"Hélèna!" Luc's voice was sharp. "Stop smiling." He put down the brush. What was she thinking of that put such an expression on her face? He experienced a stab of jealousy at the thought that it was probably her fiancé. "Take a break. Try not to touch your hair," he said irritably, "and tell me when you're ready to continue."
Hélène winced at the sharp remark, but held her tongue as she stood up, stiff from sitting. She paced back and forth till the stiffness in her body and legs eased. She tried to keep her head still so as not to muss her hair. "I'm ready, M'sieur."
Rearranging her dress wasn't a problem‒the portrait was of her head and shoulders‒but the aggravated expression on his face as he strode over told her something had annoyed him. She remained completely still as his hands twitched and fiddled with her hair.
The only sound was his ragged breathing. "M'selle Hélèna, I find you most attractive. Surely you know what feelings I have for you," he continued, his voice breaking.
She recoiled. Anger started deep in her gut and swept through her. Suddenly she was on her feet, pushing him hard in the chest.
He stumbled back, his gaze following her as she marched over, collected her hat and headed for the door. The push shook him, snapping him back to reality. He ran after her and grabbed her arm; she attempted to shake him off but couldn't loosen his grip. "Hélèna! Hélèna! I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Monsieur Marteille. You are hurting my arm. Please let go."
He dropped her arm as if his hand was burning, stepping away from her. "I apologize for my outburst." He bowed his head. "I don't know what came over me. Please, please come and take your seat. I promise, I give you my word, this will never happen again." He gestured at the chair. "Please, I would like to continue with the painting."
"I'm from a respectable family, Monsieur Marteille. Not from Paris." Her voice was stern. "But you must also understand I'm engaged to be married. And I love my fiancé."
He looked genuinely distressed and abjectly apologetic.
Her anger retreated, and she relented. With her back straight, she walked over to the chair, carefully resuming the pose. "So if it is necessary for the painting, you may arrange my hair, but please, let us be absolutely correct with each other."
He bobbed his head in agreement looking so comical she suppressed a smile.
He was far more appealing when she had the upper hand, and he was submissive and repentant. "And speaking of correctness, my name is Hélène, not Hélèna!"
"Of course, M'selle Hélèna, I mean M'selle Hélène."
As he returned to painting, she tried to put his inexplicable behavior out of her mind. She'd never met anyone who so puzzled her. From where she was sitting she looked directly at him, and had plenty of time to observe the way his eyes creased as he looked from her to the portrait, the fleeting irritation when he wasn't satisfied, and the light of pleasure when he was. She couldn't help but be aware of his changing moods, his face was so expressive.
During the rest of the sitting, Luc clamped down on his errant thoughts, focusing entirely on transferring what he saw onto the canvas in front of him. He was determined to be professional. There would be no repeat of his earlier inappropriate explosion.
"Au revoir, M'selle Hélène," he said, courteous and distant, dropping the coins into her palm and making sure he didn't touch her outstretched fingers at the end of the session.
As soon as she left, he put away his brushes with painstaking care, staggered over and collapsed on the couch. He lay there staring up at the skylight, his words and actions replaying themselves over and over. The relief that she'd not walked out was overwhelming, the painting was not nearly advanced enough that he could dismiss his model, and he didn't know how he would manage without her.
In her room late that night, Hélène re-read her reply to Claude.
My darling Claude,
Thank you for your letter. It was wonderful to receive it with the token of your affection. I love the color of the rose. I am keeping every single one of the flowers you send.
Louise gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and they have named him Benoît for his father, and for her grandfather on her mother's side. He is adorable. I am well and look forward to when we meet.
Your most affectionate and loving
Hélène.
She would post the letter tomorrow. If Claude knew the situation, he wouldn't be pleased with her returning to the studio to sit for Luc. In the country, no one considered an unmarried woman being alone with a married man proper behavior. At large family or local gatherings if such a situation occurred‒even with a family member‒a young woman was taught to leave. You had to be far more deceitful to do anything illicit in a small community like hers. She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind.
Hélène pulled off her blouse and stared at the emerging bruise where Luc had held her arm to stop her leaving. She covered the place where his fingers had been with her hand, remembering the hard squeeze of his fingers on her skin.
Chapter Seven
People are either on their best or their worst behavior on holiday. An exotic, different location can bring out our finest qualities, or it can remove normal restraints and barriers.
Paris, July 2007
"Uncle François, this is Ingrid, and her mother, Anna." Jean Paul gave a big grin.
Anna couldn't believe her eyes. It was the rude Frenchman she'd met that afternoon. He looked her up and down, and for the briefest of seconds she registered his flash of approval before a mask of conventional courtesy dropped.
The coincidence of tripping and falling on top of a strange man, and later the same day being introduced to him as a relative of her daughter's latest captive, left Anna speechless. They stared at each other in an embarrassing silence. She was conscious of Ingrid and Jean Paul watching them.
"Pleased to meet you," François murmured taking Anna's hand, and bringing it briefly to his mouth.
The softness of his lips surprised her as they touched the back of her hand. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had treated her with genuine old-fashioned civility. A welcome change from his earlier behavior.
As he sat down next to her, she leaned towards him.
"I've said nothing to my daughter about, you know, my... um... accident. Please, can you not mention it?"
"My lips are sealed. I shall keep your secret," he murmured.
But the second she saw the spark of indulgent amusement in his eyes, she regretted her decision. What on earth had possessed her to ask that of him? She should have explained straight away to Ingrid and Jean Paul how she and François had met. The trouble was, having suggested the charade, she felt obliged to continue with it. She would appear somewhat ridiculous if she now came out with "Oh, didn't we meet earlier this afternoon? Oh yes, that's right we did. How silly of me not to recognize you."
Of all the people she could have bumped into, she'd managed to choose one whose condescending attitude had riled her. Furthermore, without any hesitation, she'd foolishly proposed and was now trapped into propagating a lie with him. She swallowed her pride, deciding her best course of action was to be as gracious as possible under the circumstances.
"Please call me François, and may I call you Anna?"
She nodded her agreement, thinking the loud voice, obviously for Ingrid and Jean Paul's benefit, was a little exaggerated.
"Have you ordered?" François asked Jean Paul. He hadn't. Needless to say, Jean Paul had eyes solely for Ingrid.
"So you see," Ingrid glanced around the table, but zoned in on Jean Paul to finish explaining her recent conversion to vegetarianism, "that's why it's better not to eat dead rotting animal flesh."
Jean Paul nodded enthusiastically.
Anna thought he'd eat cyanide pie if Ingrid told him it would improve his health.
"For you," François told her, his face alive with humor, "we shall order vegetarian. French cuisine can easily accommodate these habits," he said, subtly emphasizing the word 'habits'.
Anna's spine prickled at his tone, but she couldn't decide if he was being patronizing or hadn't a clue as to how he sounded.
As François beckoned the waiter over and ordered, she looked around wanting to pinch herself. This morning she had sat at the breakfast table with Greg discussing how many times they needed the gardener to come during the summer. And despite twenty-five years of marriage she couldn't remember the decision they'd made. It had been one of those necessary conversations that take place in daily life where words are exchanged but nothing is said. Their goodbyes that morning had been polite, distant, as if they were strangers.
Barely twelve hours later, here she was sipping wine, ready to enjoy a meal out in the romantic quarter of Montmartre with her daughter and, if she made a few mental adjustments, some pleasant company.
Jeremy, with his appetite for adventure, would have loved this. The thought of his mother meeting and dining with strange men wouldn't have fazed him in the least. Thinking of how he would have enjoyed this situation eased the chronic pain of his absence.
"So how is your foot?" François asked Anna in an undertone.
"It's fine," Anna replied, her tone sharper than she intended. She felt churlish, but she was irritated at the evening's unexpected development. "Are you from Paris?" She spoke loudly; two could play at this game, she thought.
François gave her a surprised glance. "No, I'm looking after my nephew for a month so he can try out life in Paris."
"Will he be moving here?"
"Yes, he'll be studying art at the Cole des Beaux-Arts."
"That's impressive." This topic was surely safe territory. "His work is good. I bought one earlier."
François smiled, obviously fond of his nephew. "Yes, his sales patter is charming. And you? Tell me something about yourself," he said, dropping his voice, "and please, nothing of the West Country."
The arrogance of the man. And what could she say that was honest? I'm grieving over the loss of my son and hoping this visit will help by researching why an artist from the past wrote a love letter.
"Freelance graphic artist, one child sitting opposite, one husband who'll be joining us shortly. Not much to know. Yourself?" There, that should shut him up.
"I started my career as a stock broker, after that became an estate agent. Currently retired." He was as cryptic as she'd been.
No mention of a wife? Probably divorced several times she concluded and wanted to conceal his philandering.
"And what do you do when you're not chaperoning your nephew?" She wasn't very interested in his answer as the ors d'oveures the waiter placed on the table looked far more appealing.
"My ambition is to sail around the world. Since my wife, Lucie, died two years ago, I've needed something serious to occupy my interest, and my time." He looked away.
The intimacy of his revelation startled her. For once the shoe was on the other foot, and she was unprepared for how awkward she felt.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
Repeating the same words she'd heard many times over the past few months, when she'd disconcerted people by telling them about Jeremy, felt trite. Revealing something tragic to an unprepared listener opened opportunities for intimacy, for empathy, but she could think of nothing else to say.
"Thank you. I have had time to accept what was a tragedy for me...." François trailed off.
There was an uncomfortable pause. She wondered whose loss was greater. Could you compare levels of grief? Would she, in a couple of years, be trotting out her loss of Jeremy in a similar matter-of-fact voice at a dinner with strangers? She didn't know where to take the conversation next, so she gratefully accepted the plate of grilled goat's cheese bruschetta he offered, as he indicated she should help herself to the different types of olives, hummus, and aperitifs spread before them on the table.
They started eating, and amidst the general chatter around the table, she surreptitiously studied François's face. She saw a definite family likeness to Jean Paul, but he wasn't as attractive as she'd initially thought when he saved her from an ungainly fall. Yes, he had good cheek bones and a firm jaw line, but his nose was a bit too big and slightly longer than perfection demanded. Fine age lines decorated the skin above and below his deep-set eyes, and his hair had more than a sprinkling of grey. Knights in shining armor shouldn't stick around she decided.
As they ate their way through a delicious tarte d'onion, salade au nicoise, aubergine et fromage, pain d'épices, and drank their way through a bottle of wine, which slid smoothly down her throat, she revised her opinion of François. Whether it was the wine, the atmosphere, the company, the location or a combination of all four, she began to relax, responding to his efforts at entertainment. In a couple of hours, he'd gone from being a handy landing pad and irritating tourist guide to an amusing dinner companion. Tonight François was clearly making an effort to be polite, and instead of being exasperating, she found him funny. His tales of learning to sail made her laugh out loud; she was enjoying his company, and that surprised her.
Ingrid appeared far too absorbed in Jean Paul to notice anything until François asked the reason for their visit. Anna hadn't even blinked when Ingrid jumped in, hardly missing a beat as she caught the question, and filled François in on the details of their quest.
"My oncle is something of an expert on the Impressionists," Jean Paul said.
"Would you be interested in helping us?" Ingrid asked.
"It does sound a fascinating mystery," he said, sipping his drink, and deliberately not looking in Anna's direction. "I would love to help."
"Oh, that's brilliant," Ingrid enthused, shooting a sideways glance at Jean Paul. "We're going to the Musée des Impressionists. You wouldn't happen to know how to get there, would you?" She batted her eyelashes at François.
Anna's bubble of pleasure evaporated, a stab of disappointment puncturing her mood. This mission was hers and Ingrid's: bonding and building memories because one day her daughter would inherit the painting. She knew Ingrid was wrangling to spend the day with Jean Paul. The thought that her mother might not want to spend a single moment more than she had to with this stranger didn't occur to her. Ingrid blatantly ignored the pained expression on her mother's face, continuing to bestow her full attention on François.
"Why yes, I do, and it would be my pleasure to take you." He cast a quick glance at Anna, but she ignored him, and played at folding her napkin.
"That is very, very kind of you." Ingrid gazed at François, the look in her eyes telling him he was her savior, and she'd be forever grateful.
By the time they finished the meal, a decision had been made. Tomorrow François would take them to see the Basilica, and later to the museum. He told them it was devoted to the Impressionists, and the best place to start researching. Jean Paul said he'd come along too, informing them with a smile that a day with the Impressionists was a master class for any artist.
To Anna's dismay, and the young couple's delight, though they didn't gloat, Ingrid's scheming had succeeded. Once she'd recovered from the shock of meeting François, for the second time that day, the evening had been pleasant enough, but after he inveigled himself onto their search, conversation with him became increasingly onerous for her.
They left the restaurant with François and Jean Paul accompanying them back to their hotel because, what a coincidence, they were staying at the same one.
Anna ignored François as they walked, trying not to be upset by the sound of Ingrid and Jean Paul's laughter behind them. By the time they reached the hotel, she was so eager to be rid of him she barely had enough patience left to utter a respectably polite goodnight.
"It's been a long day," she said.
"Of course," he replied. "We'll meet here tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."
His company no longer appeared quite so charming as at dinner as his former condescending self resurfaced. Anna suppressed her anger at his dictatorial tone. "Yes, that'll be fine. Good night," she muttered, trying to muster a
shred or two of gratitude. "Ingrid, don't be late," she said as Ingrid and Jean Paul looked set to linger in the lobby for some time.
Back in the hotel room, strangely deserted without Ingrid, Anna removed her make-up, cleaned her teeth and climbed into bed. Finding it impossible to settle, she got out of bed and sat in the armchair waiting for Ingrid. She picked up the book she'd brought for holiday reading, but her mind was stuck in a groove playing a record that said this trip was for family. Nobody else.
When Ingrid came in an hour later, she wore the smug expression of a cat that had eaten a tasty bowl of cream. She'd hardly closed the door when Anna's anger boiled over.
"How could you?" Anna couldn't keep the harsh resentment out of her voice.
"How could I what?" Ingrid's dreamy expression vanished. She marched over to the bathroom.
Anna followed, remaining in the doorway, waiting to talk.
But Ingrid deliberately ignored her mother and rooted through the drawer for her hairbrush. After energetically brushing her hair for a minute, Ingrid looked balefully at her mother. "Mum! What's got into you?"
"What's gotten into me?" Two spots of color appeared high on Anna's cheeks. "We‒you and I‒came here to spend time together."
"Mum, I'm not your property. You can't keep me to yourself." Ingrid stared at her mother, her expression tight with defiance.
"I want to be with you. How…" she stopped. Her shoulders were shaking, and the tears began.
Ingrid crumbled. "Mum." She came over and put her arms around Anna, pulling her close. She stroked Anna's back. "We're here for such a short time. There's the rest of the summer to spend together before..." She didn't finish the sentence, not wanting to upset her mother more.
"I know, I know." Anna pulled away and wiped her face. She wanted to explain that this tip was more than doing research on Luc Marteille's history. This was also about the two of them being together, creating memories.
Spending time alone with Ingrid had always been difficult, except when she was a newborn with Greg at work and Jeremy at nursery. After a few months, the demands of husband and son had made inroads into her time with the new baby. And in a couple of days when Greg joined them and they headed for Biarritz, she'd have to share her daughter again. But it wasn't purely assuaging guilt for lost opportunities—Jeremy's death left her sensitive to the urgency of the present.
One Summer in Montmartre Page 7