Daring Chloe

by Walker, Laura Jensen

“Naturellement.”

  Tess and I strolled through the quiet gardens dotted with Rodin’s larger-than-life bronze and marble sculptures. “I come here every time I’m in Paris,” she said. “It’s one of my favorite spots — although it’s even nicer in the summer when all the flowers are in bloom.”

  “And it’s a little warmer?” I tightened my wool scarf around my neck.

  “Oui. I’ll often grab a baguette, some cheese, and a small bottle of wine and picnic here on one of the benches where I can relax and admire Monsieur Rodin’s genius at leisure.”

  I slowly circled around a bronze of three men that the little plaque identified as The Three Shades. “They’re so real. I expect them to come to life at any moment.”

  “You can touch the sculpture, you know.”

  “Serious?”

  She nodded. “You’re not in the Louvre. This is an outdoor sculpture garden — the statues here are meant to be touched.”

  Now I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

  Tentatively I extended my hand to the joined hands of the trio. Their bronze fingers felt cold beneath mine, yet curiously warm at the same time. “How amazing to be able to create something glorious like this and to have it live on after you’re gone.”

  I glanced around at the clusters of tourists from different countries oohing and aahing over all the statues. “And to touch so many people from all over the world.”

  “That’s art.”

  We continued our stroll. “I seem to have a vague memory of you doing something with clay when I was a kid.” I looked sideways at Tess. “In fact . . . come to think of it, didn’t we try and make a bust of Dad for his birthday one year or something?”

  “Try is the operative word.” She chuckled. “That was my sculpture phase. I tried my hand at pottery first, but was lousy at it. And then I tried sculpting, where I was even lousier. That bust you’re talking about actually came out looking like Yoda, which I didn’t think your dad would appreciate, so I gave it to the boys instead.”

  “That’s right. I remember now. Doesn’t Tommy use it to hang his swimming medals on?”

  “Yep. A telling commentary on your aunt’s artistic abilities. That’s why my art leanings are now confined to appreciating the work of real artists. Et voila.” She stopped and nodded to the bronze portal in front of us.

  “What is that?” I stared in rapt fascination at the doors covered with despairing, tortured bodies, desperately intertwined and writhing in agony.

  “The Gates of Hell — inspired by Dante’s Inferno.”

  “Wow. What a graphic argument for belief.”

  “Mm. I know what you mean.”

  Inside, it felt more like we were in someone’s home than a museum — a beautiful, spacious, two-story home that we learned had formerly been a hotel and Rodin’s private residence, which he donated to France upon his death.

  Slowly we wound our way through the rooms of sculpture, mesmerized. In one room, I was surprised to find some Impressionist works from Rodin’s private collection — Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh — traded, we learned, for sculpture.

  The Kiss captivated me again as it had in San Francisco, but this time it didn’t fill me with longing for Chris and love.

  Instead, it made me long to create.

  24

  Be it true or false, what is said about men often has as much influence upon their lives, and especially upon their destinies, as what they do.

  Les Misérables

  “Hey, everyone, look what Mom got me for an early birthday present!” In the hotel lobby, Kailyn proudly fingered the colorful silk scarf at her neck. “It’s Hermès! Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “Exquisite.”

  “Love it!” We all took turns admiring the vibrant patterned scarf, which was unlike any I’d ever seen.

  Maybe this was one of the scarves I needed to buy as souvenirs. I leaned over to Annette and whispered, “I might want to get one too. Do you mind my asking how much it cost?”

  “Three hundred twenty-five dollars,” she whispered back.

  Maybe not.

  Tess caught my eye as we left the hotel to walk to the restaurant. “If you’re looking for affordable gifts to take back home, we should check out the Monoprix chain. They have all kinds of goodies under one roof, including silk scarves at a fraction of the price.”

  “Sounds like my kind of store,” Becca said. “Is it a cousin of our Target?” She gave the second syllable of her favorite store a French pronunciation: zhe.

  “Oui. First cousin.”

  Tonight we’d decided to dine at Le Bosquet on the corner of avenue Bosquet and rue du Champ de Mars where I was delighted to see that the menu included an English translation.

  I started with a yummy appetizer of goat cheese with caramelized sugar on top with a baguette, followed by a bowl of French onion soup.

  And not just any French onion soup.

  With my spoon, I broke through the one-inch layer of melted gruyere to scoop up a spoonful of cheese, onions, and croutons drenched in a delicious beefy broth. I stopped breathing and closed my eyes.

  How can mere food be an experience of rapture?

  “This is the most amazing soup I’ve ever had. Tess, you have to try this.”

  “And you should try a bite of my fish. C’est délicieuse.”

  “Anyone want to try my pâté?” Paige held up a thin slice of bread slathered with duck liver.

  Tess cut her eyes at Becca, who had started to make an exaggerated gagging noise. “No thanks, Paige,” Becca said politely. “I’ll just stick to my Brie.”

  Tess ordered a couple carafes of red wine for the table, which everyone tried except teetotaler Annette and me.

  “I wish I could.” I took a drink of my water. “But red wine always hurts going down. Gives me heartburn.”

  “That’s because of the sulfites they have to add in the States,” Tess explained. “They don’t do that here.”

  “Really?” I took a cautious sip.

  No burning. I raised my glass and clinked it with hers. “Vive la France!”

  Annette had considered trying the steak tartare — raw minced steak with raw egg, onions, and capers — for dinner, but decided against it, much to our collective relief. Instead, she ordered steak frites.

  “My stomach thanks you,” Becca said. “Plus, how could we ever tell Jenna?

  “What happens in Paris stays in Paris.” Annette winked and ate one of her fries. “Yum. These are the best french fries I’ve ever had.” She offered us each one and then directed her gaze to Becca. “So, what did you and Paige wind up doing today?”

  “We strolled along the banks of the Seine, not realizing it was the romantic hotspot of the city. Everywhere we looked it seemed, people were making out — standing up, sitting down, sprawled all over each other. We started keeping count.” Becca caught Paige’s eye. “Did we wind up with seventeen or eighteen?”

  “Nineteen, actually. We seemed to be the only pair along the river not holding hands.” Paige giggled. “But even so, it was a great way to see the city. We walked over one of the pedestrian bridges from the Right Bank to the Left and thought of you guys as we wandered through the bouquinistes, the bookstalls that line the Seine.

  “They had tons of great old books and magazines, vintage postcards, and souvenir posters. I could have browsed for hours, but someone” — she jerked her head at Becca — “had a date with the dead.”

  “Actually, the date was mostly on behalf of dark and twisted Jenna.” Becca swallowed a bite of her salmon plat du jour. “I asked her if I could bring her anything back from Paris, and she said a photo of Jim Morrison’s grave. She’s a huge Doors fan. So I dragged Paige along too, but she liked it. Right?”

  Paige nodded. “I can see why Père Lachaise is called the world’s most beautiful cemetery. The sculptures and monuments alone are spectacular works of art that could be in a museum. Did you know that Molière, Marcel Proust, and
Oscar Wilde are all buried there?”

  “Don’t forget Chopin, Gertrude Stein, and Chloe’s Little Sparrow.”

  Paige ticked off on her fingers. “And Sarah Bernhardt. And Isadora Duncan. And Héloïse and Abèlard, the famous lovers from the twelfth century! I had no idea so many famous people were buried there. We found out that the cemetery attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors a year.”

  Paige sent Becca a mischievous glance before continuing. “Guess who attracted a gorgeous admirer today amongst all those cemetery visitors?”

  “Really?” Kailyn’s eyes sparkled. “Tell all.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Becca blushed and concentrated on her salmon.

  “C’mon, roomie, spill.” I leaned forward. “We’re all ears.”

  “Go on, Becca, give us the play-by-play,” Annette said.

  Becca frowned at Paige. “It was no big deal. Really. This Italian guy flirted with me. That’s all.”

  “Italian? Ooh, they’re supposed to be really romantic.” Kailyn’s eyes sparked. “What did he say? Did he ask you out? Are you going to see him again?”

  “Now that’s a first,” Tess said. “Getting hit on in a cemetery.”

  Becca drained her wine. “He just flirted with me. No biggie.”

  Annette raised her eyebrows. “But was he cute?”

  “Very cute,” Paige said, since it was obvious Becca wasn’t going to divulge any information. “Dark curly hair, soulful brown eyes . . . actually, he reminded me a lot of Josh Groban — especially when he sang.”

  “He sang?” I stared at my roommate, whose natural olive skin had darkened to a ruddy flush. “In a cemetery?”

  “Actually, he serenaded Becca out of the cemetery.”

  “Serious?” Kailyn’s eyes grew even wider. “What did he sing?”

  “Something in Italian that I didn’t understand — other than the word bellissima.”

  “Doesn’t that mean beautiful?” Annette asked.

  “Very beautiful,” Tess said.

  Kailyn honed in on Becca. “So what was the problem? How come you’re all shy and embarrassed over some gorgeous Italian guy singing to you? Most women would kill to have that happen to them on vacation. I know I would.”

  “Hear, hear,” I said.

  Tess raised her glass. “And not only on vacation.”

  Becca ignored us. “I think I’m going to have chocolate mousse for dessert. Or maybe that île flottante thing. I remember reading about that in our book. Floating island, right? What was it again, Paige?”

  “A meringue steamed in milk with a thin custard sauce used as the ‘ocean’ around the island. Sounds delicious. I may have that too.”

  “Ooh, that does sound really good,” Annette said. “Except . . . I’m such a chocoholic, I may have to order the mousse. Could I try a bite of your floating island?”

  “No problem.” Becca was all magnanimity and generosity.

  “Good try.” Kailyn narrowed her eyes at Becca. “But I’m not falling for it. You still haven’t answered my question.” She shifted her focus to Paige. “Don’t let her distract you so easily. Now tell us the rest. What part of the Italian guy story are you leaving out?”

  “Paige,” Becca warned.

  “I don’t know why you’re embarrassed. I think it’s really sweet,” Paige said. She lowered her voice. “Here’s the thing: the gorgeous, curly-haired Italian with the soulful eyes and the beautiful voice is a little younger than the guys Becca usually dates.”

  “Aha! The tables are turned.” I smirked at my roommate. “You didn’t want us to know because you gave me such a hard time for falling for a guy five years younger than me. So how young is this Romeo? Nineteen? Twenty?”

  Kailyn sent Becca a sly look. “Eighteen?”

  “Eleven.” Paige gave a low chuckle.

  I choked on my water.

  Becca scowled at Paige.

  “Well, I’ve always heard Latin men have a great appreciation for women,” Annette said. “I just didn’t know they started so early. I wonder if there’s a special school or somethin’.”

  Kailyn snickered. “Yeah. Flirting 101.”

  “No, I think it’s called ‘That’s Amoré,’ ” Tess said.

  Our entire table dissolved into giggles.

  “Very funny.” Becca shrugged. “What can I say? The kid has good taste.”

  “And you said I robbed the cradle.”

  “I didn’t rob any cradle. The kid just sang to me.”

  “Well, we know what kind of day Paige and Becca had.” Tess wiped at her eyes. “Kailyn? Annette? How was your afternoon?”

  “Not as romantic as Becca’s,” Kailyn said. “But I’m très happy with my beautiful Hermès scarf and perfume from Sephora.”

  “What’s Sephora?” I shot her a curious look.

  “Oh, honey, you really don’t get out much, do you?” Kailyn said. “Oprah’s included Sephora beauty products in her magazine as some of her favorite things. And there are stores all over the States — we even have one in Sacramento.

  “The flagship store on the Champs-Elysées is a must-stop for every woman,” she continued. “There’s nothing like it anywhere. They have Juicy Couture, Stella McCartney, Badgley Mischka.” Kailyn’s eyes gleamed with unbridled designer lust. “It’s the most amazing place, devoted exclusively to perfumes, cosmetics, and skin-care products.”

  “I never saw so many kinds of perfumes in my life,” Annette said. “It’s like a giant perfume department store — so glamorous! They have this fabulous wheel of scents in the center where they help you figure out what kind of scent you like — flowery, fruity, woody, spicy . . . even chocolatey. Mmm.” Annette closed her eyes. “I felt as if I’d died and been scent to heaven.”

  “Well, no problem guessing what flavor — I mean scent — you picked, Ms. Chocoholic,” I said.

  “You got that right.” Annette’s eyes flew open. “But get this! I don’t know if y’all ran into this, but the thing we couldn’t get over was all the fur we saw on the streets.”

  “Yeah.” Kailyn swiveled her head toward me and Becca. “Even women our age. In fur coats. Have they not heard of PETA?”

  “Good thing Jenna’s not here,” Becca said with an impish grin. “She’d have had a cow.”

  Paige rolled her eyes. Then she focused on me. “So how was the Musée Rodin?”

  “Fabulous. You really need to go if you can. It’s absolutely amazing. I’d go back in a heartbeat.” I pushed my hair behind my ears. “If you think the sculpture at the cemetery was something, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  “Any polar bears?” Becca asked hopefully.

  “No, but there was a great bust of Victor Hugo.”

  Tess tucked into her profiteroles. “So what does everyone want to do tomorrow?”

  “I’d love to go to Versailles,” Annette said. “I hear it’s absolutely stunning — especially the Hall of Mirrors.”

  “Too much glitz and glitter for me.” Becca scrunched up her nose. “I’d rather go to the catacombs.”

  I consulted my list of must-sees. “I’d like to explore Montmartre to see where Van Gogh and some of the other Impressionists had their studios. And then see Sacré Coeur. Or, go to the Orangerie to see Monet’s water lilies, and afterward take a trip to Giverny to visit his actual gardens. Or check out the Latin Quarter.” I looked up in delight at my book-loving friends. “That’s where that famous bookstore Shakespeare and Company is located. Did you know they let writers stay there for free in exchange for helping out in the store?”

  “I hate to break it to you,” Tess said, “but Giverny is closed in the winter.”

  “You’re kidding. I really wanted to see the place that inspired his water lilies.”

  “Me too,” Annette said. “But I guess it makes sense since it’s all about the gardens and not much would be blooming until spring.”

  “This gives you a good reason to return to Paris. But don’t worry,” Tess said, �
�there’s still plenty of other things to see and do. I spent a whole month in Paris when I was eighteen, and I still didn’t see all she has to offer. And every time I come back, I discover something new.”

  Tess zeroed in on Kailyn. “What about you? What did you want to do?”

  “Well, I’d really like to see the Opéra Garnier at some point, but it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. And the Moulin Rouge — loved Ewan McGregor in that movie. Who knew he could sing? And I’d like to do a little more shopping too, maybe at Bon Marché and Galleries Lafayette?”

  Tess directed a look at Paige. “And you?”

  She blushed. “Actually, mine’s food-related. I’d really like to take another of Jacqueline’s cooking classes. I may never have this opportunity again, and I want to learn as much as I can from her.” Paige glanced at Becca, who gave her an encouraging nod.

  “We talked about it earlier. Becca’s not that interested in going to our next lesson, but she didn’t want to short Jacqueline the fee. So we called and asked if I could take Becca’s place some other day this week, and the only opening she had was tomorrow.” Paige sent us anxious looks. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ll still have the rest of the week to spend with all of you.”

  “Why should we mind?” Annette said. “Just because you want to throw us over for some gourmet French cooking instructor. Doesn’t bother me in the least. What about the rest of you girls?”

  “That’s okay.” I expelled a heavy sigh. “I’m used to rejection.”

  “Moi aussi.” Tess jumped on the teasing bandwagon.

  While the rest of the group gave Paige a hard time, I studied my roommate discreetly from beneath my bangs. I knew cooking had never been her thing, but somehow I had the feeling that her dropping out of our group class had more to do with the hundred-Euro price tag than anything else.

  As I thought about it, I recalled that any time we went out to eat, Becca always ordered the least expensive item on the menu. And she hadn’t stormed the gift shop at the Musée d’Orsay with the rest of us either.

  Or any other shop for that matter.

  Anyone could do that math. My roommate was broke.

  Since there were so many different things we all wanted to see and do, we took a vote and agreed that we wanted to explore Montmartre, the Orangerie, and the literary Latin Quarter together, so we’d wait to do that until Paige was available.