by Pratt, Lulu
It was everything you wanted Paris to be and then some.
The Louvre had given me relocation assistance so I was able to afford a darling apartment near the Seine, with cracking wallpaper and dingy chandeliers. The real estate agent had warned it wasn’t exactly in the best of shape, but I didn’t care. It allowed me to wake up every morning with the smell and sight of Paris in my window, so who gave a damn about running water and electricity?
I’d quickly established my favorite local bakery — down the block and to the right, with a baker who already knew my name and my order — un café au lait et une petit baguette, s’il vous plait. I’d found a mattress for myself, and a few pieces of antique cookware from a local flea market. Everything else could wait.
In the mornings, I went to the Louvre for my job training, and in the afternoon, I hit the farmers’ market for fresh produce. My nights were spent alternately cooking simple meals and visiting local attractions, seeking out new friends and new homes.
It was, in a word, blissful.
And, yeah, I had received a message from Xavier. But it was just one, and it was an invitation to stay at his place. Nothing romantic, or now untoward — just a simple invite. Thanks to the Louvre, I’d already secured my apartment, so I sent him a quick text back, respectfully declining. Since then, there hadn’t been any other communication, and that was probably for the best. I was starting a new life, and I couldn’t do that if the ghosts of my past still haunted my inbox.
The only reminder I allowed myself of him was bringing the Botticelli painting with me. I’d taken it with me in my carry-on luggage and hung it on the wall as soon as I unpacked my few possessions.
With the goal of moving forward, I’d also bought one other thing, or rather set of things, besides a mattress and some kitchen supplies —a canvas, paint and brushes. I thought, just maybe, it was finally time to get back into my own artwork, not just recreating the masterful paintings of others. Besides, being pregnant had made my imagination spark to life, as though the life growing within me was spreading to all corners of my body and reigniting them.
So far, I hadn’t touched the paint, frankly out of fear that what I produced would be sub-par. Thus, the canvas sat blank in the corner until I finally got up the nerve to mar its perfect emptiness.
That morning, I prepared for the third day on the job. My training had passed, and I’d begun work in earnest. The people were nice in what broken English they could say to me, and I’d tried to be equally friendly in the broken French I said back. It had become immediately apparent that I would need to learn the language to survive in any capacity, so my errand for today was picking up a simple book of French-language learning skills. I figured with a little effort and total immersion, I’d get the hang of it in no time.
After picking up my café latte and petit baguette, I arrived at the Louvre.
The sight of it, I knew, would never get old. A huge, sprawling complex built in the 18th century, with the famous glass pyramid juxtaposed starkly against the cream walls. It took my breath away every time. It was not lost on me that the halls I walked had been trod by the most important minds of the past few centuries, that I was in a church of culture and art.
“Bonjour,” I said, popping into Hélène’s office.
“Bonjour, Chloe!” the restorer cried back, delighted to see me.
Hélène was one of the heads of the restoration team — lower than Pierre, to be sure, but high enough to have shown me the ropes of the Louvre. She’d done most of my training, and with aplomb.
“Chloe, attends-moi,” Hélène said. “I have a, uh, how you say — job — for you.”
Hélène reached behind her desk and pulled out a large photo, slightly blurry on its limp paper.
“C’est un… how you say… masterpiece,” she continued, pointing at the photo. “You restore it.”
My eyes scanned the photo, clearly a stand-in for a painting I was meant to restore. Suddenly, I understood what the picture was, and gasped.
“Hélène, this is a piece by Degas.”
“Oui. C’est très bien, non?”
Oh God, yes. “Oui, oui.”
“You start now. In your office, I put information.”
“Merci beaucoup,” I replied, my voice shaky.
“Au revoir.”
I bid Hélène goodbye and practically ran back to my office. The Louvre was putting me in charge of restoring a Degas. This was a huge, huge responsibility — and frankly, an honor.
So why, as I made my way back to my tiny office, crammed with books and other detritus, was I still sad?
You’re just adjusting to a new city, I told myself, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. You’ll get over it.
And yes, I was lonely, but that would soon be solved by an addition to my family.
“You’re in Paris,” I whispered to myself as I entered my office and took a seat. “You’re restoring a Degas. Be happy.”
Easier said than done.
CHAPTER 39
Xavier
“A LITTLE SHORTER on the arms, I think,” the tailor said as he made the final adjustments to my tux. “We don’t want you to be swimming in it.”
“No, definitely not.” The gala was tomorrow night, so these alterations were the last he could possibly make.
“I can just see the headlines now — billionaire heir has baggy cuffs at his own gala.”
I chuckled. “If the only thing the tabloids have to criticize are my baggy cuffs, I’ll consider it a job well done.”
“Never settle for less than perfection,” my father said from the couch in the corner.
I was positioned on a pedestal in front of a tri-way mirror so that my tailor, one of the finest in the world, could see every inch of the suit. My father had been offered a chair to supervise the operation, even though at my age, I was pretty certain I could pick out a suit without my dad’s help.
“But it’s not just for a gala,” my father had said pointedly. “It’s how you step into the rest of your life.”
There’d been no point in fighting him. Besides, watching him look at me in the tux, his eyes shining with pride and a little moisture, I knew it would’ve been cruel to deny him this bonding opportunity.
“What do you think, Dad?” I asked, turning to my father as the tailor stepped away.
“You look wonderful.”
I pivoted back to see myself in the mirror. He was right. I looked good. I’d gone with a black velvet tux, something a little edgy for the fashionable crowd, with a simple black velvet bow tie to match. It hugged my biceps and my taut thighs, fashioning me into something out of a men’s cologne ad. At the risk of sounding self-involved, I was rather astonished by the man I saw before me.
“Son, I have a last little engagement present for you,” my dad said, rising from the couch. “To show you how proud I am.”
I turned back, away from the mirror, lest I look at myself for any longer.
“You don’t have to do that—”
“I insist. Xavier, after you propose to Rebecca tomorrow night, I’m going to make you VP of your own branch of Eureka.”
I balked. “Dad, what?!”
“You’ve earned it. You’ve shown that you can be responsible, and smart and even-keeled. You deserve this.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say thanks,” he laughed. “I’d give you a hug, but I don’t want to mess up your suit before tomorrow.”
“An air hug, then.”
We stretched our arms across the room to one another, laughing the whole time. I loved my dad. Come whatever else, I knew that he had my back.
There was a knock on the door, and we both dropped our arms.
“Marc, is that you?” I called out.
My dad raised an eyebrow. “You invited Marc?”
Through the door came the reply: “Yeah, lemme in.”
The tailor went to the door and opened it, rolling his eyes when he saw a slightly d
isheveled Marc on the threshold.
“Hey, dude!” Marc shouted over the tailor’s shoulder. His eyes landed on my father, and he immediately straightened up. “Hello, sir.”
“Marc… what a pleasure,” my dad said. He really did like Marc, but I think he sometimes questioned his choices. After all, Marc was a little bit more of a partier than a guy like my father could understand.
“I’m taking Xavier out for his last big night on the town.”
“You’re thinking of a bachelor party. That comes after the engagement.”
Marc shrugged. “Then we’ll just have to do it twice.”
My dad sighed. “All right, all right, I suppose I was young once too. Go enjoy yourselves. Just don’t drink too much before the gala.”
“Deal,” Marc replied, as if I wasn’t even in the room. He glanced over at me just long enough to say, “You look great, bro. Now get changed and let’s go grab a drink.”
After very, very carefully extricating myself from the suit, I gave my dad a proper hug goodbye and went with Marc to Mustard, one of the swankiest new bars in town. He’d voted for some old watering hole, but I knew that if I fed him mixed drinks, his sensitive stomach would prevent him from drinking more than a couple.
We found two stools in front of the bar, and I immediately ordered for the both of us.
Strangely, in the interim between the tailor and the bar, Marc had grown… quiet. I didn’t even know that was a word that could be used in conjunction with him, but he was staring at his fingernails and avoiding my gaze and definitely not saying a word.
“What’s up, Marc?” I asked as the bartender slid two Scotches across the counter. “You okay?”
He finally looked up and grabbed his drink. “Of course.” He twisted his chest to me. “It’s just that, I know we don’t usually talk about this stuff, but I’ve noticed you seem kind of, uh, down lately.”
“Oh.” Since when had Marc begun picking up emotional cues like that?
“Yeah, so I was just wondering… is it about Rebecca? And the getting married and stuff?” He paused and quickly added, “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want.”
I was surprised. Marc rarely, if ever, tried to broach serious topics like this. But he was my closest friend and would probably be best man at my wedding. He was owed an answer, especially since I wanted to encourage him to be open with me in the future.
“I’m not upset about the engagement,” I replied. “It’s been a long time coming. I mean, hell, we’ve known each other since we were just little kids, Rebecca and I. More than anything, it feels like I’m finally checking something off my age-old to-do list.”
As I said the words, I realized how callous and sad they were. A to-do list. I was calling my engagement something rote, a mere errand to be accomplished. How fucking depressing. But I’d made my bed, and it was time to lie in it — even if that bed was cold and unwelcoming. Thoughts of Chloe flitted into my mind, but I batted them away in the same second. If my thoughts turned to her… well that, mixed with the alcohol, would not make for a happy last night of freedom.
“Do you love her?” Marc asked suddenly.
“Does it matter?”
Marc shook his head slowly. “I guess not.”
After that, we both sipped our drinks in silence.
CHAPTER 40
Chloe
THE CLOSING bell for the day had rung, dinging over the noise of the loud tourists and ushering them out into the courtyard. It was the late afternoon, and now the Louvre was — save for a legion of janitors and other staff members — all mine.
I found myself in the European antiquities gallery, admiring a bust of Caesar, its marble curls all perfectly in order. How had I gotten so very lucky that I could be here, surrounded by the finest art in the entire world, and be paid to revel in it?
You’re fortunate, I reminded myself. And don’t you forget it.
I inspected Caesar’s blanched cheeks a little more carefully. They were so familiar in their angular paleness…
Xavier.
The name came unbidden to my mind.
Where was he now? Was he thinking of me? I tried to stop the questions from swirling, but they’d taken on a life of their own. Was he happy?
Just then, I was pulled out of my spiral by the sensation of a rumbling in my belly. No, not a rumbling. A kick.
I placed a hand over my stomach as I found the nearest bench and sat down with a heavy thud.
My baby was kicking.
Tears rushed to my eyes and slid down my cheeks.
“Hey, kid,” I whispered to myself. “You doing a dance in there?”
Another kick.
Oh my God. I was going to be a mother. My baby was surging in my womb, getting ready to come join me and change my life forever. Joy came over me so hard and fast I thought I might be momentarily blacking out. I had never known an emotion so profound before, that much was certain.
And then, in the midst of this celebration, another thought hit me.
Is this what Xavier would be feeling right now, if he knew about the pregnancy? Or, more to the point, if I’d told him? I noticed that I kept conveniently excising myself of responsibility for the situation. How charming of me.
My baby was going to look like Xavier. Maybe it would have Xavier’s beautiful eyes, or his symmetrical flared nostrils, or his waves of dark brown hair. I hope my baby has all of that, I realized. In fact, I hoped my child looked exactly like Xavier.
Oh God. Why hadn’t I told Xavier I was pregnant?
What the hell had I done?
CHAPTER 41
Xavier
THE LIGHTS twinkled overhead, filling the ballroom with a gentle glow. Glasses tinkled, a DJ played and merriment was being had.
The gala was here. I was smack dab in the middle of it, with one person after another approaching me to say how wonderful I looked, how glad they were to be here, how excellent Eureka was as a business.
And yet, I felt nothing. No, that wasn’t it. Rather, I felt like I was taking the long march to the executioner, except instead of wearing rags, I wore a tux, and instead of passing my fellow prisoners, I slipped through a crowd of New York’s most glamorous.
I had been here for over an hour and had seen Rebecca in the distance several times. Perhaps she was as nervous as me?
“Xavier?”
I snapped back into the real world, focusing on the man in front of me. It was Adam, beaming at the spectacle of the gala.
“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked, trying to shake my mind free of distress.
“I was just telling you what a marvelous job you did planning the event. I couldn’t be more proud.” He looked around, then leaned in and whispered confidentially, “Are you nervous?”
I didn’t have to ask what he was referring to — Adam was talking about the proposal.
“Thanks, Adam, that’s kind of you.” I paused, trying to formulate my answer. “And no, I’m not nervous. It’s been years in the making, right?”
“Absolutely. Since you both were kids, your father and I knew how much you cared for one another, and that someday, you’d be wonderful partners. I’m so glad you’ll finally be a part of my family officially.” He broke off, steadying his voice. “I’ve always thought of you as a son.”
My heart rate ticked up and up, until I thought that the four little valves might just snap under the velocity of blood pumping through my veins. I thought for half a second that I should ask Adam what a heart attack felt like.
“Thank you, seriously, that means a lot to me,” I managed to reply. More than you can know. I was picking Rebecca for this — for my family, for the business. Adam had reminded me how important all that was.
“You’ve got my blessing.” He winked at me and clinked his glass against the one I held, shaking, in my hand. “Now go propose.”
“Yes sir.”
Why did I sound so doomed, even to my own ears? No matter. The time had passed for doubt and worry.
I had to face my future.
I walked with slow, dragging steps to the stage, where the DJ turned authentic vinyls on two turntables atop an elevated stage that glowed with phosphorescent light. He was behind a large booth, and I stepped behind it to join him.
“Hey man,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder.
He took off one ear of his enormous headphones. “What’s up?”
“It’s me, Xavier, the guy with the—”
“Oh, you’re that one.” He smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Good luck, dude. I’ll cue up the track. Here’s your mic.”
“Thanks.”
I took the mic in hand, and looked out into the vast audience — at my last tally of the guest list, over one thousand people. This was the moment. They weren’t looking, not just yet. I was still obscured behind the DJ’s setup. This would be the final minute before my fate was sealed.
And then the song came on: “All of Me” by John Legend came on. It wasn’t a special song to Rebecca and me. I actually wasn’t sure what taste Rebecca had in music. In fact, I’d just googled ‘romantic song’ and it was the first one that came up, so I went with it.
The audience still wasn’t looking at me, even though the DJ had made a purposefully abrupt transition to the song, so I coughed into the mic.
Suddenly, two thousand eyes were on me. I started to sweat under the velvet.
“Ahem,” I said, my voice ringing back to me. “Rebecca, where are you? Could you please come to the stage?”
Rebecca was resplendent that night in a peach-pink dress with hues of other pink tucked into the pleats of her gown, that seemed to grow ever more colorful as she whooshed through the room. Her dark brown hair was done up in a tasteful chignon and diamonds were stuck here and there throughout her hair. It was simple, but beautiful. Though I felt no romantic attraction to her, I was proud of her, as one of my closest friends, for how stunning she looked.
She was making her way to me with all the grace of a proper queen. Despite the look of astonishment she’d forced her face into, I knew that she was prepared — indeed, had been preparing for a lifetime. The crowd parted around her with excited murmurs.
