mistake.
On the riverboat back to the city, the scenario of what must have happened played through her mind. The woman on the bridge that night—the one she’d tried so hard to save—had drowned and her body, which was found more than a week later, had been mistaken for Mason’s. She tried to remember her face, so briefly glimpsed when the wind had blown back the concealing hood. Who was she? She must have some family who Mason should contact and tell the sad news. Nearly two months later, they must be out of their minds with worry. Her message would be a blow, but at least they’d know what had really happened.
It was late by the time the now nearly complete Eiffel Tower came into view. Passing the fairgrounds below it, she saw the silhouettes of dozens of new buildings for the upcoming Exposition that had sprung up in her absence. She looked around her at the once-familiar sights of her adopted city and felt lost and alone, like a stranger. This wasn’t the Paris she’d left behind. This was a Paris where Mason Caldwell was no longer alive.
She had no idea