Forbidden French

I have one hoop to jump through before I can go see Lainey at Morgan Fine Art Gallery this afternoon: a lunch meeting with Papa.

There was no getting around it. He arrived in Boston yesterday and will only be here for one night before he continues his travels down to Florida for the Formula 1 Miami Grand Prix this weekend. GHV has been a longtime sponsor of the Mercedes team. He enjoys a close friendship with Toto Wolff and never passes up the opportunity to watch the races from Mercedes’ paddock. I wonder what he would say if he knew I was a die-hard Scuderia Ferrari fan.

He’s waiting for me at the restaurant in a private room in the back. Wilson sits beside him, the two of them hard at work. When I enter, they don’t stop on my account.

The bread basket in front of them goes untouched as Wilson relays an email to my father about the mid-month numbers from our Southeast Asia market. We’re keeping careful watch on it because GHV’s fashion group opened twenty new stores there earlier in the year, ten in Singapore alone.

“As we expected, the region’s large population and growing purchasing power present quite a lucrative opportunity for GHV,” Wilson declares. “Revenue in the luxury goods market amounted to $5.1 billion in just the first half of this month.”

My father nods at me and points to the seat across from him as he asks, “What topped the list?”

“Watches and jewelry,” I answer before Wilson can.

I read the report in the car on my way over.

I reach out for a piece of bread, still warm, and drop it onto my plate before adding, “That category made up nearly forty-two percent of total revenue, followed by fashion at twenty-eight percent, cosmetics and fragrance at sixteen. Leather goods made up the rest. Is there butter?”

A waiter materializes behind me, placing a chilled dish of butter down near my plate.

“Sir, could I get you a drink?”

“He’ll have a bourbon neat,” my father says, waving the waiter away with an air of impatience.

“I’ll take a beer, actually. A stout or a porter, whichever you have is fine.”

The waiter bows. “Of course.”

My father’s hard eyes assess me from across the table. He hates that I contradicted him in public, no matter that it was only in front of Wilson and some twenty-year-old kid paying his way through college by working at Menton. Yes, my father’s only just left Paris and for lunch he’s chosen a French restaurant. God forbid he eats a cheeseburger.

His gaze roves over my attire and I’m sure he’s looking for something out of place to comment on, but he won’t find it. In some ways I feel bad for him. An aging lion sitting across from his son, knowing his days on Pride Rock are numbered. I’m not planning to oust him from the company or have him murdered—this isn’t The Godfather—but even without my assistance, time marches on. The gray hairs at his temples and the wrinkles starting to appear at the corners of his eyes are proof of that.

“We’re doing the tasting menu,” he says, trying to assert dominance over me any way he can.

I don’t have the heart to argue about food.

“Sounds good. Now why are we here?”

Wilson’s typing away on his laptop. Likely he’s been instructed to take meeting minutes.

For all I know, he’s documenting every detail.

12:36 PM Emmett slathers an alarming amount of butter onto the right side of his bread.

12:36 PM Emmett takes a bite of the bread, ingesting every ounce of the butter he applied.

12:37 PM Emmett goes back for more.

12:38 PM Emmett gives me a dirty look.

“Before the end of the week, news outlets will catch wind of a change that’s been made within our family’s holding company. I wanted you to be alerted first.”

How gracious of him.

I put down my bread since it appears we’ll actually be talking about something interesting.

“As you’re well aware, my aim is to have you and Alexander run the company after I step down, though don’t get excited—that’s still a few years away.”

I respond with a short laugh. “I appreciate the reassurance that you haven’t called this lunch to share news that you’re on your deathbed, but just to clarify, I’m not chomping at the bit to take your place.”

The battle of succession within the Mercier family is a story the media likes to drum up on slow news days, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. I have plenty of issues with my father, but they don’t include the way he runs GHV. I’m fully aware that he’s a powerhouse in our industry, and most days I’m still in awe of him.

He nods, seeming obliged to believe me.

“To protect our ownership stake, the Mercier family holding company will be turned into a joint-stock partnership. The majority of the share capital will be held by you. The remaining forty-nine percent will be held by Alexander, and for now, I will remain the managing general partner.”

None of this is all that shocking to me. He’s been grooming me to take my position at the helm of GHV since I was born. We’ve talked about this joint-stock partnership on multiple occasions, though now that it’s happening, it feels as if it will come with strings.

He straightens his already straight salad fork—ensuring it’s exactly aligned with his lunch plate—before continuing, “It’s my intention that the Mercier family will control and run GHV ad infinitum.”

“Of course. You have my word that should anything happen to you, I’ll continue to run the company, following your best practices and standards.”

“That’s no longer enough. I intend on safeguarding GHV’s future beyond you.”

I nearly smirk. “Trying to play master of the universe now?”

“I’m going to try my damned hardest, yes,” he says assertively.

“Which means what exactly?”

I half expect him to say he’s planning to clone himself. That seems more realistic than his actual answer.

“I think it’s beyond time for you to produce a legitimate heir. Preferably more than one.”

I laugh incredulously. His demand is utterly absurd.

“Have I missed something amusing?” he asks with a biting tone, looking briefly to Wilson for backup.

Smartly, Wilson keeps his mouth shut.

I lean back in my chair, far too cavalier for his taste, I’m sure. “I’m sorry to say, but you hold no jurisdiction over my life beyond work.”

He concedes this with a shrug then steeples his fingers on top of the table. “You should take my wishes as a strong suggestion for now. Perhaps in the future, I won’t be so lenient.”

“Is that a threat?”

I was wrong earlier—maybe this is The Godfather.

“To be certain,” my father confirms boldly just as the first course of the tasting menu is swept into the room on silver trays. No matter that I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.

I’m in a foul mood when my driver pulls up in front of Morgan Fine Art Gallery, so much so that I don’t get out right away. I stare through the backseat window with a deep-set frown, taking in the gallery. It’s not very inviting, though that’s intentional. Part of the psychology of these contemporary galleries is in their design. They’re often composed of bare rooms with white walls. They’re meant to scare would-be patrons away, to create an elitist threshold most people don’t dare cross.

“Would you like me to circle the block?” my driver asks, likely aware of the tension emanating off me like great blooms of smoke.

“It’s fine. Park close. I have no idea how long this will take.”

I push the door open and step out of the car, buttoning my suit jacket as I approach the gallery. The door is locked until a security guard grants me entry with a press of a button. I nod to him in thanks as I walk deeper into the space, my shoes echoing on the concrete.

There’s a low hum of classical music playing, but beyond that, utter silence. No one is manning the white reception desk.

From a side room, Lainey appears, dressed in a pair of tailored black pants and a soft silk blouse the color of cream. Her long hair is down and pin straight, tucked behind one ear as she looks at a small ledger, ferociously flipping back and forth between pages. “I’m sorry, I don’t see an appointment on the books for—”

Then she looks up and sees it’s me, and her sentence stalls.

“Oh.”

Her cheeks flush with color. Pink and enchanting. Her worried eyes flit to the desk then back to me.

“Are you here to see Collette? She just went to lunch.”

Her gaze drifts to the front windows, as if she’s hoping her coworker will suddenly reappear.

“If I were here to see Collette, I would’ve been sure to come when she wasn’t at lunch.”

My answer makes her frown.

Clearly, I haven’t completely cooled from my discussion with my father.

“Are you here to peruse then?” She’s flustered as she closes her ledger and grips it tightly against her chest. “We don’t have anything new since the show on Friday, but I could pull from our other artists if you’d like.”

There’s a long beat of silence in which I simply look at her, absorbing the sheer existence of eyes the color of sage, and then the answer tumbles out of me.

“To be honest, Lainey, I’m not sure why I’m here.”

I sound utterly defeated, but she doesn’t let that stop the corner of her soft mouth from tipping up.

“Oh dear. If you’re lost, I’m sure you have the Google Maps app on your phone. Or I could draw you a simple map of Boston?” she teases.

I can’t help my grin from spreading.

I approach her gently, aware of her hummingbird heart and her tendency to flee. “You didn’t let me answer your question the other night. I do remember you.”

Her brows furrow. “Well to be fair, it took you a minute.”

“You’ve changed.”

I want to let my gaze trace along the lines of her body, but I don’t.

“I’m older,” she says with a confident lift of her chin.

“Still young compared to me.”

She smiles. “Yes, only now I don’t seem to mind.”

“And what else is different?”

She takes a step back and sweeps her hand around the room. “Oh, now I hide out in art galleries instead of libraries.”

“Not often though. I’ve been told you’re only here a few days a week.”

She lays a hand on her chest. “Talking about me around town? Should I feel honored?”

I step toward her, trying to reclaim the space between us. “What do you do with the rest of your time? When you aren’t here?”

“Oh, what does any woman do when she’s unmarried and childless? You can’t imagine the amount of attention someone in my position dedicates to her wardrobe—shopping, fittings, alterations, all of it.”

I don’t look impressed with her teasing. It seems she’s insistent on making this a joke.

“What else, Lainey?”

“I have tea on most days, and often I’m out and about in Boston, attending some lecture or soirée.”

“And at night? Do you see friends?”

“How perfectly annoying of you to assume I have friends.”

“You’re too interesting not to be an infatuation for someone.”

“Now there’s a compliment I’ll cherish forever. Thank you.”

“Lainey,” I say, sounding insistent, like I’m a headmaster and she’s an errant student.

She leans in, her eyes alight with mischief. “I don’t see why I’m in the hot seat. Let’s turn the tables. What do you like to do with your time now that you no longer get to torment the entire female population of St. John’s?”

“I work.”

She rolls her eyes. “And outside of that?”

“I see friends.”

“People from St. John’s? I guess that’s how you knew my work schedule…”

I don’t verify that for her. There’s no point. If she’s not going to be truthful with her answers, why should I?

She huffs and steps back, extending her arm and inviting me further into the gallery.

“Well since you’re here…why don’t we look at some art? I’ll show you my favorites and tell you which to buy. You’ll be a good boy and do as I say.”

I have the sudden urge to kiss her smart mouth, to tip the scales and remind her of all her past infatuations with me. This is the girl who kept my picture under her pillow, the fragile girl who grew up.

She waves me on. “There’s a David Hockney in this side room that we had to fight to secure from the consigner. He was a longtime client of Larry Gagosian, but we won him over in the end. You’d be surprised how much sway these big branded galleries have.”

“Hockney is fine. Do you have any works by Jean-Michel Basquiat?”

She stops walking and turns back to me. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“His name. Everyone butchers the pronunciation, but it rolls right off your French tongue.”

“Jean-Michel Basquiat,” I say again, leaning into my buried accent.

Her eyes roll back as if she’s about to come, then she mimes a chef’s kiss and continues leading me through the space.

“We don’t have any Basquiats. They rarely change hands these days.”

“You’ll let me know if you hear of any coming up for sale?”

“Of course. Now, come look.”

She walks me through to the side room, which has a set of recessed double doors that require her to scan a small key fob before they sweep open. The room is expansive but bare. There are four white walls and four paintings, each one spaced out on its own so there can be no confusion about each of their respective importance.

Lainey’s an expert in her field. There’s not a fact about the four pieces that she doesn’t know off the top of her head: price, provenance, comparable works, and details about the artist’s creative process. I didn’t come here today to purchase art or even to learn about it, but I can’t seem to interrupt her. I’m too interested in what she has to say.

We finally come to stand in front of the Hockney she wanted me to see. It’s a landscape made of vibrant, saturated colors entitled Garrowby Hill. Its composition is reminiscent of Van Gogh and Matisse, and she tells me a different version of the same painting is owned by the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

“Though I prefer this one.”

She’s eagerly watching me take it in, leaning slightly forward on the balls of her feet to be nearer to me. It’s clear she wants me to like it as much as she does, and I find I do enjoy the painting, but I’m mostly just enjoying her.

“I like it,” I say with a simple nod.

She deflates. “But you don’t love it.”

I almost apologize for how sad she looks, and she must see some bit of remorse on my otherwise hard features because she waves her hand.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’d rather you were perfectly honest with me. That way I can cultivate a taste for what you like. You had me fooled the other night at the exhibition, I think. You acted as if you didn’t care what piece your designers chose so long as it was expensive. Quite a macho move, buying art like that. I think all the women were fanning themselves.”

“It was a little overdone. I’m a bit embarrassed about that, actually. I got carried away trying to get a pretty girl’s attention.”

She laughs. “You’re kidding.” Then she leans in, hoping for some salacious piece of gossip. “Who? Was it one of the designers? Because I did think that redhead was gorgeous.”

I merely stand there with my hands tucked into my pockets and peer down at her, spellbound by her innocence.

Her eyes go round with shock when clarity sets in. She opens her mouth, closes it, half-steps back, looks to me as if about to say something, then finally walks away, toward the painting across the room. It’s like she wants to pretend the last few seconds never happened, wipe them totally clean.

I stay rooted to my spot, giving her time to get her bearings. I don’t know why I said that. It’s stating the obvious. She’s stunning, yes, but I don’t think that needed to be acknowledged out loud and in such an overtly flirtatious way. I didn’t come here today in pursuit of her, at least not romantically.

I sigh and start to make my way toward her. There’s a shift in the air.

Though her back is to me, she’s fully aware of my presence. Her posture is rigid and tense.

I almost open my mouth to apologize and put us back to rights. When I reach her, I start to do just that, but she peels her attention away from the painting on the wall that she’s occupied herself with and speaks before I can.

“You were angry earlier, when you first arrived, weren’t you?”

The shift in topic surprises me. “Oh? What gave me away?”

“That curt reply about Collette was a bright red flag, though I didn’t need it. You walked in here looking the same as you did back at St. John’s, always carrying your feelings around. Right here,” she says, touching my brow gently. “There was always so much tension.”

I relax my features, and she drops her hand back by her side. Her fleeting touch lingers like tiny pinpricks on my face.

“Care to tell me why you were upset? Does it have to do with work? Or something else?” She leans in and whispers, “I’m good at keeping secrets, remember?”

Her words feel like a spell, a sensation of déjà vu.

I stop pretending to inspect the artwork in front of me and turn to face her head on, suddenly wanting her of all people to know the truth. “I just came from lunch with my father. Tolerable though our meals together usually are, today was different. He’s made it clear he wants me to get married. In fact, he’s demanding it.”

After a brief pause, a laugh bubbles out of her and she slaps a hand over her mouth.

She peels it partly away while wearing a look of remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. Just…our lives are so different and yet we always seem to be waging similar wars. I’m as good as married myself. My grandmother saw to my betrothal just the other day. Soon, I’ll be a missus.”

I frown at her jokey demeanor. “You’re kidding.”

She shakes her head.

“You don’t sound nearly as concerned as you should be by the prospect.”

She drops her hand and then presents a perfectly demure smile as if to say, What can I do?

“I’m nothing if not dutiful.”

How can she so willingly throw her life away? How can she allow her grandmother to control her fate?

“I’ll never marry. I see no point to it.”

Unimpressed, she notes, “A cynic—how rare. And I suppose you think love is a sham? A marketing ploy made up by Hallmark and Russel Stover?”

I shake my head vehemently. “Nothing like that. I don’t think of love at all. I leave it to others to enjoy. If it’s a farce, let it be theirs. I want nothing to do with it.”

“So you’ll defy your father?”

“Of course. His request is absurd.”

Her eyebrows rise and fall quickly. “Well you’ll have to let me know how that goes.”

“You could do it with me.”

She smiles wistfully. “I could…”

“But you won’t,” I determine, sounding dejected.

“You don’t have to look at me like that, with all that pity. I’m fine with my life. Happy, even. And I support you in your rebellion. Fight the good fight, Emmett. I’ll wholeheartedly cheer you on—from afar, that is. Are you staying in Boston long?”

“Longer than expected.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t look too happy about the news.

“Eager to be rid of me?”

She swallows, and I watch every delicate muscle move in her neck.

“No. Of course not. I see no harm in the two of us being friends. I’m off the market, and you are…” She has to think it over for a moment before smiling. “Never going to be on the market. It’s perfect. Now, let’s look at some art, shall we?”

I extend my arm for her to take, she places her hand lightly in the crook of my elbow, and then we walk back into the main gallery, two friends.