The Collectors Read Free Page A

chest, but she crossed the room and stood in front of me before I found my composure. Adele moved closer to us.
    “May I present my friend, Laura Thomas. Laura, this is Jeanne Beaudreau.”
    Jeanne took my hand and shook it warmly. “I am so delighted you were able to join us this evening. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
    She kissed Adele on the cheek and ushered us over to the fireplace seating area, gesturing for Adele to take one of the chairs while she settled on the sofa next to me. I wondered if this upset Adele at all and realized I hoped it did.
    “Adele adores her life drawing class and has told me all about your coffee chats afterward.”
    She didn’t have an accent, but I almost believed she did. There was something very Continental about her. Her clothing perhaps most of all. Her slacks were expensive, perfectly tailored, black, and they lengthened her already long legs. Her blouse was a crisp whiter-than-white cotton, with an open collar. She didn’t wear a scarf, but I could imagine her wearing one, or an ascot perhaps. She was neither handsome nor beautiful, but something much more than either. Her face had great character, with signs of a life fully lived. Her brow and her jaw were strong but softened by the thick, glistening hair that fell in layers to her shoulders. She looked to be in her forties, with her body as lean as a much younger woman’s. She was entirely captivating, and I had to concentrate intensely to hear what she was saying.
    “Adele is a very talented artist,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m at the cave drawing stage compared to her.”
    “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” Jeanne said. As she rose to serve us drinks I noticed Adele sat very quietly. She wasn’t relaxing toward the back of the leather club chair, but perched toward the front, her hands resting on her lap. Perhaps she’d been trained to sit like that. Jeanne would know she was behaving appropriately, but no one else would notice she was under Jeanne’s command. I felt a little smug, like a student knowing more than everyone else on the first day of class, thanks to all the reading I’d done over summer vacation. I was feeling like an honored guest and a bit above Adele in station. But I didn’t aspire to be higher than her—only lower.
    Jeanne spent the next fifteen minutes asking me all about my graduate studies in art history, and the conversation continued in-depth and with enthusiasm throughout dinner, which was served by the tireless Mrs. Kirchberger. It turned out Jeanne was a serious art collector and our areas of study and interest ran along the same lines. I couldn’t help but notice that every time Jeanne exclaimed at something I said, Adele looked a little sad. She picked at her food but drank thirstily from her wine glass.
    I was raised in an artistic family, and I’ve spent much of my life in galleries. I can easily do this kind of talk, and at some point I lost track of the fact I was in the home of my friend’s mistress, supposedly, hopefully, being auditioned for an introduction to dominance and submission. I felt instead like I was on a date, and Jeanne was effortlessly seducing me with her stories and attentiveness. There was just the strange presence of Adele, the silent and sulky third wheel in the room.
    After the meal, Jeanne finally turned to Adele. “Go let Mrs. K. know we’re ready for coffee in the study. We’ll meet you there in a little bit.”
    Adele slid from her chair and left the room. Jeanne’s hand moved toward mine on the table and she gave it a squeeze. “I can’t believe how much we have in common. It’s a thrill for me to discuss art with someone who knows what they’re talking about. Would you allow me to show you my collection?”
    This smacked a bit of the age-old pickup line about etchings, but would be far beneath someone like Jeanne. She actually wanted to show me what she’d clearly spent years amassing—a very impressive collection of