“Oh.” Sarah couldn’t help but smile herself. “How perfect.”
“Long story,” Loic said. “But yes, it’s sort of perfect.”
He turned then, and Sarah moved back toward the bathroom. A bath. A hot bath.
Then sleep.
Then, Paris.
Streetlights shone into Isabelle de Florian’s old bedroom when Sarah woke that evening, sending flickering patterns onto the pale walls. She had been too tired to close the curtains before falling into one of the two perfect beds. Now she pulled her robe around her waist and padded over to the window, where she gazed down at the street outside. A few people were on the sidewalk; a scooter swung by, the noise of its buzzing engine reminding Sarah, suddenly, of other trips to Europe. Trips with Steven and, earlier, with her parents.
She forced thoughts of Steven out of her head as she had become used to doing for months, but she allowed herself to think about her parents for a moment. The fact that they had adored each other so much had been a blessing for Sarah. But she had never been able to forge such a close relationship with her own partner. She shook her head and turned back to the bedroom.
It was half past eight. Sarah moved into the dressing room and chose a simple black shift dress. Feeling fresh from her bath and her sleep, she dabbed on some perfume and applied light makeup. She would go out and find somewhere local for dinner. But now she stood at the closed doors to the bedroom that Laurent Chartier was using. She would have to knock before opening the door.
Sarah waited a few seconds, then tapped tentatively. Stood there. Nothing. Turned the handle. The room was empty, the bed made up. She couldn’t hear any noises coming from the next room. So she moved toward the following set of doors.
After she opened them, Sarah stood stock-still. Laurent Chartier was working at his easel. He hadn’t noticed her and was clearly so absorbed in his work that had Sarah danced the cancan in front of him, he probably wouldn’t have looked up. She studied him for a few seconds. He was looking at the canvas, his dark eyes intent on one spot. His hair, which was silky and dark, was splattered with a few tiny spots of paint. His eyebrows were perfect. Sarah had no idea why she was noticing that, and he wore a white T-shirt, which was surprisingly paint-free, along with a pair of faded jeans.
Sarah took a step into the room.
“Bonsoir,” he said, without looking up. “Sorry. I’m stuck,” he went on in English with the only the faintest hint of a French accent—he sounded like Loic. Was there something in the water in Provence? “I’m being rude.” He frowned at his canvas.
“Bonsoir,” Sarah said. She knew that it was always a good idea to say something in French when you were visiting Paris. Even a simple greeting was a fine start.
Laurent ran a hand over his chin. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes!” Sarah almost laughed. “I was out of it for hours.”
“Good. You’ll want dinner.”
“I do.” Sarah moved toward his canvas. “Oh.” The word came out involuntarily.
The painting had changed so much since the morning that Sarah had to do a double take. Somehow, he had captured even more of the sitter’s personality. She looked even more thoughtful, but also more confident. More alive. And there was something in her expression that was whimsical now. Just a hint.
“This is exactly what Boldini did,” Sarah said, taking another step closer. “You’ve captured it. Power and sensuality and poignancy all at the same time. And yet, she’s a modern interpretation of Boldini’s work. She’s of our time, I can see that.”
Laurent turned to her for a moment. He looked as if he were about to say something and then stopped, turned back to the painting, and folded his arms.
Sarah stood next to him. “What’s the problem?”
“Her pose. Boldini emphasized the décolletage. But there’s something about this model—”
“What’s wrong?” She looked perfect.
“The décolletage thing isn’t going to work with her.”
Sarah felt her lips twitching into a smile. “So, don’t paint her like that.”
“But I have to be true to Boldini. Who threw light on his subjects’ décolletage whenever he could.”
“Not all of his portraits are . . . thrusty.”
Laurent turned to her. His eyes twinkled. “Thrusty?”
Sarah felt a blush rise in her cheeks, but she went on. She was so struck by his work. “Think about his portrait of Adelaide Ristori, or The Red Curtain. To me, they are two of Boldini’s most interesting works. No décolletage. I’d like to have known either of those women. He made them both look fascinating.”