I

SHE’D STALKED HIM FOR THREE weeks, ducking around corners, careful to avoid a pattern. She’d seen him jogging in the early morning, collecting his mail, leaving for his office. She knew his car. She’d followed him to the research lab where he worked, noted the hours he kept. At night, she’d timed when his lights went on and off. She knew his habits. She knew his clothes: fine tailored suits, dark blue denim jeans and black leather jacket, jogging pants and windbreaker.

His name was Adam Jensen. Tall, athletic-looking, with short, curly hair the colour of sand, a slightly protruding nose, a strong chin. His suits looked expensive, even from a distance. His jogging clothes were designer label. The shoes alone probably cost more money than she could hope to make in a month.

The stretch of Millbank Avenue where he lived didn’t have many houses. Ten on the east side, Jensen’s side, and eight on the west side. They were all handsomely large, mostly stone or brick, immaculately kept. Like the thick maples and chestnuts that lined the avenue, the houses were well-rooted, solid, and mature.

The street followed a slight incline, curving into Glenayr Road at the bottom, and the entrance into the Cedarvale Ravine. The houses on the east side enjoyed the privacy of deep back yards, ending in a fringe of trees and the steep, slick banks of the ravine below. She’d taken the walking path behind Jensen’s house, but it led downhill, meandering well below street level. Patches of spring snow dotted the ground, melting in pools and icy rivulets across the muddy path of the ravine. While she was inconspicuous among the other walkers on the path during the day, she would be noticed if she tried to climb the slippery banks. During the night, floodlights illuminated the back yard.

Despite the privacy afforded by the ravine, she knew she could not attempt to enter Jensen’s house from the back.

The puzzle of how to gain entry had occupied her mind for several weeks. She’d hoped to gather enough information from his life style and habits to form an idea, but she hadn’t learned as much as she’d hoped from her surveillance. If she pitched a rock through a window, she would be sure to trigger an alarm. But what she wanted was inside that house, and she was determined to get it back.

The house was beautiful freestone, trimmed in black, with a winding stone path to the arched front door. It was too large for one person, yet Jensen lived there alone. Two sets of leaded-glass windows flanked the wood door on the ground floor. The windows on the left probably graced a dining room, while the larger set of windows, with five panes forming a squared bay, suggested a living room. The ground floor seemed to be mainly in darkness, at least during the times she passed by. If Jensen had a social life, he conducted it mostly elsewhere.

At night, she had noted light shining from the second and third floors. When he was at home, he occupied the upper storeys almost exclusively, where he would certainly have a bedroom, and perhaps a reading room or study.

She knew from her father that Jensen was a scientist, a medical researcher for a government-funded laboratory in Toronto. She’d stolen some of his garbage once, spreading out its contents on newspaper on the kitchen table of her Crang Avenue house, but she’d gleaned little from the messy exercise of picking through a heap of mango peels, coffee grounds, and a chicken carcass. The recycling bin had seemed more promising. She’d hoped for a personal letter or two. Instead all she’d learned was that he had a healthy bank balance at the Toronto Dominion, that he had no pets, and that he didn’t recycle tuna cans or juice cartons. Not very useful information for her purposes.

She turned and headed back up the street. She was at a stalemate. If he was clever, and she had every reason to suppose he was, he would know from seeing her that she was Sammy’s daughter. While she had inherited her high cheek bones, narrow nose, and dark eyes from her French mother, the long mane of unruly auburn curls was unmistakably from Sammy Rea. She needed a way to enter the house that would not be immediately alarming, something she might explain plausibly if she were caught.

She’d passed Jensen’s house for the second time and had reached the path that lead to Suydam Park at the edge of Spadina Village when she saw a catering van turn into Millbank. She stopped and watched it park in front of Jensen’s address. Immediately, she retraced her steps. It was risky, but it might be her only chance.

She waited a minute or two, but no one emerged from the van. Taste of the Town, Fine Catering. Male driver. Female passenger. She glanced up the street. Was Jensen planning on meeting them? If so, she didn’t have much time.

She approached the driver and waved, waiting until he’d lowered his window. “Hi. I’m one of Dr. Jensen’s neighbours. Can I help?”

The driver looked at his watch. “I guess we’re a bit early. We’re here to set up for the party tonight. Dr. Jensen’s meeting us at six.”

“Oh, great. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” She turned as if to go. She had only a few minutes before she could expect to see his car. She looked back at the driver who was still watching her. “See you later. I’m one of the guests tonight. If it’s not too nosy, what are you serving?”

“Hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Do you like tiger shrimp satay?”

Hors d’oeuvres. That meant it wasn’t a dinner party. Her plan might just be possible. “Love it. Will there be a big crowd?”

“Between fifty and sixty, according to the order sheet. But the shrimp goes fast.”

She heard Jensen’s car enter the street. “Thanks. See you later.”

Head down, she walked quickly back to the entrance to the park and took her customary short cut home.

Three hours later, she was back. She’d brought her rusty Volkswagon this time, parking it a fair distance from the house. She’d had to guess at what to wear—a simple black dress, black heels, a gold and black woolen shawl cut on the bias. Evenings were still cool in April, but she needed the voluminous shawl for more than just warmth.

She paused, checking to see no other late-comers were approaching, then walked up the path, grasped the door handle, and entered as quietly as she could. She hoped Jensen would be busy with his guests. If she could just keep to the periphery of the gathering and make her way through the house, she should be unnoticeable.

No one approached her in the vestibule and she slipped silently into the dining room. There were maybe twenty people chatting in small groups, balancing plates and wine glasses. A few faces glanced up when she entered the room, but glanced away again when they failed to recognize her. If anyone asked, she would say she was with John. There were always two or three Johns in a party this size.

She scanned the layout of the room, noting its beautiful mahogany table laden with flowers, crystal, and platters of food, her eyes lingering on the three watercolours arranged on the far wall, and then edged her way to the door at the end which she guessed would lead to the kitchen.

It was brighter in this room, and for a minute her heart raced. The kitchen formed a long rectangle opening onto a sunken sun-room where another group of guests buzzed with conversation. Jensen was there, his back toward her. As if in slow motion, he began to turn.

She spotted the driver from the van, giving thanks that he was a tall man when he was standing up. She ducked in front of him. “Hi. I’m late. Got any shrimp left?”

He took just a moment to remember her, and then smiled. “Sure. I saved you some.”

“Thanks. But first I’d like to leave my shawl. Is there a room somewhere for coats?”

He led her through a side door into the hall. The foot of the staircase was about five meters away from the vestibule. She’d been too anxious to melt into the crowd earlier to notice it.

“Straight upstairs. The first door to the right. I could take your shawl up for you, if you’d like.”

“No thanks. I need to freshen up a bit.”

She started up the stairs, trying not to move too quickly. She’d thought her timing was perfect, but now she worried that she may have arrived too late. Cocktail parties, by definition, ended early. Soon guests might be coming up to retrieve their coats. And Jensen would be at the front door to bid his guests good night.

She looked around her and groaned audibly. The open concept of the kitchen area was extended to the second floor of the house. Instead of a neat series of discrete rooms, there was only one small guest bedroom, its bed piled with coats, and a cozy TV room to the left. The rest of the floor was an expansive reading room with floor to ceiling oak bookshelves, and couches for lounging. The soft light came from several lamps on low tables, and half a dozen couples had escaped here from the chatter below for more intimate conversations. There were paintings on the walls, but she was too far away to study them. She couldn’t cross the room without announcing her presence.

She looked around for another staircase, less grand, that would lead to the third storey of the house, and found it just to the left of the TV room. Some of the couples might notice her, but she had no other option. She lifted her head and tried to look as if she had a right to wander the house.

On the third floor, her nerves settled. It was in darkness, but street lights glowing through several skylights allowed her to explore. A master bedroom with an adjacent bath. Several stunning modern oils. She saw an Emily Carr that looked original, and a watercolour of cascading flowers by Molly Bobak. She stood before the closed door of a room roughly above the reading room below.

The knob turned easily and she entered the study, closing the door gently behind her and slipping off her shoes. She found the light switch and flicked it on. The room was smaller than the reading room, but still sizable. There was an Oriental silk rug on the hardwood floor, more bookshelves, a reading chair, an L-shaped computer desk. She scanned the walls—a series of mounted historical maps of Canada, a grouping of photographs.

And suddenly, there it was, just as she remembered it. The pen and ink drawing, unmistakably by Matisse. Woman in a Blouse, Dreaming. It was tucked into a small panel above Jensen’s desk. He must look at it every day, as she had all through her childhood.

Immediately, she longed to touch it, to hold it again. But first, she had to look through his papers, just in case the letter was there. She didn’t care any longer if she was caught. She felt reckless. The drawing didn’t belong to him. He had no right to it. Now that she was this close, she wouldn’t let it go. But she was careful and quiet. She found the desk files and began scanning them rapidly. Most of them were work files, sheets of paper filled with chemical formulas and government memoranda that she didn’t understand. Nothing personal. She abandoned the files for the desk drawers.

In the third drawer, at the bottom of the desk and deeper than the others, Jensen’s orderly filing system had been abandoned. She scooped out a jumble of papers, postcards, and envelopes with two hands and laid the shifting pile on the desk.

There were loose photographs, and she recognized several of Jensen and his brother. She would never forget his face. She picked up one photo and studied it. James Jensen was standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, an arm around the shoulders of an older woman. She looked vaguely familiar, but Chloe couldn’t place her. Quickly, she sorted through theatre programmes and personal letters, but none had handwriting that she recognized. She would have to give up. The letter wasn’t here.

She stuffed the material back in the drawer, and slowly reached for the framed Matisse. She caressed it with her fingers. It was not large. She lifted it gently from the wall and tucked it under her shawl, holding it against her body with one enfolding arm. She put on her shoes, shut out the lights, and listened at the door for a moment.

Then she slipped into the hall, down one staircase, down the next, and out into the night. No one stopped her. No one noticed her. She was dizzy with exhilaration.

For several days afterwards, Chloe combed the newspapers, searching for any mention of Jensen or the missing Matisse. The Sunday papers were always a bit thin, mostly filler stories and advertising flyers, and she found no references to her Thursday evening exploits. As she’d hoped, Jensen seemed not to have reported the theft, either because he didn’t wish to have his guests interrogated or, more likely, because he lacked proof of ownership.

There was, of course, a third possibility.

If he remembered the letter he might have easily worked out what had happened. She knew he’d not seen her in his house, but others had. A few probing questions to his guests here and there, a phone call to Sammy, and he could surmise who had claimed the Matisse. Sammy would be shocked, indignant. Not his daughter, not his good little Chloe. But what could Jensen do, after all? She knew that he had no provenance for the drawing. He would be caught in his own brother’s lie.

She was not surprised at her shamelessness. In fact, she was well-satisfied with herself, especially when she gazed upon the drawing. She liked to prop it against her living room wall and stretch out on the floor in front of it, her chin resting on her folded arms. Unconsciously, she adopted the same posture she’d had as a child, when looking upon the drawing anchored her amidst the turbulent emotions of her parents’ disintegrating marriage. The sketch was her talisman, her link to her past, unalterable and romantic.

She knew every sweep of the pen, every intricate line. The woman’s right arm lounged against the back of a chair, as if to make a pillow for the square, strong face that leaned against it. The elongated fingers of the right hand curved gently around her left wrist. Her left hand was tucked under her chin. The full sleeves of the blouse were all glorious pattern, a grid of straight lines in one patch that echoed the tight background of the sketch, and a profusion of multi-sized flowers and swirling leaves that spilled across the foreground. This, Chloe knew, was the famous Rumanian blouse that Matisse would paint again and again.

But it was the woman’s face above the bursting detail of the blouse that arrested Chloe. It was drawn with only four clean, curving lines. The eyes did not confront the viewer, but seemed focused elsewhere, perhaps on the painter, perhaps on some dreamed about future. Her expression was tranquil, reflective. The slightly parted lips seemed almost about to smile. The shape of the face gave it strength, but it was gentle too. Chloe saw it as loving and open. In part, she knew this impression was a testimony to the skill of Matisse—the viewer’s eyes were naturally drawn to the simplicity of the face in contrast to the decorative whirls of the blouse.

But Chloe also felt the way she did because the woman belonged to her. In the drawing, the woman wore a large, oval-shaped ring on her right hand, the same ring that Chloe now wore on hers. No, she couldn’t feel ashamed of bringing the woman home. The legitimacy of her claim lay in her ancestry and on her finger, even though neither would go unchallenged in a court of law.

Chloe’s reverie was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door. Her heart stuttered, and her first instinct was to hide the drawing. But, no. If she was to repossess it, she would do so proudly. It had been hidden from her sight by Jensen for too long.

The second rap was accompanied by a querulous voice. “Chlo. Open up.”

Chloe smiled. It could only be her neighbour, who always pronounced her name as plain Chlo, rather than adding the final syllable. Chloe invited her in, and settled her on the sofa beneath her front window, taking care to place her cane within reach.

Mrs. Rosatti, Luciana, was always dressed in black, with thick black stockings and house slippers no matter what the weather. Her hair was cropped in a gray bob, and her face was webbed with a network of fine wrinkles. But she was endearingly vain of her appearance. Chloe had never seen her without lipstick, although some days, if her arthritis was acting up, it was applied a bit crookedly. As usual, two tiny gold crosses dangled from her pierced ears, and being Sunday, Luciana wore her rosary. Blessed by the Pope himself, or so she had told Chloe about a hundred times.

Her sharp eyes darted around the room, missing nothing. Chloe saw them pause briefly on the drawing.

“You painting again, Chlo? Is nice. But it needs colour. You should hang it.”

Chloe smiled. “No, I didn’t draw it, Luciana. Can I get you some tea?”

“No time. I come for Amber, poor little dog. No walks. You been busy? She waits for you, three days now.” Luciana counted off the days one by one on her fingers as she spoke, and then shook her head and sighed, as if in deep sorrow.

The performance was overkill, but Chloe did feel abashed. “I’m sorry, Luciana. I’ll take her for a walk right now, okay?”

“Okay. But no rush.” Luciana grasped her cane and began to rise, shooing away Chloe’s helping hand. “No, no, I’m not old yet.”

She had never told her age, but Chloe guessed she must be in her mid-eighties, at least. While Luciana hobbled back to the front door, Chloe pulled on her shoes, and reached for her shoulder purse and her keys. Luciana stood watching on the tiny front porch, while Chloe locked the door behind her.

“You lock your door, now? You no trust your neighbours? Is good street.”

“A very good street, Luciana. But it’s sensible to be cautious. You should lock your door, too.”

“Me? No things to steal. Not like Chlo’s picture. By Matisse, no?” She croaked with laughter at Chloe’s expression. “I’m no fool,” she crowed.

With the little red cocker spaniel in tow, Chloe turned west along St. Clair toward the part of the city where the street signs read Corsa Italia, and where she could smell the aroma of freshly ground coffee and oven-baked bread.

The street was lined with little cafés and coffee bars, but the weather was still too chilly and often too unpredictable for the proprietors to set up their outdoor terraces. In summer, the area would be crowded with tourists and loyal customers, bantering and bartering in Italian, reading Italian newspapers, and sipping thick, black espresso. But in April, summer was still only a promise.

Chloe had long ago decided that Toronto had only three proper seasons, not four. There was the icy clamp of winter, hot, often humid summer, and radiant fall. But spring was just a euphemism. Late March to mid-May was indeterminate and fickle. A single day could bring heavy fog in the mornings, snow showers in the afternoon, and even bizarre electric storms. Then, as if overnight, the long denuded trees would suddenly burst into the raw green of fledgling leaves, and the temperatures would shoot into the high twenties, only to plunge a few days later. Today was a teasing day, with a high sun, clear sky, and a whisper of summer in the breeze.

Chloe was almost too warm in her fisherman’s knit sweater and black jeans. She dawdled a bit, letting Amber’s short legs rest from the effort of keeping up with her stride, and bought a crusty round loaf of Calabrese bread. Back at the corner of St. Clair and Crang, she stopped at her local variety store to stock up on vegetables and fruit. There were dog biscuits in a plastic bin and she bought two for Amber, her customary treat. The biscuits were a secret from Luciana, who didn’t believe in spoiling pets.

Outside, Chloe put them on the sidewalk and was watching Amber gobble them down when she heard her name.

“Hello, Chloe.”

She looked up at the face of her father, the usual easy smile replaced by a stern expression. His mouth was like a mail slot in an old wooden door.

“Hi, Dad. What brings you here?” Her tone was a bit too bright as she tried to compensate for the skittish feeling in her stomach.

Sammy Rea shook his head slowly and adjusted his wire rim glasses, his gaze penetrating straight to her false heart. He’d always known when she’d been up to mischief as a child, had caught her in every teenager’s lie.

“Ah, Chloe. You don’t change. We need to talk.”

“Really? What’s up?”

“Adam Jensen phoned me.”

“Who?”

“Chloe.”

Her face flushed and she took his arm with resignation.

Chloe’s house was small and simple, sturdy brick with a whitish-gray facade of stone, a tiny porch with a black wrought iron railing, and a dormer roof over the front door. Inside, on the first floor, she had a living room, a poky dining room and a long kitchen, extended in better weather into a small outside deck and backyard. Upstairs was her bedroom that looked out over the garden, a study at the front that she called her studio because it caught the morning light, and a basic bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-foot tub and a hand-held shower attachment. Far from grand, it had its own appeal for Chloe, being entirely hers.

Sammy surveyed everything with a cool, appraising eye as if seeing the house for the first time. No matter how often he visited, the house always seemed to surprise him. Chloe suspected he had to catch himself from saying anything too patronizing like how cute, or how quaint. Sammy wasn’t a snob, but as a prominent surgeon he lived in a different economic universe and felt a bit miffed that Chloe had refused his frequent offers of financial aid.

Chloe led Amber into the backyard, then fussed over coffee in the kitchen. When she returned to the living room, two mugs in hand, she watched Sammy sag into the nearest chair, running a hand through his dark red hair, his eyes fastened on the Matisse still propped against the wall. “So,” he said in a soft voice. “You did steal it.”

Chloe bristled. “No. I simply took back what’s mine. James Jensen stole it years ago when he was helping you move out. Mom tried to tell you that, but you wouldn’t listen. You never did.”

Sammy refused to be sidetracked. “Chloe, you entered Adam Jensen’s house and took this off his wall. I can’t believe it. I nearly slugged him when he accused you. Are you crazy? Had it not been for my friendship with his brother, Adam would have called the police.”

“But—”

Sammy raised his hand. “No, Chloe. I know it broke your heart when your mother sold this drawing to Jamie. Louise made up those stories about his so-called thievery to placate you.”

“That’s Jamie’s version.”

“That’s Adam’s version too. I want you to see him.”

Chloe bolted upright from her chair, spilling coffee across her jeans.

“Sit down, Chloe. I want you to see him for my sake, as much as for yours. You know that Jamie is dead. Your mother wrote Adam an insulting letter demanding the return of the Matisse. But perhaps you already knew that. Did she put you up to this?”

“No. She’s still in Arizona with Clarence.” Despite herself, Chloe’s nose wrinkled slightly when she spoke her stepfather’s name. Kind but tedious Clarence. He had none of the dash, humour, or charming unpredictability of her father. She glanced up, caught Sammy grinning.

She sat down, feeling some of the tension drain from the room. “Why should I see him?”

“Because you’re a civilized woman, not a sneak thief. Because whatever you thought of him, Jamie was my friend. You and Adam need to work this out. I gave him your number.”

“Oh, Dad.”

“Oh, Chloe,” he mimed. “Be good. Come for dinner sometime.”

Sammy rose to leave but stopped in the doorway and stared back at the Matisse. “You know, I’d almost forgotten how beautiful it is. Louise always used to say the woman in the drawing was your grandmother.”

Chloe touched a finger to her oval ring with its amethyst stone. “This proves it, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe.” Sammy leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Dad? How did Jensen know it was me who took the drawing?”

“He said he’d seen a suspicious-looking woman loitering in the neighbourhood several times, one who looked a lot like me. But, of course, I told him you’d never spy on a person.”

“Oh … well, bye Dad.”

The first two times Adam Jensen called, Chloe panicked and hung up on him. Maybe he’ll just give up, she thought, but when the phone rang again she groaned and snatched up the receiver.

“Persistent, aren’t you?” she said coldly.

Her rudeness seemed to stun him for a moment, but when he spoke his voice was maddeningly calm. “Ms. Rea, I suggest we meet. Are you free this evening, perhaps?”

“Was it really necessary to involve my father?”

“Necessary? I think prudent would be a better term. This evening?”

“Fine. Where?”

“Well, you do know my house…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Very funny. I shall let my father know where I’ll be.”

“Of course. I can assure you my house is perfectly safe. Or it was. Does seven suit you?”

Suit yourself, Dr. Jensen, Chloe thought, but she swallowed the urge to say so and, in a somewhat strangled voice, placidly agreed.

When she hung up, she paced the room, tried to plan how she would confront him. The fact that he hadn’t called the police was a point in her favour, one that suggested that he had no proof that his brother had acquired the drawing legally. She twisted the oval ring on her finger. She would tell him the truth, the stories that her mother had told her of a grandmother who’d travelled in her youth to Nice, who’d met the grand old master himself, and who’d modeled for him. Surely her claim was greater than Jensen’s, despite what her mother might have done. Surely he would believe her.

Chloe stretched out on the floor in front of the drawing that she still hadn’t hung. She sensed the past held many secrets that it gave up only grudgingly. Yet she believed that the drawing was a window back into time, that by staring into that enigmatic face of a dreamy woman in a blouse she could observe the exact moment, over sixty years ago, when Matisse was in his studio, studying his model, dipping his pen into the ink, lifting it over the page to make the first sweeping line.

She could barely remember a time when the drawing hadn’t haunted her. She was maybe four when her mother had first told her the story behind it, twelve when it was snatched away from her by James Jensen. She’d become a painter, had never wanted to be anything else. Her grandmother’s legacy had given her the house she was living in and her vocation. She would do anything to keep the drawing.

A sudden plan bloomed in her mind, so brazen as to startle her. She had the means to keep the drawing safe from Jensen. She picked it up, her hands trembling slightly, and climbed the stairs to her studio.

At seven-fifteen, Chloe rang the doorbell of Jensen’s house. She’d spent the previous hour carefully grooming to achieve the chic young-professional-look in a belted navy suit. Then she’d scrubbed off the make-up, pulled her hair up into a ponytail, pulled on black jeans and a paint-smeared sweat shirt. Jensen could take her or leave her as she was.

She glimpsed his face in the small window carved into the door and then he was standing before her, smiling graciously.

“Good evening, Ms. Rea. Please, come in.”

He was dressed impeccably in gray trousers, a pale-blue cashmere sweater, the crisp collar of a gray shirt around the base of his throat. Does he always dress like this, Chloe wondered, or had he, too, spent the day planning his strategy? She swept past him, not returning his smile. This wasn’t a social visit, but a Sammy-commanded performance.

Behind her, Jensen cleared his throat. “I know this is awkward, but let’s make the best of it, shall we?” He touched her elbow lightly, and led her into the living room, across a pale thick carpet to an elegant white sofa.

“What can I offer you? Coffee, scotch, wine?”

“White wine, thanks.” Chloe smiled for politeness’ sake.

“Good, back in a moment.”

When he was gone, Chloe surveyed the room, one she had not entered the night she’d reclaimed the drawing. It was a soothing, pleasing space, high, patterned ceilings with subdued crown moldings, soft light from half a dozen table lamps, fresh flowers on the mantle of the fireplace. Fresh flowers? What single man went to the trouble of fresh flowers? She felt she had entered a carefully arranged stage set, and tried not to feel too shabby in her stubbornly chosen clothes.

She turned her head to her left where a huge modern tapestry, pure white with black abstract figures, dominated the wall space. The sight of it rattled her. It was unmistakably reminiscent of Matisse, of the playful and exuberant cut-outs and murals he had crafted in the last years of his life. She was still staring at it when Jensen returned, handing her a glass of chilled white wine.

“You seem surprised,” he said, with just a trace of sarcasm. “You’ve not seen the tapestry before?”

“Look, Dr. Jensen—”

“Adam, please.”

“Dr. Jensen, I apologize for invading your privacy. But we both know the Matisse belongs to me, and there seemed no other way. I’ve no excuse, other than I took my cue from your own brother who acquired the drawing in a similar fashion.”

He sat down in a chair opposite her, a glass coffee table between them. “So much for opening pleasantries. Are you always this blunt?”

“I try to be polite, but even when I don’t say what I really think, I can seldom hide it.”

Jensen laughed. He took a swallow of scotch, his eyes studying her over the rim of his glass. Sky-blue eyes, Chloe noticed, staring back. Deep blue-sea eyes with long, thick lashes. She glanced away.

“Alright, Ms. Rea. Sammy intimated that the drawing holds a special meaning for you. I’m prepared to listen, if you’ll tell me.”

She held up her right hand, wiggled her ring finger. “Do you recognize this?”

“It’s a lovely ring.”

“It’s the ring in the drawing, the one the model is wearing. I inherited it from my grandmother. She’s the dreaming woman.”

“You’re saying that your grandmother posed for Matisse?”

“Exactly. Her name was Sylvie, Sylvie Brionne, born in Montreal. Very few women traveled in the late nineteen-thirties unless they were very brave or very rich and could afford a chaperone. Sylvie was very brave. She landed up in Nice, working as a maid in a hotel.

“When the war broke out, she was desperate for money to try to get back home. Matisse hired lots of models when he was living in Nice, maids, actresses, and women he would see shopping for vegetables or flowers in the market of the Cours Saleya. He met Sylvie and she agreed to pose for him, wearing the Rumanian blouse. Perhaps for other sketches, too—he did hundreds of them, you know, and some were lost in the war. Sylvie met my grandfather, André, in Nice. The drawing was Matisse’s wedding present to them.”

Jensen stared into his scotch glass, then stood up abruptly.

“I think I need another,” he said. “More wine?”

Chloe shook her head. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

He walked away from her, crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself another drink. Then he leaned against the cabinet, looking at Chloe’s flushed cheeks, her eyes shining. He raised his glass to her. “It’s a wonderful story.”

Instantly, her eyes darkened. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that. You know, Chloe … may I call you Chloe?”

She shrugged.

“We’ve met before, Chloe—you don’t remember? You were three or four, I was twelve. My brother took me with him to your house and I wandered into the back yard. You were playing in your sand box with a shovel and pail. I tried to take the shovel away from you and you bonked me over the head with the pail. I feel like you’ve just done it again.”

“Serves you right. But I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either, not fully. But let me try to explain. Jamie was a lot older than me, almost eight years. As a youngster, I adored him, trailed after him everywhere. Well, Sammy can tell you that. But as we grew older, our age roles were reversed. Jamie was rebellious, often in trouble.”

Chloe smothered a sound that was almost a snort.

Jensen scowled at her. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Sorry, go on.”

“I was the one who lied to our parents when Jamie needed an alibi, the one who would pick him up at three in the morning when he was too drunk to drive. I excelled at school. Jamie dropped out, drifted. But he was irresistible, people responded easily to him. I could never stay angry with him for long, despite his irresponsibility. It was never dull, having Jamie as a brother. Then, in 1997, he went to Paris. We kept in touch sporadically, I visited him occasionally, but I could never persuade him to come home.”

When Adam stopped speaking, Chloe read the sadness in his face. Silence descended upon them and, despite her guard, she felt a twinge of sympathy. “What happened to him?” she prompted.

“An accident. He was on a motorcycle, speeding as usual. He lost control, died instantly—at least that’s what the authorities always say, isn’t it? Quick painless death is always easier for the survivors to accept. I flew to Paris, brought his broken body home, buried him. But, Chloe, Jamie sent the drawing to me by registered mail days before he died. He sent it with a note that read simply, Keep her safe. I’ll see you soon.”

“He was finally coming home?”

“He was. I imagined him wandering the tiny art galleries on the Left Bank, flipping through portfolios and finding the Matisse drawing, something simple and beautiful, something that reminded him of his little brother and made him want to come home. I know now that didn’t happen. First there was the letter from your mother accusing Jamie of stealing the painting years ago. When she learned of his death, she hoped I would return it. Well, demanded I return it actually. I thought the letter was pretty insensitive and dismissed it out of hand. But it seems she wasn’t the only one who wanted the drawing.”

“Look, I’m sorry for your loss, I really am. But I’ve already tried to explain—”

“I wasn’t referring to you,” Adam interrupted. “Jamie’s girlfriend in Paris asked me about the drawing almost as soon as I arrived there.”

Did Jamie have it when he was killed? Was it destroyed in the accident?

“I thought it strange, but she was in as much shock as I was, and it was clear that Jamie had really cared about the Matisse. When I told her the drawing was safe, she seemed relieved and that was the end of it, I thought. Then a week or so before you … er, retrieved it from my study, I had a call from George Daniels.”

Chloe raised an eyebrow. She knew the name, but not the man. He was a prominent art dealer in Toronto. She’d been to his gallery a half dozen times, had nursed a fantasy that one day one of her paintings might hang on his gallery walls. “You know Daniels?”

“Only professionally. He sold me a couple of paintings. But he has connections in Paris. He wanted to know if Jamie had left me Woman in a Blouse, Dreaming and if was I interested in selling it.”

“That’s an odd coincidence. How would he even know that Jamie had the sketch? I know he didn’t buy it from Daniels.”

“As you say, a very odd coincidence. It makes me wonder if Jamie was trying to tell me something when he wrote I should keep it safe.”

“Well I can’t blame him, I suppose, for keeping it all these years. But the drawing is part of my history. The woman is Sylvie. She died when I was two. I didn’t even know her, just her face in the drawing and her story. Jamie couldn’t possibly have cared as much as I do.”

“Ah, yes, the story. Look, Chloe, it’s obvious that your mother owned the painting before Jamie did. But do you have any proof that the story is true?”

“You’re saying that my mother is a liar?”

“I’m suggesting that she told an enchanting tale to her little girl. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“No. And she would never have sold the painting to your brother either, if that’s where you’re heading.”

Adam hesitated before responding, and Chloe saw his expression soften. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But she did. I have the receipt.”

Chloe sat back abruptly, as if she’d been slapped. “I—I don’t believe you,” she stuttered. “She wouldn’t…”

Adam slid a hand under his sweater, took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and smoothed it out on the coffee table. “Have a look. Is it your mother’s signature?”

Chloe stared at the slip of paper until her eyes blurred, and the words danced menacingly in her head. Woman in a Blouse, Dreaming. Sold to James Jensen for one thousand dollars. She felt confused, betrayed, angry. She felt bereft. Her world cracked open. All she had believed, all she had become, poisoned by a tiny piece of paper. She pushed it away from her as if it were contaminated.

She stood up blindly, refusing to look at Jensen. She heard him call out after her, but she was already running down the path, running into the night, her face wet with tears, her fists clenched, running away from her mother’s signature in blue ink that laid waste to the assumptions on which she had based her life.

What folly to leave Paris to follow a handsome face. Nikolai fed me airy dreams while my stomach grumbled for bread. What did I hope to find? Nice was awash in a tide of émigrés and refugees. Foreigners were shunned. It was illegal for us to work at anything but unskilled labour. My accent was crude, branding me. My clothes grew loose as my body grew thinner.

Sometimes I wandered among the market stalls of the Cours Saleya. I was unused to this press of people, these cries, these smells. A one-eyed man behind a table loaded with glossy aubergines winked and mouthed a bawdy comment as I passed. Customers held their noses at the butcher’s stall, purple with flies and black with old blood. A little girl in a shabby coat was selling packets of herbs from the back of a small white goat. She watched me with hard eyes as I snatched up a piece of spotted fruit or a withered vegetable that had dropped to the ground. I felt ashamed.

I clutched the piece of paper with the address in my hand: number one, Place Charles Félix. A chance acquaintance at a bus stop had told me the family was looking for a maid. A maid, when once I might have been so much more. I entered the apartment as timid as a mouse, sniffing the air, ready to scurry away at the first sharp word. The dark brows of Madame made me tremble. She rattled off instructions like a gun shooting bullets.

But when he entered the room, wearing a fine white shirt, black trousers and a waistcoat, the air became still. He spoke to me kindly, with the manners of my father’s generation, un vieux monsieur, a correct old gentleman, white cropped hair and beard. His eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses were ageless. I called him Patron. Somehow, I sensed he would keep me safe.