Butterfly of Venus

by Susan F. MacKay

  She found Declan in the lobby, checking his email. He flashed her a big smile.

  “Well, Ms. Harding, being in France seems to suit you. I could swear you were French.”

  It was almost as if he knew what she’d been thinking. It was a good thing he didn’t know what she’d been thinking last night. That would be too much. She smiled at him and said, “Let’s go.”

  François Renard had a small atelier near the hotel. Elizabeth had met him in Toronto, where he was apprenticing with an Italian master tailor. They struck up a friendship in a local coffee shop and, discovering they were both trying to establish businesses, met frequently to compare plans for the future. François was determined to return to his native Paris and make a splash on the highly competitive fashion scene. His break came when a friend asked him to design clothing for a low-budget film. The film received favourable reviews and François’s costumes got noticed. He returned to France and worked for Lagerfeld before launching his own line. Vogue and GQ came calling. Now the name Renard, French for “fox,” was synonymous with leading-edge style.

  “Ah, Elizabeth, cherie.” François kissed her three times. He was dressed from head to toe in khaki fatigues set off by knee-high patent leather boots. He exhaled smoke from a long cigarette holder. His accent was a lot thicker than she remembered.

  “Come een. Come een. Welcome to my ’umble empire.”

  “Good to see you again, François. This is Declan Thomas.”

  François looked Declan up and down, appraising him. “We can make zis work. I sink yessss. Good. He has ze body I like.”

  Declan looked slightly discomfited as François tweaked him on the cheek.

  “No, no, no. You must trust François.” He turned to Elizabeth. “He eez a star, non?”

  “That’s the hope, François.”

  “I am not sure what look you are going for, so I ’ave set aside some clothings that should suit zees young man very well.” François spun Declan around and looked at his back. “Good, yes. Nice heeps.” He pulled Declan towards a changing room. “Come, come. For ze next few hours you are ze model.”

  Elizabeth accepted coffee from a young assistant and took a seat. She watched in amusement as Declan appeared in a wide variety of clothing. He was clearly enjoying himself as he mugged for her. Some of the outfits were plainly ridiculous, suited for only the most attention-seeking person with bizarre taste. Others looked amazing. Elizabeth gave a thumbs up or thumbs down. Declan refused some clothes she liked and insisted on others she wasn’t keen on. Between the three of them, a collection was selected. Elizabeth produced her company credit card. François gave her a significant discount.

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to shop for an evening dress. The annual ATM black and white ball was coming up and she wanted something new. She suggested that Declan might like to meet her back at the hotel, but he insisted on accompanying her. She tried on a variety of dresses until Declan gave her the thumbs up on a black and cream form-fitting number. It was outrageously expensive, but the look of frank admiration on Declan’s face when she twirled in front of him made the dress worth every extravagant euro.

  After they left their shopping bags with the hotel concierge, the next stop was a swanky hair salon. Declan shook his head in protest, but Elizabeth dragged him inside. Joking, she indicated that she wanted him to be given a buzz cut. Declan looked horrified. After consulting with a stylist, they agreed on a look. Declan’s beard, which was getting scruffy, was trimmed back to a sexy shadow. His hair, cut and styled, acquired a look of deliberate dishevelment. When he was done, Elizabeth could only think of one word: “Wow.”

  She complimented him. “You scrub up real well. A lot better than when you first came to the office.”

  “Yeah. I know I was a jerk. I wanted to look like I didn’t give a shit. The truth is, I was nervous.”

  “You covered it extremely well. You appeared cooler than cool.”

  “I didn’t want you to think I was desperate.”

  “Desperate? You walked out.”

  “Sometimes, when you’re so close to something you’ve dreamed of, the reality can be scary. Besides,” he grinned, “ I got you to go down, remember?”

  Elizabeth was tempted to say, “Not yet, you haven’t.” Instead, she said, “Well, I’m glad it all worked out. I’ve got your signature on a contract.”

  “And I’m in Paris with a beautiful woman.”

  * * *

  Despite it being early in the season, the Rodin Museum on rue de Varenne was fairly busy. Declan was a keen observer. In the garden, he stopped to contemplate one of Rodin’s most famous sculptures, The Thinker, a bronze nude of a seated man deep in thought.

  “Wonder what he’s thinking about.”

  “How to pay the rent?” joked Elizabeth.

  “Or love? Or the meaning of life?”

  “I’ve never understood what that means, the meaning of life,” said Elizabeth. “What if life doesn’t have any meaning, other than solving one problem after another?”

  “Then Rodin might have called it The Worrier.”

  Declan studied the magnificent work for several minutes before sitting on a bench, assuming the same position. He closed his eyes. Elizabeth seized the chance to stare. Declan’s forehead, nose and jaw were strong, almost noble. His mouth was a perfect shape, not too big or too thin. She felt like running her fingers over it. What would he be like to kiss? She remembered her fantasy of last night and what Declan’s mouth had said to her, done to her. As a deep flush of shame and pleasure filled her body, Declan opened his eyes and looked directly at her. Could he tell what she was thinking? She felt as if a ray of sun had appeared from behind a cloud and she was caught in its light.

  Declan said, “I think he was thinking about his soul.”

  “His soul?” asked Elizabeth, yanked back from her reverie. She was surprised. “Are you religious?”

  “I don’t think the soul has anything to do with religion. It has everything to do with love.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “No” said Declan firmly. “Too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? How?”

  Ignoring Elizabeth’s question, Declan ushered her into the museum, formerly a hotel where Rodin lived. The entranceway boasted a grand marble staircase, its steps showing the wear of Rodin’s feet, as well as those of hotel guests of long ago. Declan led Elizabeth upstairs to a small, airy room with high ceilings and an original chandelier. The room was filled with bronze statues and oil paintings. Declan scanned them quickly, then found what he was looking for.

  “Here. Look.”

  Elizabeth saw the bronze figure of an old man being protected by an old woman. Behind them, pleading on her knees, arms stretched out in longing, was the figure of a young woman. All three threatened to be engulfed by a bronze tidal wave. The detail on the work was exquisite. Elizabeth felt moved by the anguish on the young woman’s face.

  “Who is she?”

  “Camille Claudel, Rodin’s student, lover and muse. The older couple is Rodin and his wife.”

  “So Rodin did this? He understood how Camille felt?”

  “No, this is Camille’s work. She was as good as Rodin, but he overshadowed her.”

  “What happened?”

  “She ended up in an asylum. Rodin wouldn’t leave his wife, even though he kept promising to.”

  Elizabeth felt sympathy for the talented young woman, relegated to a sidebar of art history. “So love drove her mad?”

  “Yes.”

  As Elizabeth drank in the painful emotion expressed so beautifully by Camille, Declan touched the nape of her neck. A charge ran down her spine. He whispered in her ear, “That’s why love is dangerous. It can drive you mad.”

  Elizabeth shivered all the way down to the soles of her feet. Her hair follicles stood on end. Her
physical reaction to his touch was astounding. Even though she wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor, she decided to lighten things up. “So, mister tour guide, how come you’re such an expert?”

  Declan shrugged. “My second major was art history. Plus,” he grinned at her, “the hotel has wi-fi.”

  She gave him a playful push. “You looked it up this morning.”

  Declan laughed. They followed a smattering of visitors into another high-ceilinged room, this one entirely occupied by the works of Rodin.

  My God, thought Elizabeth, when he wasn’t placating his wife and Camille, the man must have spent every second creating. She thought of her own life, of all the time spent in boardrooms, on the phone making deals, juggling egos. What would she leave behind for history? Certainly not a work of art.

  At this point, a tour guide ushered visitors into the next room. Declan and Elizabeth were alone. “Come here,” ordered Declan. His hand took hers and pulled her towards The Kiss, another of Rodin’s renowned sculptures. The white marble carving of a couple, their lips and bodies lost in a passionate embrace, mesmerized Elizabeth. It was impossible to tell their bodies apart. Where one ended, the other began.

  “Camille,” whispered Elizabeth.

  Two strong arms suddenly spun her around and backwards. Declan’s firm lips found hers. She tasted his sweet breath. They were emulating the couple in the statue. Where she ended, he began. Where he began, she ended. Her heart raced wildly. The kiss couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Elizabeth could have sworn she saw flashes of light.

  Declan lifted her back up, his piercing blue eyes locked on hers as if to say, “There. Take that.” She was breathless. She had left her body and been transported to another plane of existence. A smattering of applause brought her back to reality. Six Japanese tourists had appeared in the doorway and were taking photos of them. They each wanted to have a picture of the crazy Western couple kissing beside The Kiss.

  It took Elizabeth several minutes to calm down before a slow fury began to burn. “Why did you do that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Because it was entirely inappropriate, that’s why not.”

  “Aw, c’mon. It was just a bit of fun.”

  “You might think it’s okay to make a spectacle of yourself in a public place, but I don’t appreciate being hijacked into participating in your idea of fun. It’s a clear sign of youth and immaturity.”

  A shadow darkened Declan’s face. It made him look even more desirable. “And your uptightness is a clear sign of age.”

  His words smarted. Elizabeth turned on her heel. How dare he? She was furious. She marched out of the museum, across the courtyard towards the gift shop.

  “Elizabeth, wait. I’m sorry.”

  Elizabeth heard Declan, but she was determined not to turn around. Her green eyes grew bright with tears. Declan was deliberately making it difficult to resist him. He was toying with her, had taken advantage of her. He had mentioned her age. He’d humiliated her. She would return to the hotel and leave Declan to his own devices. He had the wardrobe. He had the makeover. She was done. She would get her flight changed so they didn’t return together. She’d show him who was boss.

  A number of people milled outside the gift shop. As Elizabeth pushed her way through the crowd towards the exit, she noticed a man in his forties who appeared to be in distress. He clutched his arm with a cry of pain before collapsing to the floor, unconscious. With a disbelieving gasp, his female companion fell to her knees. She patted his face, crying “Jacques!” over and over. Everyone around them, including Elizabeth, was paralyzed, staring in horror at the fallen man. The next thing she knew, Declan was at the man’s side, performing CPR and giving him the kiss of life. Security guards mobilized into action, forcing people to stand back. Elizabeth heard someone call for an ambulance. Declan continued a rhythmic pumping on the man’s chest. He barked out some orders to the security guards in fluent French. Elizabeth was astounded. Within minutes, the claxon horn of the ambulance announced its arrival. Two paramedics rushed in with a stretcher and took over. The man’s companion was sobbing. Declan put an arm around her, consoling her in French. Elizabeth couldn’t understand what he was saying, but the woman appeared comforted, nodding and dabbing her eyes. One of the paramedics had a brief conversation with Declan and patted him on the back. The stricken man had recovered consciousness but was clearly confused and in pain. Paramedics took his blood pressure, strapped an oxygen mask over his face and lifted him onto a stretcher. They hustled him into the waiting ambulance. With blue lights flashing and horns blaring, the man and his companion were whisked away to hospital. The entire event, from start to finish, had taken fifteen minutes.

  Elizabeth was stunned. It seemed unreal. Declan had saved someone’s life. She was in awe.

  Museum staff brought Declan a chair and a bottle of water. He sat and drank, clearly fatigued. He’d gone pale. His hair was dripping with sweat.

  Elizabeth touched him gently on the shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Better than that poor bastard.”

  “Heart attack?”

  “Seems like it.”

  Elizabeth put an arm around Declan’s shoulder. He was shaking.

  “You saved that man’s life.”

  “I simply did what I learned how to do.”

  “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.”

  The museum staff kept congratulating Declan. They shook his hand, insisting he accept a gift voucher. Once again, Declan conversed with them in fluent French. Elizabeth clearly understood three words: “Ce n’est rien.” It is nothing.

  No, she thought. It definitely was not nothing. Declan had shown incredible poise in the face of a dire emergency. He had taken charge and known exactly what to do. She felt ashamed that she’d been castigating him for something as petty as stealing a kiss.

  One of the staff called them a taxi. Declan told Elizabeth to wait outside for its arrival. He disappeared into the gift shop and, within minutes, came out with a small gift-wrapped box for her.

  “Open it later.”

  They didn’t speak on the way back to the hotel. The taxi darted along rue de Rivoli, past Parisians enjoying their Sunday, sitting in cafés, sipping wine or coffee. How normal they are thought Elizabeth. They seemed completely unaware that life could come crashing to a halt at any minute.

  When they got to the lobby, Declan looked exhausted. “I’m going for a shower. I’ll give you a call later. Maybe we can get something to eat?”

  “Sure.”

  Inside her room, she kicked off her shoes and ran herself a bubble bath. She undressed and wrapped herself in a thick, fluffy Westin bathrobe. She wondered about the man who had collapsed. He was around her age. Was he going to be okay? Thanks to Declan, he probably was. The man owed his life to Declan and would probably never know his name.

  Elizabeth looked at the box Declan had given her. It was a strange circumstance under which to give someone a gift. Curious, she opened it. Inside was a small, perfect replica of The Kiss.

  Resisting Declan’s charm was getting to be more and more difficult.

  * * *

  The sun set over Paris, painting its buildings with a pale golden glow. An insistent ringing of the hotel phone woke Elizabeth from a nap. She hadn’t intended to sleep, but the heat of the bath and the emotion of the day had overwhelmed her. Groggily, she reached to answer and automatically fell into her business voice.

  “Elizabeth Harding here.”

  “Declan Thomas here.”

  “Oh, hi.” She yawned sleepily.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “I must’ve dropped off. What time is it?”

  “Almost seven. Are you hungry?”

  A faint gurgle in her stomach reminded her it had been several hours since she’d had anything t
o eat.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Good. La Closerie des Lilas. I’ve made us a reservation for eight. Meet you downstairs at quarter to.”

  “Yes. Okay.” Elizabeth was just about to hang up when she noticed The Kiss. “Thank you, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “The Kiss.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.”

  Elizabeth hung up thinking it wasn’t true. The pleasure definitely hadn’t been all his. She remembered how deliciously she’d swooned into his arms, how strongly he had held her, his lips on her lips. And then she had reacted badly. She would make it up to him. She would definitely make it up to him, although she hadn’t yet decided how.

  * * *

  The lilac trees that gave La Closerie its name were full of buds, but it was too chilly to sit outside in the covered garden. They chose the bistro area of the restaurant, with its leather banquettes and cozy bar.

  “Would madame care for un aperitif at the bar?” asked Declan.

  “Oui, monsieur,” answered Elizabeth smiling. “When were you going to tell me you spoke perfect French?”

  He looked sheepish. “I thought if you knew, you wouldn’t try to speak it yourself. I didn’t want to inhibit you.”

  “Very considerate,” replied Elizabeth. “But I’m not easily inhibited.”

  “We’ll see about that,” replied Declan.

  What on earth did he mean? He gave her one of his mischievous, flirty grins. Elizabeth felt something inside her flip over. Was it her heart? Her stomach? She couldn’t tell. The only thing she knew for sure was that he continued to have a strong physical impact on her.

  She ordered Pernod. Declan ordered a beer. As she sipped the milky yellow drink, Elizabeth felt it go directly into her bloodstream, warming her.

  Declan drank his beer and looked around. “Just think. Hemingway sat at this very bar, writing.”

  “He did?” asked Elizabeth, surprised.

  “It was a favourite hangout of all those writers. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Maugham.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” asked Elizabeth.