Free The Expected One by Kathleen McGowan

state.
    The last thing she expected or needed was a surprise, but that’s exactly what was waiting for her as she entered the lobby.
    “Miss Paschal, good evening. Excuse me.” Laurence was the front-desk manager for the building. A diminutive and exacting man, he fussed as he came out from behind his desk to address Maureen. “Forgive me, I had to enter your unit this afternoon. The delivery was too large to keep here in the lobby. You should let us know in advance when you are expecting something of that size.”
    “Delivery? What delivery? I wasn’t expecting anything.”
    “Well, it is unmistakably for you. You must have quite an admirer.”
    Puzzled, Maureen thanked Laurence and took the elevator to the eleventh floor. As the elevator door opened, she was hit with the heady scent of flowers. The perfume increased tenfold as she opened the door to her condo and gasped. She could not see her living room through the flowers. Elaborate floral arrangements were everywhere, some tall and on pillars, others in crystal vases placed on tables. They all held a variation of the same theme — rich red roses, calla lilies, and lush, white Casablanca lilies. The lilies, in full flower, were the source of the intoxicating scent in the room.
    Maureen didn’t have to look for a card. It was present, against the far wall of her living room, in an enormous gilt-framed painting that depicted a classical, pastoral scene. Three shepherds, toga-clad and laurel-crowned, were gathered around a large stone object that appeared to be a freestanding tomb. They were pointing to an inscription. The focal point of the painting was a woman, a red-haired shepherdess who appeared to be their leader.
    Her face had been painted to bear an uncanny resemblance to Maureen’s.

    Les Bergers d’Arcadie.
Peter read the inscription on a brass plaque at the base of the frame, impressed with the excellent copy that stood in Maureen’s living room. “By Nicolas Poussin, the French Baroque master. I’ve seen the original of this painting; it’s in the Louvre.”
    Maureen listened as Peter continued, relieved that he had come over so quickly. “The English translation of the title is
The Shepherds of Arcadia.
”
    “I’m not sure if I should be wildly flattered or completely creeped out. Please tell me that in the original, the shepherdess doesn’t look like I modeled for her.”
    Peter laughed a little. “No, no. That appears to be an addition made by the reproduction artist, or the sender. Who is…?”
    Maureen shook her head and handed a large envelope to Peter. “It was sent by someone named…Sinclair, something. No idea who he is.”
    “A fan? A fanatic? A nutcase crawling from the woodwork after reading your book?”
    Maureen laughed a little nervously. “Could be. My publisher has forwarded some pretty weird letters to me in the last few months.”
    “Fan mail or hate mail?”
    “Both.”
    Peter removed a letter from a large envelope. It was written in an elaborate hand on elegant vellum stationery. A prominent, engraved fleur-de-lis, the symbol of European royalty for centuries, adorned the parchment. Gilded letters at the bottom of the page announced the author as Bérenger Sinclair. Peter unfolded his reading glasses and read aloud:
    My Dear Ms. Paschal:
Please forgive the intrusion.
But I believe I have the answers you have been looking for — and you have some that I have been looking for. If you have the courage to stand behind your beliefs and to take part in an amazing expedition to uncover the truth, I hope you will join me in Paris on the summer solstice. The Magdalene herself requests your presence. Do not disappoint her. Perhaps this painting will serve to stimulate your subconscious. Think of it as a map of sorts — a map to your future and perhaps to your past. I am confident that you will do honor to the great Paschal name, as your father tried to.
Yours most sincerely,

Bérenger Sinclair
    “The great Paschal name?