What Julia Found

Chapter One

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. They scudded gently across the canvas, their movement easy to miss among the hustle and bustle of the wagon train below. In the painting’s foreground, one of the cattle lifted its head with a little shake, as if relieved to be released from grazing, while its companion turned away from the sun, blinking sleepily. Dust flew up from beneath the horse hooves and wagon wheels, and when Julia stood close enough to the frame, she could hear the faint commotion of the men on horses, driving the train into the ever setting sun.

Across the room, the little girl placidly turned pages in her picture book, as she did every night, sometimes turning to her doll to comment on something she saw there, or perhaps to be sure the doll was attending. Once, Julia thought she had caught a glimmer of recognition in the girl’s eye. For just the barest of moments the child had flicked her gaze up and out, instead of directing it at the doll. Alarm jolted through Julia, although the girl remained a literal picture of childish innocence and never did it again. Still, Julia wondered, did she know?

But it was the painting above the fireplace that was most fascinating to Julia simply because it didn’t move. Julia began her vigil in front of this painting every night, but she’d never seen the slightest flicker of life disturb the serene features of the woman in the painting. It was a self-portrait of Madame Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, a French portrait artist whose career had spanned the late 18th to the mid 19th century. It was a reproduction, like the rest of the paintings, although a very good one. Geraldine- Aunt Gerry- did exceptional work.

As Julia studied the painting night after night, she recognized something familial about it. At first she was sure she was imagining it, but then became convinced it was there. It was difficult to define. Was it the look of breezy confidence? The unkempt frizzy curls? The way the artist seemed to know she was being watched by both the world and the ghostly face taking shape on the canvas beneath her competent hand? Whatever it was, there was an echo of Gerry somewhere in there, although Julia knew she would sound delusional if she ever voiced the idea aloud.

Great Aunt Gerry. When Julia had been the sole inheritor of Gerry’s cantankerous old house and all her earthly possessions, she wasn’t sure what to do with them. She thought of hiring one of those estate management companies to organize a sale, but when she started going through the house herself, she found she couldn’t bear the idea. She suspected Gerry knew this all along. Knew that Julia had a penchant for hanging on to things, for imbuing objects with a bit too much personality and feeling, and that was precisely why she had chosen to make Julia her heir.

Julia had taken a leave from her real life to sort out her aunt’s affairs and belongings. She had been living in the house for well over a week when she first discovered the paintings. Discovered wasn’t quite right. These paintings had been hanging in Aunt Gerry’s cluttered study since Julia’s childhood. She and her sister, Francesca, used to play hide and seek all over the house, and tucking themselves under the study’s solid wooden desk had always been a favored strategy. Many times, Julia had studied those cows on the Oregon Trail, and wondered about the little girl and her book, and Madame Le Brun and her unfinished portrait. It wasn’t until she was in the study late one night that she happened to look up and catch one of the cows blinking at her.

She had been sorting through the voluminous stacks of paper Gerry kept everywhere, much of it nonsensical to anyone who wasn’t Gerry. Although Gerry had always claimed she was a legitimate reproductionist, the family had suspected otherwise. During Julia’s childhood, terms like forgery, forger, and fortune, had been occasionally and quietly bandied about when adults thought the children were not listening.

In many ways, Gerry had played the role of brilliant artist to a tee- forgetful, eccentric, occasionally temperamental, a collector of bits, bobs, and unfinished projects. The older Julia got, however, the more she suspected it was exactly that: a role. Intentionally unanswered questions, stories without context, slippery timelines- could it all really be explained by being a scatterbrained old woman, as Gerry claimed? Julia thought not. There was something sharp and calculating about Gerry. The whiff of mystery. The hint of glamour. In the attic, Julia had unearthed a treasure trove of vintage clothing. Slinky black cocktail dresses from the 1960s, gowns, heels- the kind of outfits you’d wear with pearls or diamond earrings. In her mind’s eye, Julia conjured images of the Aunt Gerry she’d grown up with. Her hair tied back as an afterthought, her oversized buttoned shirts that doubled as smocks, comfortable linen pants, always wrinkled. Who then, was the woman who wore the dresses that would have made Audrey Hepburn envious?

Julia had been pondering all of these things that night in the study as she tried to make sense of yet another nonsensical ledger, filled with initials and numbers, or perhaps some kind of code. It had just gone midnight when she smelled, more than felt, an odd draft, full of dust and sunlight. Startled, she looked up, and that was when she saw it. The shake of a cow’s head, and a pair of small but luminous oil-paint eyes staring out at her.

She now knew that same cow shook her head every night just after midnight, and lazily stared over her shoulder and out into the room. That first night, though, Julia should have been in a panic. She should have screamed and called for help and questioned her sanity. She should have picked up the phone and called her boyfriend or her sister or her mother, breathlessly begging them to come because something was terribly, terribly wrong. But she didn’t.

She was never able to explain it. Maybe it was some oddity in herself, or perhaps whatever was at work had her in its grip, but she was not panicked. Whatever alarm she felt at first quickly gave way to an overwhelming sense of curiosity. Before long, she realized that all of the paintings in the study “came alive” after midnight. Even the little miniature still lifes lining the mantlepiece dropped flower petals or hummed with the flicker of butterflies and insects. All of it was presided over by Madame Le Brun who, night after night, remained composed and unimpressed.

Since that first night, Julia had made a study of the paintings, nearly every other object in the room, and the room itself. She found some of Gerry’s half-filled notebooks and borrowed pages from them to record her observations, questions, and musings. Cows move same way every night. Sounds like someone says “whoa there.” Can the little girl see me? Would moving the paintings from the study affect them? I have been afraid to touch them after midnight, but during the day they appear completely normal. Photographs, knick knacks, and pictures in books all unaffected. The Memoirs of Madame Le Brun on bookshelf- related??

In the cold light of day, these appeared to be somewhere between a work of fiction and madness. It didn’t take Julia long to decide to read them only after the sun had set. She soon settled into a routine, where she woke late in the morning, and went about the business of “settling affairs” during the day. At night the real work began, and every night she started and ended with Madame Le Brun. A few times, she had tried devoting the entire night to keeping watch over that painting alone, just in case she was missing something, but she was never successful. Each time she woke well after dawn, the paintings two dimensional and dull, despite Gerry’s exquisite craftsmanship.

She told anyone who checked in on her that everything was fine, just fine, that she was making good progress, and shared amusing anecdotes about Gerry. She became masterful at redirection, taking a page directly from Gerry’s book, whenever she felt that the conversation was going in the wrong direction.

This had worked well with everyone except Francesca.

“Julia, really , you’ve been cooped up there for almost a month now. Nick said you canceled your trip home last weekend. What is going on?”

“Oh Frankie,” Julia had said, “You know how much stuff Auntie Gerry had. She kept collecting stuff after we grew up, too. There’s tons neither of us have even seen.”

There was a short pause on the other end of the line. “I know you, Julia. You’re slow and you’re sentimental, but not this slow. No,” she said when Julia tried to interrupt her. “Don’t try to distract me with some story about Aunt Gerry or our childhood. I won’t be put off. I’m coming up.”

Julia knew from experience that her sister, once she had an idea in her head, was difficult to dissuade. She needed to strike the right tone- casual, clear, no trace of panic. “Frankie, it’s really not necessary. I have a system in place and, honestly, it will just slow me down to have to try and explain and delegate. You know how it is.”

“Oh,” said Francesca. “I know.”

That was on a Wednesday. Friday night, just after nine, the doorbell rang and Julia knew. Frankie.

Chapter Two

To be continued…