by Shawna Seed
Julien squinted at it. “It says ‘not to be shown in public.’ That squares with what the professor told us, that Henri was worried the painting would cause a scandal.”
When Genevieve returned from getting certified copies of the will, Julien was packing up their things.
“Closing early today,” he said, shrugging. “Some kind of strike, I think.”
On the Metro, Genevieve couldn’t stop chattering about their find.
“Now that I’ve figured out this faster way to sort the records, maybe we can find the other three wills tomorrow morning, and we could sightsee in the afternoon,” she said. “What would you like to do?”
“I’ll see whatever you want,” Julien said. “I’ll even drag myself through the Louvre again.”
“It’s so hard to choose,” Genevieve said. “The Louvre, the Impressionists at the Musée d’Orsay – the Impressionists were my first big art crush, you know? Or Montmartre. Could we maybe do that now... What?”
“It’s great to see you having so much fun,” Julien said. “You forgot to be scared on the Metro. Here’s our stop.”
They walked to the hotel, but Julien paused at the entrance, pulling her aside to let another guest pass and leaning one arm against the building above her head.
“I promised to pick something up for a friend,” he said. “I think I’ll do that now.”
Genevieve’s face must have registered her disappointment. She’d hoped they were going to drop off their things and explore the city before dinner.
“Why don’t you scan what we found,” Julien said. “Send that to Henry. When I get back, we’ll have a drink and then let’s have a nice dinner on Henry’s tab. Did you bring something dressy?”
Genevieve nodded.
“Good. Wear it tonight.”
Genevieve scanned the documents and sent them to LA, then hurried up to her room to prepare for a night out.
What should she wear? She pulled D’s blue blouse from its hanger. Was it cut too low? Maybe it was too wrinkled. She hung it up, then pulled it out again. She held it against her chest and studied the effect in the mirror.
The color was nice. She could steam the wrinkles out.
She checked the time. When would Julien be back? He hadn’t said how long his errand for his friend would take. What friend? What errand?
She checked the time again, did the math, and pulled out her cell phone. She’d bought a limited number of international minutes before the trip, and so far she hadn’t used any of them.
“Hey, D. Can you talk?”
“You’re calling me? That means things are either going really good or really bad.”
Genevieve held the receiver away from her ear. D sounded as though she was in the hallway, not halfway around the world.
“Today we found a letter that proves Julien’s family had the drawing, at least in 1860-something.”
“Don’t bore me with the art history,” D interrupted. “How’s it going with Julien?”
“We’re going out to dinner, and he asked me if I brought anything dressy,” Genevieve said. “Last night, we talked and talked, and walked along the Seine, with all the lights, and D? I like him so much. But I’m nervous.”
“Gen, sounds like it’s going great! Sometimes you make life way more complicated than it has to be,” D told her, not unkindly. “Now, what are you wearing?”
She changed three times, but in the end Genevieve wore D’s blouse. She paired it with a black skirt and heels – the only pair she owned. They’d been a last-minute addition to her suitcase.
Julien was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing a white shirt, collar open, and black pants and a jacket. Genevieve could tell that he’d just showered and shaved.
“Hey, you’re taller,” he said when she cleared the last step. He looked her up and down. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything but flats.”
Julien took her coat and held it open for her. Genevieve thought that was a gallant gesture, helping a woman with her coat. It was one of those old-fashioned manly things, like carrying a handkerchief.
Outside, Genevieve instinctively turned toward what she had come to think of as “their” Metro stop. Julien caught her elbow.
“Other way,” he said.
“Are we walking to dinner?” She wondered whether she would regret the heels.
“Let’s get a cab,” Julien said.
They started with drinks at a bar somewhere on the Right Bank. Julien managed to snag a seat for Genevieve, and he stood with one arm draped on the back of her chair. It was hard to hear each other over the jazz combo and the other patrons. When Genevieve spoke, Julien watched her face intently. When he wanted to be heard, he leaned close to her ear. Genevieve was drinking a French apértif, something Julien had recommended. The effect was intoxicating.
After an hour, or maybe two – Genevieve lost track – they walked down the street to dinner. Warm light spilled out of the restaurant’s big windows and onto the sidewalk.
“I think I’m underdressed,” Genevieve muttered as they walked in. After the din of the bar, the restaurant seemed quiet as a church.
“Ridiculous,” Julien said. “You look fantastic.”
Genevieve took stock of the people around her. The other patrons all looked very French and very sophisticated. And very rich.
“I might be in over my head,” she said. “This is a long way from Wichita Falls.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
It didn’t take long for Genevieve to realize this probably would be her most memorable meal ever. The food was amazing – the tastes seem to explode in her mouth. A different wine arrived with each course, and for the first time, she began to see the alchemy involved in pairing food and wine.
They drank wine and sampled from each other’s plates. He told her a funny story about eating snails. She told him about ordering a shrimp dish on a date and being horrified to find that the shrimp, in a cream sauce, still had the shells attached. She’d eaten hardly anything, terrified of making a mess.
They were laughing about that when Genevieve noticed a man two tables over staring at her. She quickly lowered her head and stifled her laugh.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m too loud. There’s a man over there staring at me,” she whispered.
Julien sneaked a look.
“You’re right,” he said. “He is staring at you.” He leaned over the table and whispered, “Why wouldn’t he? You’re the most beautiful woman in the restaurant.”
Genevieve blushed to the roots of her hair.
“Oh, here we go with the blushing,” Julien said, leaning back in his chair. “You kill me with that – every time. You do know that, don’t you?”
Genevieve felt her face grow even hotter.
“No, you don’t know it,” Julien said. “That’s part of your charm.”
Genevieve hazarded a look up. He was smiling at her affectionately.
“Beet-red face,” she said. “Yeah, that’s totally charming.”
“A woman who doesn’t realize how beautiful she is? Very charming.”
She tried to hold his gaze but couldn’t. She looked nervously off to the side.
“Especially from LA, where so many women are workin’ it all the time,” he said.
“But you have to tell me, Genevieve.” He paused. “You know, I like it better in French.” He said it again, softening the G, stressing the first syllable – Jhan-vee-ev. “How can you not know you’re beautiful?”
“There are plenty of beautiful women in here,” Genevieve said. “He must be looking at my hair. I swear, sometimes it’s like having a neon sign on your head.”
Julien leaned his chin in his hand, listening. “You don’t like being a redhead?”
“It attracts attention. When you’re a kid, people call you Carrot Top and stuff, and when you’re older... ” Here she faltered.
Julien raised an eyebrow.
“Some men have
a weird thing for redheads,” Genevieve said, dropping her voice to a whisper.
Julien cleared glasses from the space between them. He reached out and ran one finger along the back of her hand. “How interesting,” he said, his eyes intent on her face.
Genevieve hoped he didn’t see her shiver. She blushed furiously. Again.
He leaned back in his chair. “You know, the first girl I ever kissed had red hair. Her name was Jessica. It was at my friend Jon’s bar mitzvah. I was 13.”
Genevieve’s blush receded. She liked it when Julien talked about himself.
“Your turn,” he said, as a waiter cleared the remains of their dinner. “First kiss?”
“Me? Danny Foster. Out at the lake.”
“And you were how old?”
“Fifteen. No, wait. I drove. So I was 16.”
“No one kissed you until you were 16? What was wrong with those boys in Wichita Falls?”
Like everything else, dessert was amazing. Julien ordered after-dinner drinks, then had the waiter whisk hers away and bring something else when she didn’t like it.
Three sips into that drink, Genevieve set her glass down a little unsteadily and excused herself.
Genevieve studied her face in the ladies’ room mirror, carefully applying lipstick.
What was it about drinking that made your face more interesting, she wondered?
A man she met at a conference once told her she looked like Botticelli’s Venus. He described her skin as “alabaster” and her hair as “molten flame.” It was an improvement over the words the boys back in Wichita Falls used, things like “pasty” and “orange.”
What would people back in Wichita Falls say if they saw her now?
“You’re drunk,” she told her reflection, answering her own question.
Did she say that out loud? She looked around, relieved to see that she was alone.
She adjusted her neckline. Thank God for D. Thank God for push-up bras.
Julien did the half-rise thing as she returned to the table. Such lovely French manners.
“Ready to walk a bit?” he asked as they left the restaurant.
“All the way back to the hotel?” Genevieve really was going to regret the shoes.
“Not quite yet,” he said. “I have a surprise.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
With her hand tucked in the crook of Julien’s arm, they set off. It was a beautiful night, chilly but not cold, a full moon illuminating the city.
They made a left and then another left, onto a quiet street that was vaguely familiar. Then Julien stopped at a door and produced a key from his pocket.
“What are we...”
“Ssshhh.” He put one finger to his lips as he worked the key in the lock.
The heavy street door swung open, and they stepped into a dark courtyard.
“Be careful. The stones are uneven,” Julien whispered as he guided her across the courtyard to a second door.
“Are we supposed to be here?”
“I seem to have a key,” Julien said.
The second door opened, and Genevieve realized where they were. The stairs to Théodore Lazare’s studio beckoned.
Genevieve began to climb. Then Julien closed the door, eliminating the light from the courtyard, plunging the stairwell into darkness.
“Hang on,” he said. He reached out for her, his hand landing in her hair, which he patted reassuringly.
Genevieve heard rustling, and then the narrow path up the stairwell was lit by the glow from Julien’s cell phone.
Genevieve concentrated on navigating the stairs, a task made more difficult by her heels and the drinks she’d consumed.
“How do you have a key?”
“Ssshhh,” Julien whispered, inches from her ear. “Don’t attract the gendarmes.”
Genevieve stopped, and Julien nearly plowed into her.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m kidding. It’s fine. Keep going.”
They reached the top landing and engaged in an awkward ballet as Genevieve tried to move so Julien could unlock the last door.
“Just stay there,” Julien said, reaching around her to press his phone into her hand. “Hold the light for me.”
Genevieve inhaled, smelling sunshine, clean cotton and bright Texas skies – in the middle of a dark Paris stairwell.
Julien worked the key in the lock, his head right next to hers.
“What is your perfume?” He turned his face into her hair and breathed in. “I know it, but I can’t come up with the name. I’ve been trying to think of it since I met you.”
“I don’t wear perfume,” Genevieve said.
“Really?”
The lock clicked, and the door to the studio opened.
“Oh.” Genevieve stepped into the studio, which was flooded by moonlight streaming in the big windows. “It’s the light.”
Julien spread his arms wide. “I thought about what you said about the light in the painting, and I realized this had to be the place.”
Genevieve walked to one of the illuminated rectangles in the center of the room and turned her face up to the pure, white light. “Beautiful,” she said, sighing.
“Yes.”
“But warm,” she said. She unbuttoned her coat. The climb from the courtyard had overheated her, and the attic was stuffy.
Julien crossed to her. “Let me take that.”
Genevieve slipped out of it. Julien took it to a pile of boxes on the far side of the room. Then he shrugged out of his own coat, taking a moment to fold it before crossing back to her.
“You still haven’t explained how you have the key,” Genevieve said.
“I came to see Madame LeGrand this afternoon,” Julien said. “I told her about Pyramus and Thisbe and asked if we could see the studio at night to see if it was the same light.”
He reached for her wrist and held it.
“So naturally she gave you the key,” Genevieve said. “Who wouldn’t?”
“I did a little shopping first,” Julien said, “to soften her up.” He pressed something into Genevieve’s hand.
“What’s this?”
Julien shrugged.
Genevieve held the package up to the light. It was a small roll of fabric, tied with a ribbon. She unfastened the bow and unfurled a scarf.
“You needed a souvenir,” Julien said. “This suits you better than the one you looked at the other day. Blue, a little green, and that violet that’s exactly the color of your eyes.”
Genevieve always heard that she was impossible to shop for. Her father bought her books from her wish list; D gave her gift cards. Christine occasionally hit the mark, but she missed plenty, too. Julien? He’d made a perfect choice the very first time.
He looped the scarf around her neck, lifting her hair to nestle the silk against her skin.
“There,” he said, admiring the effect. “Yeah. Thisbe’s got nothin’ on you.”
“It’s beautiful. I...” She meant to say “thank you,” but instead, Genevieve leaned up and kissed him.
Julien was initially startled. He drew back, just for an instant. Then he returned the kiss, twining his fingers in her hair and angling her head back. She wobbled a little in her heels. Julien wrapped one arm around her waist and steadied her against him.
Genevieve’s heart began to hammer in her chest. Suddenly the room seemed airless and much too hot. She pulled away, gasping and overwhelmed. Julien relaxed his grip on her waist.
“Maybe we...” Genevieve searched Julien’s face. His eyes were on hers, an intensity she hadn’t seen before glittering there. “Maybe we should go?”
Julien adjusted the scarf around her neck, fingered a strand of her hair, ran his thumb across her lower lip. “Should we?”
He kissed her. It began slowly, then built. Genevieve felt suspended in that white rectangle of light, timeless, weightless, as though this space existed separate from the rest of the world.
A buzzing sound startled her, and she stumbled
away from Julien, nearly falling. He caught her arm.
“It’s my phone,” he said. “It’s just my phone.”
Genevieve put her hand to her chest, gasping, and discovered that the first three buttons of her blouse were undone. When had that happened?
Once he was sure she wasn’t about to topple over, Julien walked to the boxes in the corner of the room and rummaged in his coat until he found his phone. He silenced it.
Genevieve buttoned her blouse while his back was turned and tucked in a spot where it had popped loose from the waistband of her skirt.
“Julien?” He was in a dark corner of the room, his back to her. “We should go.”
He nodded once and picked up their coats.
Two streets over, Julien waved down a cab, and Genevieve sank back into the seat, a little dazed.
He leaned forward to give the driver the hotel address, sat back, then leaned forward again to add something.
“What was that last part?”
“I told him to go by the Arc de Triomphe,” Julien said. “You should see it at night.”
Genevieve leaned her head against Julien’s shoulder, and he shifted to put his arm around her.
“You called me Julien,” he said.
“Hmmm?”
“Just now, up there,” he said. “You called me Julien.”
“Oh!” Genevieve pulled back to look at him. “I did?”
“It’s funny, because you never call me anything,” he said. “When you need to get my attention, it’s always ‘hey’ or ‘oh’ or ‘um.’ ”
Genevieve felt her face begin to color. “That’s so rude. I’m sorry,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s just, in my head, for some reason, you’re Julien, but I know you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” he said. He put his hand on her chin and gently turned her head away from him. “You’re missing the sights.”
The Arc de Triomphe, brilliantly lit, loomed ahead and to the left.
“I hated it when I was a kid,” Julien said, his face next to hers. “But the only person who calls me that since my mother died is Henry, and, I don’t know... When you did it, it was kind of nice.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the view. Then Julien told the driver to turn back toward the hotel.