Page 121 of Under Cover
“Bertrand Lautrec,” she murmured. “I am aware. But I know that sometimes it’s nice when somebody says your name. Come with me. I’m Julia Dormer-Salinger, and you may call me Julia.”
“Am I to live with you?” he asked, confused. All he’d been told was that he would be safe. After five years on the run with his father, his twelve-year-old self couldn’t imagine this woman could keep him safe.
She smiled at him gently. “I have a son, and his friend practically lives in our house. I wouldn’t mind a third. Would you like that?”
He frowned, understanding from her tone that this was a surprise idea for her.
“What did Daniel plan?” he asked, remembering the brave man who had still been recovering from the injuries Andres Kadjic had given him even as Tienne had flown away.
“Art school,” she said with a little shrug. “I’ve secured a place for you at a rather prestigious boarding school, if you like.”
And part of Tienne wanted badly to go with this lovely, kind woman to her home, where there were other boys his age. But everything was so strange—down to his hair and his clothes and the clipped sounds of English in seven different accents gunning by his ears.
Art he knew. Art was his last link to his parents.
“Art school, sil vous plaît,” he said politely.
She smiled sadly. “You can visit us during breaks if you like,” she said and then frowned. “But let’s not tell Felix where you’re from, yes?”
“Who is Felix?” he asked.
She grimaced. “My soon to be ex-husband. But don’t worry. We adore each other.”
Tienne frowned at her, turning as she did to walk through the airport. “Then why are you…?”
“Getting a divorce?” she asked, laughing. “Because women are really not his type. Is this the only luggage you have?” She indicated his roller board and matching satchel.
“Oui,” he said, remembering sadly that after his backpack had been slashed, he’d only had the clothes on his back. The young police officer had needed to buymanyclothes in Marrakech’s modern department stores to fill the small case. “Who is his type?” Tienne asked, thinking about his one kiss, and how he badly needed to know if he could die here if he mentioned who he wanted to kiss.
“Men,” she said simply. “In particular, one man, whom he’s pretending he’s not in love with anymore.”
Tienne frowned. This sounded terribly tragic. “Who is this man?”
She tilted her head. “You should know, my boy. He’s the one who sent you to America and told us to make sure you had a home.” She bit her lip, uncharacteristically diffident. “Did you… did he happen to say anything to you? About us, I mean?”
Tienne laughed humorlessly, remembering that one moment in the alley when a man he’d never seen, never met, had jumped on top of a man armed with a knife and defied his very dangerous lover to save Tienne’s life.
“We had no time to talk,” he whispered. “He… he saved me. From dangerous men. But then his friend helped me get far, far away.” He saw her obvious disappointment, though, and thought of something to say. “He must have trusted you very much,” he added. “Because if you were dangerous to him too, you could easily hurt him.”
Her expression grew, if anything, even sadder. “And Felix and I have,” she said softly. “But again, that is not your story. Come. The only interview I could get you for the school I have in mind is this afternoon. I know it’s quite the whirlwind, and you won’t have a chance to come home and meet the family, but if it’s art school you want, it’s art school you shall have.”
And that was that.
Years later, after he’d met Josh and Grace and their friends, and had spent summer and winter holidays with Julia and Felix, enjoying their company very much, he would wonder at his choice.
They’d offered him family as often as they could. They found out his birthday and sent gifts or took him out to celebrate. He spent part of his holidays with them and received presents. He even painted them pictures. A part of him yearned more than anything to make himself comfortable in their home, to lie about on the couches with Josh and Grace and their friends Stirling and Molly and play games and chatter and live in their pockets as they lived in each other’s.
But he’d seen his father die, and that wound, that terrible wound in his chest, it was still open, and he was still desperately afraid.
He made it through boarding school instead, and then into the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, with an emphasis on oil-on-canvas paintings. It was there that his original calling, the one his father taught him, came into play.
It helped that one machine, one stamp, one printer, one jar of ink at a time, he’d begun to build up his collection of forging equipment again. Everything from estate sales to government clearing houses and Army/Navy stores gave him items he needed, and without thinking of the reason, he spent much of his allowance on the tools of the trade he’d employed with pride as his father’s journeyman.
And then he hit college at seventeen, and that foresight and patient collecting paid off.
It seemed that many teenagers were desperate to have beer.
“Tienne?”
