Two weeks later
There’s something enchanting yet downright depressing about the idea of spending the holidays in Paris. The city is so charming, as is this little town with all of its eight-or-so-thousand residents, that I can easily picture cozy nights indoors as well as festive dinners with friends. Only I don’t have many friends. To be more precise, I have one. Ms. Etienne doesn’t count, as she only speaks to me when she wants my help with something in her garden.
On the other side of that cheerfully imagined holiday coin is the one that shows me all alone in a foreign land, unable to hug my father, share a drink with an old friend or hold the hand of the man I love. I feel as though nearly every step of every day is some strange mixture of moving forward, yet not moving forward at all. I can’t seem to let go of my old life, of my old hopes and dreams.
It’s too soon, I reason, which is true. It’s only been three months since I left. It’s insane to expect to be fully healed by now.
But maybe just a little bit healed . . .
I shake off the thought. It does bother me that I don’t seem to be doing any better. There are times when I think I am, but then I quickly realize that I’m not. Those short bursts of well-being are more like comets. They streak brightly, promisingly across the midnight sky of my life, giving me a few fleeting seconds of light and hope, only to disappear over the horizon. Sometimes they leave me in an even darker place than I was before.
I look up from my blank sketchpad when I hear a knock at the door. I don’t have to wonder who it is. Since Ms. Etienne’s garden is dead for the winter, it can only be Gerard. He’s still the only friend I’ve made.
He’s smiling broadly when I swing open the door. He bows cordially and hands me a small, white envelope. “I would like to invite you to a very special dinner tonight, Elizabeth,” he says, pronouncing my name like Eee-lees-a-beth.
“Well, if this is any indication of what I can expect, I know I won’t have anything appropriate to wear,” I say, giving myself an immediate out.
His smile gets bigger. “Not to worry, ma chère. I have taken care of that for you.”
I’m not as apprehensive as I would normally be when Gerard hands me a long box that he was hiding behind his back, likely because he typically has excellent taste.
“Gerard, you shouldn’t have. I really can’t—”
“Ah ah ah,” he clucks. “I wanted to. And you really can.”
I gnaw my lip for a second as I think. I’m sure it’s an extravagant gift, which would normally make me feel bad. But Gerard has money. Lots of it. Evidently he has several investments, including a lucrative development somewhere in Paris. There’s probably no reason for me to feel guilty. He’s my friend and I think he just likes doing nice things for people. So I decide right now to just enjoy it.
I take the box anxiously. I’m curious about the whole thing—the special dinner, the dress, the formality. He follows me in and closes the door before we go into the living room.
I set the box on the aged coffee table and release the big, beautiful blue ribbon before taking off the lid. Lying beneath a wisp of tissue paper is a beaded bodice in emerald green. I slip my fingers under the spaghetti straps and lift it out from its nest. Luxurious velvet in the matching jewel tone makes up the lower half of the floor-length gown. All I can do is stare at it for several long seconds before I look over the top of it to Gerard, who is smiling at me with twinkling gray eyes.
“You will look tres magnifique when you meet the gallery owners.”
My mouth drops open. “G-gallery owners?”
“Yes. Gallery owners. Husband and wife. I own the buildings where they opened their first two galleries in Paris and Rome. I’ve known them for quite some time and I know they like to deal directly, as I know many executives do. Julienne saw your canvas on my office wall and would not rest until I agreed to bring the artist to meet her. So here I am, making matches.”
Now I understand the twinkling eyes and grin that won’t stop.
For the first time in months, I’m filled with excitement and anticipation. To have the work that I pour my heart and soul into appreciated by art lovers has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. And the timing couldn’t be better. I have pinched pennies to stretch the money Jasper gave me as far as I could, but I have been wondering lately where on earth I could get a job when I can’t speak the language fluently yet. But this . . . this could be a godsend!
“Nothing to say from those beautiful lips?”
I blush, not because of the beautiful lips comment, but because I’m sure I’m being rude by diving into my own head rather than thanking Gerard.