* * *

He left the club as soon as he could and was unsurprised to find Amelia waiting for him in his study at home.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” he said stiffly.

Amelia stroked her stomach, expertly robed and decorated, the facade of the poor maimed wife still holding. “I hoped you’d be glad.”

He laughed mirthlessly and his hand stretched out for the whiskey decanter but he caught himself just in time and lit a cigarette instead. “Glad about your threat to tell Victorine about her parents or glad about the fact that I’ve realized my wife is such an expert in blackmail she should probably be a politician?”

“The world is different now, Dan. You shot men in order to survive. At least my bullets aren’t deadly.”

Oh, but they are, he wanted to say. Except that would make him vulnerable, would show Amelia that his heart was so raw right now it was a wonder it was still keeping him alive.

“So there won’t be a divorce?” she asked and in her voice he heard the slightest quiver, as if she wasn’t sure, as if she was worried that, despite everything he’d done for Victorine, he would do no more.

“There won’t be,” he said shortly, looking out the window, blowing smoke in a long, thin stream, knowing he couldn’t blame Amelia for becoming pregnant—he was certainly as much to blame for that as she was—but he could blame her for dragging Victorine into the whole damn mess and for making sure Jess didn’t get anything she deserved.

He waited until he heard her leave. Then he sat down and poured himself a large whiskey. He remembered that last terrible question Jess had asked of him outside the club: One day, when your heart is mended, and you think of me, raise a glass for me, won’t you? We’re worth remembering.

And his reply: This is not the end.

“It’s not,” he repeated now, stubbornly. How could it be? How could what they had ever be finished, ever be over? It was a denouement, that was all. And he would wait all the rest of his life for the resolution.

PART TWELVE

Victorine

Thirty-four

The minute the artworks were handed over to the gallery, D’Arcy went straight to Victorine’s apartment. And as soon as she saw her mother, eyes the same sad, luminous blue they’d always been, face fearful, D’Arcy sank onto the sofa and swept Victorine into her arms. There was no question about whether Victorine was her mother; in every way that was important, she absolutely was, no matter if they shared no blood tie.

“Will you tell me?” D’Arcy asked when she thought she could speak.

“I think I’m overdue to tell you.” Victorine kissed D’Arcy’s cheek, folded her hands in her lap, hesitated, and then began to speak.

* * *

In October 1973, Victorine stepped off the train at the station in Reims and ran like a three-year-old—even though she was more than thirty years old—to Dan, flinging herself into his arms. They embraced for a long, long moment. When at last they drew away, Victorine openly wiping her eyes, Dan surreptitiously doing the same, Victorine laughed.