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not trying to … what do they call it in America? Oh, yes, I am not trying to sexually badger you.”
    The image of a sexual badger popped into April’s mind, a furry varmint with oversize teeth, gold chains, and a silk smoking jacket. She laughed in spite of herself, in spite of Luc Thébault and this ridiculous situation she found herself in.
    “It’s ‘harass,’” April said and pursed her lips. “Not ‘badger.’ You’re not sexually harassing.”
    “I’m glad you concur,” Luc said, pleased, as he (finally!) stepped out of April’s way. A pocket of cool air whooshed through the space.
    “I don’t … I don’t not concur.” April shook her head, confused. “Sorry. Jet-lagged. Not thinking clearly. So you want to meet. When? Why?”
    “It seems you have questions, so many questions,” he said. “The first of these about the woman in the painting, non?”
    April nodded, curious but also wary.
    “I can answer your questions, Madame Vogt. At least some of them. If you are willing to meet for le café with a sexual badger, that is.”
    April hesitated. It didn’t seem right to discuss business over coffee without Olivier and Marc present, especially given the annoyingly flirtatious mannerisms and French swagger of this particular individual. April thought of Troy, of his ceaseless client lunches and dinners. Because it was scandalous once didn’t mean it had to be every time. Anyway, at least one of them was capable of a little restraint.
    “I suppose,” she said at last. “What time?”
    “Three o’clock,” he said. “Café Zéphyr. I will be on the patio. Waiting.”

 
    Chapitre IX
    Hazy and hollowed out from lack of sleep and food, April plunked down on the apartment building’s cold marble staircase. Thirty minutes until her meeting with Luc. Not enough time to work, but enough time to do what she had to. It was a task April looked forward to and dreaded in equal measure.
    Twenty-six minutes remained. Twenty-three. April wavered. Three months ago she’d already have dialed Troy’s number. Now, phone in hand, April ran the expected script through her brain.
    First Troy would inquire about Paris. Fine. Lovely. A lot to do. April might ask about the previous night’s soiree, though she’d already received a partial report via text from a grad-school friend who secured overpriced artwork for the folks in Troy’s sphere. “Some chick was all over your husband,” Melanie wrote. It was the first thing April saw when she stepped off the plane in Paris.
    Yet. Troy was still her husband. Gossipy text or no, April had to call. She would say some things. He would say other things. All these things would be dwarfed by what they didn’t say.
    It was eight-thirty in the morning in New York, which was the best time to reach Troy if one wanted to reach him at all. Much past nine o’clock and everyone already had their claws into him. As April punched in his number, her hands felt clammy, her heart noisy. Maybe she should call later, when he’d be too busy to talk. There really was no winning, only lesser degrees of loss.
    “Troy Vogt’s office,” said a cheery voice.
    Troy’s assistant. Sweet. Upbeat. Perhaps in possession of inside information.
    “Hi, Kimberly, it’s me.”
    A pause. April imagined all he might’ve said to her. Troy was tight-lipped, taciturn, only ever showing the best side of himself. Still, sometimes there were certain explanations required, directives to make: You can put the calls through. Don’t worry, April is no longer in the house.
    “Oh! April! Hi!” Kimberly chirped. April tried not to assess the degree of effort she put into her greeting. “How’s Paris? God, you are the luckiest person in the world! Paris. Jeez. I picked the wrong career path.”
    “Well, I’ve only been gone about eight hours, so there’s little Paris so far. Only a dusty, abandoned flat and some surly Frenchmen.”
    “The apartment sounds dismal, but I’d take the