“Welcome,” the rabbi said, “to the family and friends of Montgomery Schiff on this sad and solemn occasion. We will begin by reciting the El Malei Rachamim on page thirty-nine of your prayer book.”
The rabbi led the congregation in the recitation of the Hebrew memorial prayer. I didn’t hear Tommy or my future in-laws making any effort to read along, even though on the opposite page from the Hebrew was an English transcription they could have easily followed.
I knew that living in New York and being part of the financial community, Tommy’s parents were friendly and did business with many Jews. Surely they had attended other funerals of their peers who were of the Hebraic persuasion. So why were they so obviously disturbed and silent?
More than once, I saw Mrs. Prout watching me. We’d met quite a few times, and both she and her husband had been lovely and welcoming. He’d even spoken to me in French. Both of them were art lovers, and they owned a small but quality collection that included two Renoirs, a Morisot, and an Utrillo, all purchased during their trips to Europe. We’d enjoyed very pleasant conversations about the state of the art world and my own ambitions. But Mrs. Prout’s expression when I caught her eye now belied those past pleasantries.
Was I surprised? Not really. I’d been in the news. Connected to a scandal. And that wasn’t what was done by members of the upper crust. The only times it was proper for your name to appear in the paper was when you married and when you died. Certainly not when a lewd drawing you had created led to a murder attempt and a tragic accident.
After the ceremony, Tommy’s parents said their good-byes, as chilly as the February afternoon. They weren’t going to the burial with us. We joined the cortege to Mount Zion Cemetery in Queens. In the car with us were two of Ari’s friends who had been at the Steward party, and the conversation revolved around the incident.
Tommy and I weren’t alone until the end of that long terrible day when he saw me home. We stood in the hallway while I fumbled in my purse for my key. Opening the door, I was greeted by the familiar brew of commingled scents: the turpentine and oils that were the smells of my trade, a hint of coffee, which was all I drank while I painted, and my own scent, from the House of L’Etoile, the only perfume I wore. It had been one of the gifts Mathieu had given me, and our short-lived love affair was over before I’d finished that first bottle. Each year since, I had ordered a refill. Wearing it was a way to stay connected to a dream that, for a moment in time, had come true.
Although the studio I rented was only one very large room with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom tucked into corners, it was perfect for me. The working area took up two-thirds of the space. The twelve-foot ceilings and the large north-facing skylight gave the impression of spaciousness even amid the clutter. A full wall of shelves overflowed with art supplies, art books, and my “searching” books. These were esoteric volumes I found in out-of-the-way bookstores about mysterious realms, magical talents, biographies of mystics and seers, treatises on the occult and spiritualist movements, histories of witchcraft and alchemy, and tales of the Cathars and Templars in the Languedoc area of France, close to where I had grown up in Cannes.
With all the books, the supplies, and my pencil studies, there was no visible wall left. Over the years, I’d tacked up drawing after drawing, so that in places the artwork was as thick as a sketch pad. Portraits of my parents and siblings, my great-grandmother, and friends I’d left in Paris hung over the white marble fireplace. The three easels set up under the skylight held paintings in various states of finish.
A comfortable couch covered in rust velvet separated the living area from the work area. An emerald-green silk shawl with salmon-colored fringe and embroidered red roses hid the badly stained wooden top of a rickety side table. Behind it was my bed, a bentwood Art Nouveau wonder my father had designed and shipped over from France. A lavender satin comforter my great-grandmother had given me lay atop it. I’d added pillows in all shades of purple, blue, and green and had placed beside the bed a large celadon and grass-green opalescent vase—cracked, of course—that I’d found in a secondhand shop and had filled with iridescent peacock feathers.
“Do you want to come in?” I asked Tommy. I knew he often felt claustrophobic in my overcrowded living quarters and preferred his sleek uptown apartment, but that afternoon he followed me inside.
“Yes, I suppose so. We need to talk.”
I anticipated a lecture about curtailing the party-favor work and was about to ask him to postpone the harangue, but then I decided it would be preferable to get it over with.
“Do you want some wine?” I asked, before he could start.
“I certainly do. The last three days have been the worst I’ve had since the war. But not wine. I think there’s some of that scotch left that I brought here?”
I poured his drink and my wine and brought them over to the couch. Tommy was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
“Do you have a headache?”
He looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was twisted into an anguished expression.
“No. Nothing that simple,” he said, as he reached for the glass and took a long sip of the amber liquid.
Clearly, he was bereft and upset, but so was I, and I had no solace to offer. I was too raw. What I really wanted was for him to take me in his arms and soothe me. But he didn’t.
We both sat in silence and sipped our drinks.
“Everything was my fault,” I finally said, breaking the silence.
“Not everything. You didn’t make Clara sleep with her husband’s brother.” Even though his words were solicitous, his tone was angry, exasperated.
“But I exposed them.”
“They committed the deed, Delphine.”
“Which would have remained their secret if not for me.”
“For God’s sake.” He stood up quickly, jostling the table. “No one cares what you did. No one gives a rat’s ass about you.”
My wineglass shook in my hand, and a splash of red liquid spilled onto the couch. One more stain to cover with a shawl.
Tommy didn’t notice. His back was to me as he stood in front of the windows, looking four flights down into the snow-covered courtyard.
“You were just the party favor that exploded in everyone’s face. Didn’t I ask you to stop this work when we became engaged? I told you that I would help pay your rent here until we were married. Why didn’t you? Is your independence that important to you? This will be the legacy and demise of my generation—a war that gave women a taste of their capabilities and freedom. The jack let out of the box.”
“That’s not fair—” I started to argue.
“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “It’s too late.” He turned and looked at me, the anger in his eyes replaced with sadness.
“What is too late?” I asked.
“I can’t marry you, Delphine.”
“Because of what I drew?”