New Years Eve

[Daphne Du Cadeau]

The gallery looked different in daylight without the thrum of music and the aroma of festivities, it felt hollow. Snow lingered along the curb outside, pressed gray by passing cars. Inside, the air carried the faint scent of coffee and fresh paper rather than celebration.

A jet waited at Teterboro. Daphne knew the exact time the borders would tighten. Thanks to Eve, they knew the route, the clearance codes, and the name of the pilot. They knew that if she stepped into that car by four-thirty, she would be home in Paris before dawn, and her mother’s concern would dissolve into relief and quiet admonishment. The jet waited. Still, she stood here.

Eve walked beside her, easy and steady as ever. Daphne’s silvery coat fell cleanly along her shoulders, gloves exchanged for fine leather this morning, her hair pinned back with careful, tight loops. She felt more herself in daylight.

The gallery door unlocked before they reached it. Araminta stood inside, dressed simply now in wintery creams and pale blues, her hair loose around her shoulders. There was no party glow about her. Only a woman who had not entirely slept. Or maybe a little hungover.

Araminta’s smile was washed by an emotion behind it: Apprehension.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Daphne said, stepping inside.

“Of course,” Araminta replied warmly. “The gallery’s closed for the holiday, but that gives us privacy.”

They were shown toward a small seating area near the rear windows where the light filtered in nicely. A tray had been set with coffee, tea, and porcelain cups. Daphne selected tea when it was offered.

She studied Araminta as they all got settled in. The woman’s beauty was gentler in daylight. She was still looking for signs of resemblance to herself, but they seemed to elude her.

Araminta settled into her chair, fingers brushing lightly along the rim of her cup. “I understand you have some questions about my gallery.” There it was again that same guarded openness.

Daphne inclined her head slightly, gathering her courage. “You knew Tobias back then?”

Araminta’s lips curved faintly. “Everyone knew Tobias. He was a Volthström. He went to the best parties. And he was so handsome.” The emotion beneath the nostalgia shimmered.

“You must have known him well,” she said evenly, “that he sold you this fabulous property.”

Araminta looked down into her coffee as though answers might surface there. “Well… he knew I wanted to be an artist. Running my own gallery would give me that.” There was caution in her voice. She was choosing her words carefully.

“You were not yet established,” Daphne continued, her tone gentle as she glanced at Eve for confirmation. “A building of this scale, and in Manhattan… it would have required considerable capital.”

Araminta’s fingers tightened around her cup. “Well, you’re not wrong. It was… an arrangement,” she said.

Daphne did not blink. She leaned back slightly, as though this were mere curiosity. “I know it is rude to speak so plainly,” she said, and her voice softened just enough to sound almost apologetic. “But your family did not come from money. And Tobias… he was not known for charity.”

Araminta took a drink of her coffee, but her senses were already snug with worry. Daphne just had to press further.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Daphne continued quickly, “I am only trying to understand.”

Araminta set her cup down. Her composure shifted, not broken but rearranged. It was clear that they weren’t going to drop this.

“It wasn’t a gift,” she said quietly. “Not exactly.”

Daphne felt protectiveness and reluctance before the words finished forming.

“We had… a fling,” Araminta admitted, her mouth curving in a rueful half-smile. She was lying, at least partly. “Nothing serious. I wasn’t looking to settle down in those days. I still don’t want to settle down.” The warmth of memory flickered again, but beneath it lay something that kept Daphne on the edge of her seat.

“Araminta, I came to ask you something. I have to know. For my own sake. My own past.” Daphne was tempted to lean forward and rest a hand on her shoulder to try and encourage her, but she resisted the physical touch.

“There are details I can’t discuss,” she said softly.

“You can. I just need to know, please.” she repeated softly.

“You swear this cannot leave this room.” She looked pointedly at both girls. Daphne nodded emphatically. “Alright… We had a son.”

The words struck like cold water splashed on her face. So shocking that she couldn’t even process the emotion swirling around her.

“A son,” she echoed.

Araminta nodded, eyes distant now, looking somewhere far behind the gallery walls.

“Tobias wanted to raise him away from me. He said that he could give him things I never could.”

“You have to understand. I was so young and full of dreams. I couldn’t fathom being a struggling artist with a baby, and Tobias offered him a life of privilege, education, and power. Even if…” She swallowed. “Even if he didn’t know me. And that was clearly for the best for him.”

It was a swirl of emotions flooding the room. Nostalgia, curiosity, hurt, regret, but pride also, and hope. Araminta wondered about her son. “When you said you were a Volthström, I knew it had to be about him. Please, can you tell me something. Is he happy?”

Daphne sat very still. She couldn’t process what she was hearing. Araminta had a son. Not a daughter.

There was no deception in Araminta’s grief. No flicker of hidden motherhood withheld from her. The emotion rang clear and unmistakable.

The fragile image Daphne had constructed in the quiet corners of her mind dissolved without ceremony. She had not been searching for the right woman. She had been searching for the right wound.

Daphne inclined her head once.  And somewhere, in the vast machinery of the Volthström legacy, there existed a son no one had mentioned. She had no idea who he might be. But she knew one thing, she was not Araminta’s daughter.

She glanced at Eve, utterly speechless.