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  Contents

  A Prologue in Three Conversations

  Day One

  Day Two

  Day Three

  Day Four

  Day Five

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Group Guide

  The Woman in the Photograph Excerpt

  About Dana Gynther

  In memory of my loving father,

  Malcolm Donald Gynther

  A PROLOGUE IN

  THREE CONVERSATIONS

  Constance Stone

  “George?” Constance rapped lightly on the door to her husband’s study, opening it as she knocked.

  He peered over his reading glasses and smiled at his pretty wife. On his crowded desk lay a pile of papers; he was sharpening a red pencil.

  “So, how are your parents today, dear?” George asked casually, as if she could answer with a cheerful “fine.”

  Constance frowned. Her visit that day had consisted of trying to coax her mother, wide-eyed and filthy, from behind the garden shed. Her mother grunted frantically when she grew near, then hurled a clump of dirt at her, hitting the side of her face.

  “About the same, thank you,” she replied curtly, nettled by his indifference. She ran her fingers through her hair—dislodging a bit of sand near her ear—then continued, her voice slow and hesitant. “Father’s had a new idea, though. To make Mother well again.”

  George took off his reading glasses and sat back in his chair.

  “What’s that?” he asked, expectant.

  Was that skepticism in his voice? With her fingertips, she lightly grazed the top of her husband’s collection of rocks and minerals—the smooth agates, glistening metallic pyrite, shards of quartz—as if stones could be read like Braille. She picked up a cluster of amethyst from the long shelf in front of his desk. Weighing it in her hand, she remembered that the Ancient Greeks thought this stone would protect them from drunkenness.

  “Faith,” she said. “He wants to bring Faith home.”

  “Faith!” George snorted. “Your father, the psychologist, thinks that will cure your mother? Lord knows, it might make her feel worse! Now, I agree that your sister should certainly not be in Paris on her own, living like some kind of gypsy. If she were my child, I’d have never allowed it! But I just don’t see how her wanton daughter’s reappearance is going to help.”

  Constance paused, putting the amethyst back in its place as George began packing his pipe. She glanced over at the armchair, hoping to sit down. As usual, it was filled with a tower of scrolled maps. She leaned on his desk, noticing, from that vantage point, that her husband’s bald spot was widening rapidly.

  “You’re probably right, George.” Constance let out a long sigh. “I don’t know if Mother even realizes that Faith is gone. But Father wants her home.”

  “Well, good luck to him.” He relit his pipe, then inquired through a puff of smoke, “Has he wired her yet?”

  “He’s tried. Several times, in fact.” Constance picked up the nautilus fossil, her favorite piece in his collection. Stroking its spiral, she added, “But now he wants to try a more radical approach.”

  George’s brow came crashing down against his eyes, forcing his lips out in an exaggerated pout. A caricature of confusion, he stared up at his wife.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  Constance stopped her pacing and stood before her husband.

  “He wants me to go to Paris and get her,” she said, trying to make it sound as if this request was on par with a trip to the market. “To put her on a steamer and bring her back to Worcester.”

  “You!”

  His face burst open, falling to twice the length it had been moments before. When his jaw and eyes came back to their proper places, he began to chuckle.

  Constance watched the spectacle of George’s face, trying to recall what about it had attracted her when they’d married eight years earlier. Perhaps it had been his then-graying hair, which promised the inherent security of marrying an older man. Or the serious, academic way he puffed his pipe through his beard. In the beginning, she had also been grateful for his ability to fill awkward silences. Listening now to his bemused laughter, she couldn’t remember why she had undervalued silence.

  “Well, you know Father can’t go,” she said, looking down at the nautilus. “He can’t leave Mother.”

  “But I can’t go with you, dear. I’m in the middle of term. And I’m behind with my grading as it is,” he said, waving his pipe around his desk to emphasize his point. “And, needless to say, you can’t go on your own.”

  “Why not, George?” she asked softly.

  He looked up at her in surprise.

  “Why, for a dozen reasons! I’d be worried sick about you!” He shook his head. “Anything could happen. You could get lost out there on your own!”

  “I think I can board a liner and take a train as well as any other. I don’t see the mystery there.”

  “And while you are gallivanting off to Paris, what’s to become of your own children?” George asked, eyeing her sternly, paternalistically. “Who is to take care of them?”

  “The servants can manage,” Constance sighed. “And this would be no pleasure cruise, believe me. Oh, George, it would only be a couple of weeks.”

  Finally, he stood up from his chair. Looking up at his wife, he felt, was putting him at a disadvantage.

  “You sound like you are seriously considering this madness! Off on a fool’s errand, in search of your shameless little sister—who you’ve never even gotten along with!”

  Constance put the nautilus back on the shelf. Suddenly exhausted, she went over to the armchair and toppled the maps onto the rug. She let herself fall in, ignoring George’s silent protest.

  “The fool sending me on this errand is my father, George.” She closed her eyes, stroking her brow. “You weren’t there when he asked me to go.” She could still see her father’s reddened eyes staring into his empty palms, the faint smell of hard cider on his breath. “I couldn’t . . . I can’t say no. He’s so miserable in that house, so desperate.”

  “Constance.” George’s voice nearly chipped as he looked down on his wife. “You are not going to Paris on your own.”

  She sighed, raised herself out of the armchair, and looked her husband in the eye.

  “Yes, George. I am.”

  Vera Sinclair

  Amandine shuffled through the parlor’s open door, slightly out of breath from the trip up the stairs. Vera sat in a brocade chair, her thin legs covered in a throw, a black Scottish terrier lying at her feet. She was turning the pages of a large kidskin journal.

  “Yes?” She looked up at her maid, amused by the girlish smile on her lined face.

  “It’s Mr. Charles, ma’am.” Amandine beamed. “He’s taking off his galoshes and overcoat in the hall. He’ll be here directly.”

  As she quickly removed her reading glasses and the blanket (“Up you go, Bibi!” she whispered to the dog. “You know how a throw ages a woman!”), Vera peeked out the window. The rain was still pouring down. It had been one of the wettest, grayest Paris springs she could remember and her gauzy skin ached for sun.

  “Hello, love!” Charles Wood entered the room with his customary panache. A dapper gentleman nearing sixty-five, he had a full head of white hair and bright blue eyes.

&nbs
p; A smile spread across Vera’s face in a ripple, until wrinkles flooded every corner.

  “Charles!”

  She put her book down and rose to embrace him. He awarded her a brief, stiff half-hug, then bent down to pet the dog. Vera frowned, remembering when, not too long ago, his body used to yield to hers and truly embrace her, despite his Britishness.

  His gaze traveled to her journal, which he picked up and thumbed.

  “Are you writing today?” he asked, smiling at a doodle in the margin.

  “No, I was just skimming through an old entry. The one about the horse races.”

  “Ah yes.” He chuckled as he set the book down. “Our great victory at Chantilly. What was the horse’s name again? Naughty Tweed?”

  “Nearly.” Vera laughed. “It was Devil’s Fool. But, come. Sit with me.” She took his hand and led him to the sofa. “I haven’t seen you for ages.” Her eyes twinkled from their hollows; her grin was that of an adolescent. “That wouldn’t mean that you have a new friend, would it, my dear?”

  “Always prying, aren’t you, love?” he said in mock exasperation, his eyes cast on the floor.

  “You know me,” she said with a sweep. “Say, let’s have Cook prepare us something truly exquisite this evening. Do you fancy bouillabaisse? Or perhaps coq au vin?”

  “Oh, Vera, I can’t stay for dinner. I’ve got other plans.” He shifted on the sofa, uncomfortable, still avoiding her gaze. “I just wanted to pop round to see how you are.”

  “Then look at me,” she ordered.

  He dragged his eyes up to hers, forcing himself to look; he was amazed at how much the illness had changed her face since his last visit, too long ago. He managed a weak smile, but was visibly relieved when Amandine walked into the room, stooped with the weight of the silver tea service.

  “Let me help with that!” Charles jumped to his feet.

  “You can eke out a few minutes for a cup of tea, I hope,” Vera said drily, arching an eyebrow.

  “Of course. That is, if some of Amandine’s chocolate biscuits are on offer.” He winked at the old servant, who gave him a look usually reserved for mischievous boys—that is, mischievous boys who are clever and good-looking.

  Vera shot a glance at Charles while stirring her tea.

  “I’ve been thinking lately,” she began, then paused, awaiting his full attention. She looked out the window; the Jardin du Luxembourg was empty and unappetizing in the rain. When Charles finally responded (“Yes?”), she finished her sentence. “About returning to New York.”

  Charles raised his brow in mild surprise.

  “Have you, then?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I think perhaps it’s time. After thirty-odd years here in Paris, maybe it’s time to go home.”

  “Permanently?” he asked.

  “Well, at this age, what does that mean?”

  He nodded silently and they both took a sip of tea.

  Vera stole another glance at Charles, an easy feat considering he seemed to be studying the weave of her rug. What a pathetic reaction he’d had to her news! He should have shot out of his chair, burst out laughing, or thrown a biscuit at her! The idea that she should leave Paris!

  “When might you go?” His voice was steady, unemotional.

  “Soon,” she said. “Summer? Perhaps earlier, if this bloody rain keeps up.”

  “Paris won’t be the same without you, Vera.”

  He managed a swift glance up at her eyes, attempted another smile, then turned back to the floor.

  “I need to run, darling,” he murmured. Indeed, he looked ready to bolt, to flee. “Amandine, get my coat, please.”

  Amandine looked at Vera, who was sitting properly with her hands folded in her lap.

  “Au revoir, Charles,” she said. Now it was she who could not look up.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, his hand glancing off her shoulder, the warmest touch he could muster.

  After he left, she sat motionless. She could not believe it. Usually, Vera considered herself lucky with odds. Horses, backgammon, roulette. But, that day, she had wagered that her oldest, dearest friend would talk her out of leaving Paris. That he would argue that her place was there, near him; that returning to Manhattan was absurd, a terrible mistake. She would have agreed rather quickly, even if he had only reasoned that he selfishly wanted her by his side. She had gambled and lost.

  The next morning, Vera Sinclair, still disappointed, wrote a handful of letters to America, to cousins and friends, then booked passage for June.

  “Amandine,” she announced at noon, “we are moving to New York.”

  Julie Vernet

  Julie blinked repeatedly as she walked into the house; the poorly lit corridor seemed dark after the glare of the milky Le Havre sky. She listened for her mother but heard nothing. After a brief search, she found her propped in a kitchen chair, looking out the window at the ships docked at port.

  “Bonjour, maman,” she whispered.

  They had become a nearly silent family since the Great War, as if their losses had included their voices as well.

  Mme. Vernet turned slightly toward her daughter, her only surviving child. As a form of greeting, she let out a small sigh.

  “Is Papa here?” she asked.

  Her mother shook her head. Julie supposed her father was out on one of his long walks by the shore. Or perhaps he’d gone to the bar for a solitary round of pastis. She debated a moment whether she should wait for him to share her news, but decided it didn’t really matter. Her father had been even more absent than her mother these last three years.

  “I’ve brought in the mail,” Julie said, exposing a single envelope in her small hand. “There’s a letter here from the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique. I’ve been given my first assignment.”

  Waiting for a reaction from her mother, Julie paused, nervously tapping the birthmark above her lip with the pad of a finger. Had she heard? She knelt down next to the chair to hold her mother’s hands in hers. The fingers were splayed and wavy, twisted from arthritis. As Julie picked up her mother’s hands, meaning to rub some warmth into them, she saw the photograph; her older brothers’ portrait was snuggled among her skirts.

  Julie looked down upon her brothers, dressed as soldiers, and called to them in her head: Jean-François, Émile, Didier.

  “Pity there’s not a photograph of Loïc in uniform,” she murmured, then chanced a look at her mother’s face. Her chin was shaking, her eyes tearing.

  “I know, maman,” Julie said softly. “I miss them too.”

  She sat at her mother’s feet in silence. It was nearly impossible to remember now how their house had been before the war, cramped and noisy, filled with the cries and laughter of men. Mme. Vernet wiped her eyes with the cotton handkerchief that she kept tucked into the sleeve of her cardigan, always at the ready.

  Julie finally summoned the courage to recall the day’s post. She reached for the envelope and opened it again. She pulled out the letter there at the window, for her mother to see.

  “It says I’m to ship out on June fifteenth, on a brand-new liner—the Paris.” Julie considered a smile, but decided it would be inappropriate. “Of course, if you need me here, I could refuse or get my assignment postponed for a later ship. Maybe—”

  Her mother squeezed her daughter’s hand with her own useless one, then opened her mouth. Her voice came out like a rusty groan from lack of use.

  “Go,” it said.

  DAY ONE

  THE LAUNCH

  JUNE 15, 1921

  “I’d better be reporting for duty now,” Julie said softly, though she did not move.

  She glanced over at her parents, who had come to see her off. After a lifetime together, sharing heartfelt sorrows and homely meals, they had begun to resemble each other. Strikingly different when young, they now looked like kinfolk, with the same height and girth, the same stoop, the same wrinkles, the same frown.

  Julie sighed, passing her small bag from on
e hand to the other, and looked around her. She reckoned every child from Le Havre was there on the dock that day waiting for the Paris to launch. She watched as they filled their eyes with the rich scene, and occasionally their hands: a fallen bun from one of the bakers’ huge baskets; an overblown rose left after a florist had gathered his freshest wares; light strokes of dress silk from the Parisian ladies, so much taller than their own mothers.

  Julie Vernet used to be one of those children. About once every year, a great ship was launched and the local kids loved being part of the festivities. They’d mimic the stuffy first-class travelers with their cigarette holders and walking canes, and the foreigners, speaking funny languages. Clowning around in front of the photographers, they’d goad them into taking their pictures. A few little imps inevitably tried to sneak onto the ship, with the idea of stowing away and making their fortunes in New York.

  When she was ten or twelve, Julie enjoyed running around the dock, collecting all the longest, cleanest pieces of streamers she could find. She would tie them like ribbons in her hair or wrap them around her fingers and hands, making multicolored paper gloves.

  The first launch Julie could remember, at age five or six, she saw with her oldest brother. Jean-François held her hand so she wouldn’t be lost in the crowd, and when they got close to the bow, he crouched down to help her spell out the name of the vessel. L-A P-R-O-V-E-N-C-E. He explained to her that, like Le Havre, Provence was on the sea. But there, it was sunny and warm all year-round; the flowers, he added, smelled so sweet, the air was like perfume. Years later, when she was a teenager, Julie would still see that ship in the harbor from time to time and think fondly back on that launch. By then, Jean-François had been killed in the war. Who would have thought that an ocean liner, despite its monstrous size, could outlive a big brother?

  “Mama, Papa.” She looked at the small couple dressed in black. “I should be going now. I still need to put on my uniform.”