Page 55 of Canvas of Lies
We were home just in time for a boisterous family dinner that included Jérôme’s girlfriend, Angélique, Philippe’s sister and brother-in-law, and their son, François, who was a few years younger than me. Though Nico gave the young man a sharp look when he lingered over kissing my cheeks, François had an infectious grin and accepted the admonishment good-naturedly.
“Before you two go home, Katherine should see some pictures of baby Nicolas. Best to know what to expect before your own little bundle comes,non?”Aunt Camille smiled slyly at Nico’s startled expression and my crimson cheeks.
“Oh, I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Nico protested, but he was immediately overruled by the ladies at the table, including me.
There was no way I would miss this chance. Nico had been gorgeous from my first memory of him—I was willing to bet he was a ridiculously cute baby.
He allowed himself a groan when we cooed over the photo albums that were conveniently at hand, but after a moment, he sat back to watch me smile with delight as I turned the pages. That particular joy dissolved into shock about three minutes later, and Nico jerked to attention as my expression shifted.
“What is it?” he demanded, leaning toward me.
“Nico . . . look.”
My finger landed on a photo of him at age three or four, sitting on his mother’s lap as his father looked proudly down at his little family from behind her chair. At first, Nico’s gaze lingered on his mother’s image, but I knew the moment he saw it.
Hanging on the wall behind them was the Clément painting.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, earning himself a sharp jab in the ribs from his aunt. “Pardon, Tante Camille.This is it, Kat. This is our proof that your father was lying. This was right beforeMamandied, which refutes his story about buying it when you were born.”
A flurry of activity rose up around us even as Nico and I continued to stare at one another. At Camille’s insistence, I carefully removed the photo from the album, then we pored over every remaining page, searching for more. Within minutes, everyone at the table had been handed a photo album from various generations and we scoured the images, some in color and others black and white, looking for any that captured the painting in the background.
Every so often, a triumphant exclamation rose from one relative or another, and a small pile of photos showing the painting through the decades formed at the center of the table. The level of excited chatter grew along with the collection, which gave a clear glimpse of the family growing and changing over the years under the watchful eye of Céleste Bicardeau.
Both Nico and I took pictures of each photo found, in case anything happened to the originals.
“I’m an idiot for not thinking of this sooner,” Nico muttered.
François and Jérôme exchanged grins before Jérôme spoke.“Oui, cousin.It is very lucky you have such a brilliant family to assist,n’est-ce pas?”
I snorted, but I understood Nico’s comment all too well. What better proof of provenance than several generations’ worth of photographic evidence? Our focus had been on the kind of things my father dealt in—paperwork, wills, insurance records. It hadn’t occurred to either of us to search the very heart of an extended family history like Nico’s, namely the countless albums piled beside us, consisting mostly of childhood photos.
Twelve more hours and we would’ve set off home without ever seeing these pictures, without a single speck of proof to contest my father’s lies.
By the time the group finished, I was fighting tears—tears of relief, of satisfaction, of the overwhelming love I felt not only for Nico, but for all of these people who’d welcomed me into their home and into their lives.
The sun had long since set and the pile of photos had been carefully packed up for us to take home when the guests departed. Each warm embrace threatened to tip me over the edge of letting the emotion loose, but I managed to hold it together until Nico and I finally crawled into bed.
He’d seen the sheen of moisture in my eyes during the family’s farewells, so he simply opened his arms. Within seconds, I was curled against his side, tears cascading soundlessly down my cheeks and trailing over his bare chest. There were no murmured words of reassurance this time, just his warm embrace, his lips against my hair.
I let out a long, shuddering breath as the tears dried on our skin. Maybe we could win this, after all.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nico
HourspassedbeforeIlet myself follow Kat into sleep. There were decisions still to be made, ones that involved her as much as me, but all I wanted to do was enjoy the feel of her in my arms, to lie there and breathe in the soft scent of her. Reality would hit all too soon; for now, my entire world was right here.
The true test would be whether I could keep it that way once we got home. This battle wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
By unspoken accord, we didn’t discuss what to do with the photos during the flight home, nor during what I’d teasingly termed our “recovery day” before returning to our real lives. Kat insisted we spend it at her place, though she’d reluctantly conceded that my bed was entirely tolerable.
The following morning, however, we decided that it was finally time to talk through the options as we ate breakfast. I ticked off each potential plan on my fingers.
“One: we go to your father directly, tell him we can prove he’s lying, and give him the chance to do the right thing. Two: we go to the media with the photos and let that put pressure on him, see what he does from there. Three: we hang tight to wait and see what happens between him and your mother. Or four: we go straight to the police and let them sort out the mess.”
“You think that would work?”
“No.” I made a face. “And I’d rather we not choose that one because it will both shine a light on some of my more questionable hackingandtake things completely out of our control.”
