To Have and to Hate

by R.S. Grey

  I find it slightly aggravating that Walt gives me the space I requested. There isn’t a peep from him, no calls or texts as I prepare for my trip to Paris.

  I pack my suitcase and work out a deal with a front desk worker at my hotel. He’s going to let me store my suitcase filled with art supplies in one of the hotel’s storage closets for the week I’m gone in exchange for $50. I’m hoping he doesn’t realize the supplies inside the suitcase are worth way more than that, though I’m not sure there’s a huge black market for mostly used pastel crayons.

  Nadiya and I are in constant contact as I prepare to leave. Stein is putting me up in a hotel near the gallery as well as taking care of my flight. I’m in a first-class seat on the way over, which feels indulgent and wonderful. I actually manage to sleep some, after I tell myself to stop scrolling through Twitter, searching for more information about Walt’s time in California.

  I tell myself I’m going to stop thinking about him the second I touch down in Paris. I make it my personal mission, even, and I almost succeed. When Nadiya picks me up at the airport, she whisks me up into a frenzy of activities. Sunday and Monday, we’re at Stein Gallery, focusing on the order of my pieces and confirming we like the general flow of the collection. Tuesday, I meet with press at the hotel, flitting from one interview to the next so that by the end of the day, my voice feels hoarse. Wednesday morning, Nadiya has a professional photographer meet me in my hotel room so she can take some headshots of me. The PR team at Stein will send the best shot to the French press and use it in the show.

  “Are you exhausted?” Nadiya asks me Thursday night as we sit at a restaurant, waiting on our food.

  We’re not alone. Our table of eight includes a few other people from Stein who are helping to coordinate my show. I should be trying to make good impressions, but truthfully, I could fall asleep on the table at any moment.

  I cringe. “Does it look like I am?”

  “Only slightly.”

  I laugh.

  “Tomorrow, you have a light day. We’ll need to meet at the gallery in the morning to ensure everything is ready to go, but then you have the afternoon off. Take it easy. Explore the city. Or hell, take a nap.”

  I take her up on her advice, ignoring the lure of the large museums like the Louvre and the d’Orsay in favor of visiting Fondation Cartier, a museum founded by the luxury watch brand that houses modern art.

  It features a large contemporary garden overflowing with greenery. Just like in New York, spring has arrived in Paris. With a light jacket, I’m able to sit out on the cascading shallow steps, appreciating the juxtaposition between the lush garden and the industrial façade of the museum. It’s the first substantial amount of time I’ve really had on my own since I arrived here, and I’m not surprised to be greeted by the call of loneliness. I have my sketchbook with me, so I tug it out of my bag, realizing as I flip to the last page that I haven’t drawn anything in it since I sketched Walt back in his apartment. I stare down at the drawing of him, and it’s like my longing is physical, manifesting itself as an ache in my chest I can’t seem to ease even after I close my sketchbook.

  I give up the idea of drawing and, instead, people watch in the garden. It’s quiet in the early afternoon. A family takes up a spot beside me, their two toddlers running amuck. One of them, a little girl with short blonde hair and a floral dress, flees from her sister, giggling wildly before she runs straight into me. I reach out, careful not to let her fall down the steps.

  “Pardon!” her mother says, hurrying over to collect her child.

  “No. No, it’s fine,” I say, smiling to let her know I’m not the least bit bothered.

  She takes my word for it and sits back down. I let go of the toddler once I know she’s steady on her feet.

  The little girl points to my sketchbook and says something in French.

  “Dessine une image.”

  I frown, not understanding.

  She points harder, saying again, “Image. Image.”

  Taking the hint, I flip open the sketchbook to show her my drawings, and her big brown eyes widen. Without asking, she starts to flip through the pages. I glance up to see her mom watching us, shooting me an appreciative smile.

  “Do you want me to draw you?” I ask.

  The little girl looks confused, so I turn to a blank page and wave my pencil. She immediately gets the hint. “Dessine! Dessine!”

  I try to draw her, though she doesn’t make it easy. Instead of posing, she dances around the garden in front of me, putting on a show. I sketch quickly, my pencil flying around the page, capturing the whirl of her movements, the poof of her skirt as she spins around with glee.

  For posterity’s sake, I sign the bottom and rip the page out of the sketchbook to hand over to the girl. She dashes to show it to her mother and the woman looks over at me, speaking in patchy English.

  “Perhaps…vous serez…famous artist one day,” she says with a smile.

  I return her smile, hoping she’s right.

  I can barely sleep the night before my show. I lie in bed, going over my schedule and trying to suss out any last-minute details I might have forgotten. My dress is already hanging up on the back of the bathroom door. I decided to go with the same cheetah print dress I wore when I married Walt. I considered going out and buying something new for the show, but I didn’t want to give anyone a false impression of who I really am, not to mention I’d rather not spend what little money I have on some tacky blazer and slacks. Besides, I like that dress, and I especially like it paired with my Doc Martens.

  I slip into it the next day as I’m getting ready, and I start layering my jewelry on top of it. I’m careful with my grandmother’s watch and my tiny locket. I hate that I notice how bare my left ring finger feels now.

  I’ve stuck to my guns in Paris, largely staying off social media and Google to keep from driving myself crazy with updates about Walt. I’ve almost texted him quite a few times. It’s hard not to think of him in a city so famously known for its art. I see something around every corner that he would love, a painting or sculpture I know he’d want to see.

  I wish he were here with me.

  I wish he were by my side tonight, but I’m proud of myself for doing this on my own.

  I stare at myself in my hotel mirror and shake out my hands.

  “This is it,” I say to my reflection.

  This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make a name for myself as an emerging young artist. Don’t fuck it up. I laugh to myself and shake my head, grabbing my purse and phone before heading down to the hotel lobby. Nadiya’s already waiting for me, joined by Agnès, the head of PR for Stein’s Paris gallery. They both applaud my outfit.

  “It’s perfect. Very American,” Agnès says with a grin.

  I have no idea what she means by that, but I take it as a compliment.

  We hop into a car outside the hotel and book it to the gallery. The setting sun bathes the stone façades of Paris’ Haussmann buildings in golden light. Along the Seine, we pass vendors set up at their stalls. Tourists mill around them, exchanging euros for little trinkets and souvenirs. A motorcycle whirls in front of us, drawing my attention away from the river as we slow to a stop in front of the gallery.

  Stein’s Paris location is housed in an old building facing the Seine. It has antique double doors painted a dark green and windows dressed with ornate wrought iron rails. There are already people here for the show, a few journalists with cameras hanging around their necks gathered out front. A team of caterers finish setting up an outdoor bar.

  Every time I arrived at the gallery this week to help with setup and final layout decisions, it felt just as surreal as the time before. Even now, I want to pinch myself. Why am I here? How could I possibly be worthy of a show like this?

  Coffee shop art.

  Right.

  I guess we’ll see what happens.

  “Out we go. Don’t forget to smile,” Agnès tells me before she opens the back door of the car. />
  I’m the last one to step out onto the sidewalk, and I feel all eyes on me as I head toward the entrance of the gallery. I’m not even in heels and still, I’m worried I’ll trip and fall.

  “Elizabeth. Can we have a word?” a journalist asks, stopping me before I can walk inside. I look to Agnès, and she nods in confirmation.

  Immediately, I’m swarmed by a small group of them, asking me questions, throwing me softballs. They want to know how I’m feeling tonight, what this collection means to me. I have no idea how I answer. Words just spill out of me, and as I walk away a few minutes later, I try to recall what on earth I could have said. Did I even string together complete sentences? Agnès assures me I did fine.

  “Did I seem nervous?”

  “Only a bit,” she says with a wink.

  Right.

  I take a deep breath and walk into the gallery, frozen in disbelief as I take in my completed collection for the very first time. My canvases hang in a straight line along the white plaster walls, encased in ornate custom frames. Antique brass gallery lights illuminate each one, highlighting the details of the layered pastels and paint. My work has come to life.

  Tears well up in the corners of my eyes. Nadiya grabs my hand and squeezes. Someone snaps a photo, and I’m made aware that I’m still being watched. In fact, I’ll have eyes on me this whole evening.

  “Doors officially open in ten minutes,” Agnès tells us. “Work the room once people start to arrive. Don’t hide in a corner.”

  I look to Nadiya, and she smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ll be by your side.”

  True to her word, she doesn’t leave me once the doors open to the public. I glance at the entrance, expectant, but there’s not exactly a mad dash of people trying to get in. Most of the reporters have left now that they got what they needed. A couple wanders in, looks around curiously as if they aren’t sure what exactly is going on, and then leaves quickly. Nadiya gives me a reassuring glance.

  Slowly, people trickle in, and then over the course of half an hour, half a dozen attendees turns into a dozen, and so on, until there’s enough of a crowd that I’m not left alone for long.

  The language barrier isn’t so tough. Nadiya speaks French, so she helps translate. A good number of attendees speak patchy English, which makes it all the easier to talk about my art.

  The first time I see a discrete black “sold” sign placed beside one of my canvases, I feel like my body is vibrating. It’s a complete adrenaline rush. The piece was for sale for $1,400. After the gallery and Nadiya take their cut, I’ll still be left with a nice chunk of money. I wish I could say that didn’t matter, that I create art for my soul and nothing else, but the truth is, if I want art to be my job and not just my hobby, I need to make money.

  I think Nadiya was right about the price points and sizing for my work. Once the first piece sells, there’s a domino effect, as if now that my art has been deemed “worthy”, people aren’t hesitating to scoop up pieces. Down the line, “sold” signs are placed beside canvases. Buyers ask me to pose for photos in front of my work. I smile, though I feel slightly numb. I doubt I’ll be able to truly comprehend all of this until I’m back at my hotel room later, alone.

  “Could you please sign my program?” a woman asks with an American accent, holding out the small white booklet that details each piece in the collection.

  I nod. “Of course. Yes.”

  I pat my dress, as if looking for phantom pockets, then grimace. “I don’t have a pen.”

  “Oh, hold on, let me look,” she says, starting to dig in her purse.

  I turn to Nadiya to ask her if she has one, and when I do, my gaze catches on the entrance of the gallery, or more precisely, the man standing there.

  It’s hard to comprehend what I’m seeing in those first few seconds as Walt comes into view, bracketed by the doorway, backlit by the gentle light of the street. The Seine flows behind him and he stands absolutely still, taking me in.

  In his left hand, he’s clutching a bouquet of flowers wrapped up in brown paper. His expression is inscrutable. His dark brows are tugged together, his mouth slightly curved down in a frown. For a second, I think he might be upset. Then I realize, as he tightens his fist around the flowers…he’s nervous.

  He looks so much like he did that first day outside the courthouse. He’s wearing a navy suit with no tie. His watch peeps out past the cuff of his jacket. His hair is perfectly coifed, not a strand out of place. He lifts his right hand and waves, and it’s the most earnest expression of hope I’ve ever seen.

  What he’s done hits me all at once.

  Flying to Paris, coming to my show, being here for me despite everything we’ve been through. Tears well up in the corners of my eyes at the precise moment the woman taps me on the arm.

  “Found one!” she says, waving the pen in front of me once I turn back to face her.

  She catches my expression and frowns, likely misreading my mood.

  I sign her program quickly, pose for a photo, and then attempt to extricate myself from the interaction, but then she asks a question about my art. I don’t even catch it. My ears are filled with the sound of my heart pounding heavy and fast.

  Nadiya notices Walt, smiles, and then jumps into action.

  “I would love to walk you through a few of her pieces,” she says to the woman. “I’m Nadiya, Elizabeth’s representative at Stein. Did you already tell me your name?”

  She ushers the woman away with smooth grace, and I turn back to watch Walt cut through the room to get to me. I start toward him too, meeting him halfway. He overwhelms my senses all at once. I catch his telltale scent and my chest constricts with longing. We don’t touch. We stay a foot apart as I pin my gaze on his chest, specifically on a button of his crisp white shirt, and wait for him to speak.

  A second passes, and I glance up at him.

  His brown eyes take me in with such unabashed longing it makes my cheeks burn.

  “Congratulations,” he says, holding up the flowers for me to take.

  I accept them, cradling them in my arms carefully. They’re beautiful, a spray of vibrant colors, but they eclipse his scent, so I let them fall down by my side, out of my way.

  “You came to Paris,” I say, sounding dumbfounded as I look back up at him.

  He nods. “I arrived a few hours ago.”

  “Oh. I bet you’re tired.”

  He doesn’t break eye contact with me as he shakes his head. “No.”

  “You came to Paris,” I repeat.

  The corner of his mouth lifts in a tentative smile. “For your show.”

  I nod, suddenly so overwhelmed that I can’t form words. I look back down at the flowers and a tear spills down my cheek. He reaches out to cradle my face so he can wipe it away. He looks absolutely crushed when our eyes meet again.

  “Please don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it,” I whisper.

  I’ve never had someone do something so selfless for me. For him to drop everything and fly here…to surprise me like this…

  I step forward on a burst of courage and wrap my arms around his middle, squeezing him as I let my head fall against his chest. I bury myself in his scent, and it’s as comforting as falling into bed after a hard day.

  “Congratulations on your collection,” he says, dropping a kiss to my hair. “I’m so proud of you. Look at this. There’s not a single piece left for sale.”

  I smile and step back, waving my hand across the wall. “Come, come. Look at everything.”

  I slip my hand into his, and he squeezes it tight as I lead him through the show from start to finish, confirming what he’s just told me. There’s a “sold” sign alongside every piece of my work. He takes in my art with thoughtful attention, as if he’s standing in front of works as impactful as the Mona Lisa. He tells me which piece is his favorite, one with heavy blue and gray pigments, layered thick and textured off the canvas.

  “I would have bought it if someone hadn’t beat me to it.”


  I hide my smile and lead him along. Once we reach the end, I can’t squash the sense of pride filling me from top to bottom. To walk alongside him, to show him my work in this way is a dream accomplished. Every artist wants to be where I’m standing, and I try to let that really sink in, to imprint this moment on my memory forever.

  “You’re a sensation,” he says once we’ve reached the end.

  I don’t even refute it. I don’t want to downplay this accomplishment.

  “Do you need to head back to Nadiya? Get back to photos and all that?”

  By saying her name, it’s like he just conjured her up out of thin air. She swoops in beside us, beaming up at Walt.

  “I’m so happy you were able to make it,” she says, no hint of surprise evident on her face.

  I look to Walt, and he confirms my suspicions when he tilts his head in her direction and says, “Nadiya helped me pull off the surprise. I reached out to her once I knew you were having a show.”

  I look to her, and she’s grinning proudly. “You didn’t say a thing!”

  “Yes, well, I’m good at keeping secrets. Now if you’d like to stay, you can, but your pieces have all sold and the event is winding down. I happen to think it’s better if you don’t stay too much longer. Leave the people wanting more,” she says with a wink.

  I nod, and she reaches out to squeeze my arm. “Congratulations. I knew you’d do well, but this is better than we anticipated. You should be really proud.”

  I am proud. I barely feel like the night is real as Walt walks with me to gather my purse. We leave the gallery and spill out into the Paris night. The Seine glitters with reflected light from neighboring buildings. The Eiffel Tower stands not too far away, glowing golden, its spotlight swirling over the skyline. A car zooms past down the street as we step out onto the sidewalk, followed by the ting-ting of a man’s bicycle bell as he curves around a group of girls laughing as they walk in a tight cluster. I glance over at Walt to find he’s focused on me, not Paris.