She opened the lid.
A childish part of her hoped for a cache of jewels or gold, as though a pirate might have concealed his booty within this children’s amusement. Instead, she found an ancient, sepia-toned photograph of awoman; a tightly braided plait of dark brown hair; an intricately carved wooden rose; and a note written in slanted letters. The ink had faded to a light brown and the script was hard to read, but she made out:Je t’aime toujours, et encore. Souviens-toi de moi.
“I love you forever, and still,” Cady translated aloud. “Remember me.”
She checked the box for a false bottom, just in case, but there was nothing else. Certainly no treasure. Disappointment washed over her.
“That was it?That’syour big secret?” Cady glared at the rabbit. “I gotta tell you, Gus, after all these years you’re really letting me down.”
Still, she snapped several more photos of the hidden cache.
Unless... the man at the antiques fair had told her establishing a provenance might increase Gus’s value. Were there clues that could reveal where the rabbit figure had come from?
Stroking the silky plait of hair, Cady inspected the intricately carved wooden rose, complete with tiny thorns. It reminded her of the flower on Gus’s side that had so offended Scott Ripley. There was no signature or marking of any kind, certainly no brass plaque indicating provenance.
She picked up the photograph. The woman stood stiffly in front of a carousel, unsmiling, looking directly into the camera. She appeared to be young, probably in her early twenties. Her hair was piled on her head, with several strands escaping to frame a heart-shaped face. She wore a dark, high-necked dress that fell to her ankles, topped by a work apron. No visible lace or other embellishment. Cady was hardly a fashion expert, but she guessed it was from around the turn of the twentieth century, certainly before World War I.
The photograph was slightly fuzzy and crooked, as though taken by an amateur. But a professional-looking photographic stamp on the right lower corner read:Château Clement.
Cady opened her computer and searched, but she found no results for that name. She read that only a few dozen historic châteaux still existed in good repair; most had been too expensive to renovate afterbeing abandoned during the French Revolution and then further damaged over the course of the two World Wars. The great majority had fallen into ruin.
The woman didn’t appear to be the lady of the manor—surely she would have donned her finest gown for a photo session? In fact, with the apron and the messy hair, she looked like a servant. Which led to the next obvious question: Who would have taken a servant’s photograph and then tucked it away in a box along with a love note? And why?
Cady brought out her photographer’s loupe to study the fuzzy details of the carousel in the background. She made out two carved horses, a carriage, and a rabbit that looked a little like Gus.
Gus. She gazed at her poor gutted rabbit.
“I’m sorry, little guy. Let’s see what we can do about fixing you up.”
She lifted him onto the big project table and turned on some Edith Piaf to get in the mood.
When Cady first started working for Maxine to repay her for items she had pilfered from the shop, she had simply cleaned and straightened and organized. But over time Maxine taught Cady how to do some basic repairs on antiques and how to make new things look old with crackle paint and sandpaper, using the contents of the vacuum bag to rub into crevices and voids. She learned how to apply gold and silver gilt, how to execute a proper French polish, and how to use glazes to suggest antiquity and increase value. At the flea market on weekends, Maxine pointed out what was valuable, what was a cheap imitation, and how to tell the difference.
Still, Cady wasn’t a trained conservator, so she had always hesitated to work on the rabbit, afraid her efforts at repairing him would decrease, rather than add to, his value. But now, since Gus wasn’t who she’d thought he was anyway, she figured she could at least piece him back together. Cady enjoyed using her hands and getting back to basics: sanding and scraping and laminating. The process was calming, healing.
As Piaf crooned her love for Paris, Cady’s mind cast about,pondering the woman in the photograph. Was the note writtenforher, orbyher? And how could Cady track down Château Clement? Might it be the name of an old photography studio, rather than a true “château” per se?
The phone rang. Lately Cady had been ignoring phone calls, but this was from Olivia. If she ignoredhercalls, Olivia would show up in person.
“Hey,” Cady answered. “What’s up?”
“Remember a couple of days ago, how I was saying you should hold out for a little magic in your life?”
“Yeah... why?” Had Olivia somehow intuited what Cady had found in Gus’s belly?
“Addison Avenue Books wants to offer you a contract for a photo book of Parisian carousels.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Which part didn’t you understand?”
“They’re offering me abookcontract? Who are these people?”
“They’re a small press based in San Francisco, but they’ve been around for a long time. They publish big, glossy coffee-table books. It’s a niche market, but a profitable one. One of the senior editors plays golf with Sebastian, and he pitched her the idea. I sent her a link to your website, and she checked out your online portfolio. I told her the magazinelovesworking with you, you’resoprofessional and exclusive andverymuch in demand, blah blah blah.”
“Basically, you lied.”
“I didnotlie. I enhanced. Anyway, since you don’t have an agent, I told her to send me the contract so I could look it over for you. Legalese and all that.”
