by Lisa Barr
Ten minutes later, I hear knocking at the door. Room service was much quicker than I’d anticipated. “Just a second.” I quickly grab one of the plush hotel robes, put it on and answer.
My breath catches in my throat. Maybe, yes has turned into a Definite Yes.
My heart races when I see him. “Are you doing room service now?”
Jean-Paul glances behind him. “I have a half-hour break. Can I come in?”
I open the door wider and he walks inside.
“Nice suit,” I say.
“It’s nicer off.” He locks the door behind him. “I will be fired if they find me. So . . .”
“So . . .”
“The other night was good, yes?” Wasting no time for my response, Jean-Paul runs his hands down the length of the opening in my robe, along the curvy lines of my cleavage. I moan softly and then remember my rules: passion without hurting anyone. Lea.
I stop his hand from opening my robe any farther and hold it there. “But Lea—”
“What about her?” he says with a shrug. “She’s at home painting. Happy.”
“Will she be happy knowing that you’re here with me without her?” I shake my head, raise my brows in an I-don’t-think-so.
“We are open. She has her experiences as well.” He looks surprised, as if it’s strange that I’m even bringing her up right now.
“But you shared me together. Is that allowed in your rules?”
“Of course. And we don’t have rules.” Jean-Paul’s eyes are wide and unblinking. He lies and I let him. I want him to lie. Everyone has rules. Even sexually fluid millennials.
“I’m too old for you.” My unconvincing last-ditch effort to give him an out.
He smiles and I see a tiny dimple that I hadn’t noticed before. How did I miss that? “You seem very young actually,” he says.
I don’t know if that is an insult, pointing to my inexperience, or if it’s a compliment. He sees the confused look in my eye and rewinds. “My English is not very good. What I meant to say is you are a woman and yes older, but you have much to learn.”
And there you go. My face turns flush.
“Wait, I said that wrong too.” He places his hands lightly on my shoulders. He’s not tall like Gabe. Perhaps just four or five inches taller than me. “It’s the language barrier. What I meant is you have much you want to learn—am I right?”
“Yes.” I nod. “More than you know.”
“I know.” He runs a long finger through a stray hair sticking to my cheek, pulls it back gently.
“And how do you know that?”
“Lea told me. She sees things that other people don’t, the details. A beautiful woman alone in Saint-Paul-de-Vence wearing a wedding ring. She said you either murdered your husband or he hurt you very badly.” He takes my hand and leads me toward the bed. It’s the only place to actually sit in the room, unless you count the uncomfy decorative chair in the corner.
I laugh nervously. “Lea’s right. I murdered my husband.”
No one needs to know the details about Gabe. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I couldn’t bear it. I glance at my wedding ring. But it is the details that count. My ring . . . I still haven’t taken it off. It belonged to Gabe’s grandmother and I loved her nearly as much as I loved Gabe. She lived with Gabe’s parents until she died, when we were in our late twenties. She was kind and smart, and like Lea, she too saw things that other people didn’t see. Gabe’s grandmother was her own version of an artist—the things she could crochet—and she was the one who encouraged me to make sculpting my career, to do what I loved. I still miss her and her precious pearls of wisdom. Suddenly without warning, I begin to cry and I can’t stop.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, wiping the tears, embarrassed. “This is clearly not sexy and definitely not what you came here for. And you have like eight minutes left.”
“No . . . still sexy. I like sensitive women,” he says, which makes me laugh. “And I have nine minutes. I’m truly sorry about whatever happened to you that has made you so sad. But I don’t live in the past or with regrets. I’m here with you now. And Lea would want me to be here too. She wants me to be happy. Be free. That’s why we work. I’m not going to lie to her. I will tell her. She tells me. Do you understand me? This is okay.”
No rules. No regrets. Never looking back in the past. If only I could be that free.
He runs his hands through my choppy hair, his fingertips trace down along my neck, and I moan aloud—I can’t help it. He leans in and kisses my neck lightly, and then my lips hard. “I’ve thought about you all day. I touched myself this morning, thinking about you and us together.”
“And Lea,” I say, still feeling guilty.
“Yes, and Lea. But right now, just you. I want you.” He takes off his jacket, loosens his tie, undoes his pants and places them neatly over the chair. Just then there’s a knock at the door.
“Room service,” a woman’s voice calls out.
Jean-Paul puts his finger to his lips. “Yes, merci,” I answer. “Please just leave it at the door and I will take it in a few minutes. Merci beaucoup.”
We wait until the footsteps disappear down the corridor. Four minutes left.
“Take me in your mouth now,” he orders.
I don’t think—I do. I get down on my knees, about to wrap my mouth around him when my phone rings. Christ. There is only one caller left on my phone and she is in Barcelona with Jake. I have to take it. From the corner of my eye, I can even see her picture popping up on the phone screen.
Jean-Paul sees my face. “Someone important?”
“Very.”
He pulls away, reaches for his pants. “Take it then.”
I can’t tell if he is angry or annoyed or both. But I lunge for the phone anyway. Ava first, Ava last. I’m sorry, I mouth. “Hold on, honey. Let me get into a spot with better reception.”
“What time do you get off?” I cup the phone and whisper.
“Ten,” he says.
“Come back?”
“Maybe, yes.”
“AVA—HOW ARE YOU?” WE TALKED THE DAY AFTER GABE ARRIVED IN PARIS, WHICH apparently didn’t go so well, and then yesterday morning when she was leaving Paris for Barcelona to meet Jake. Things had improved with Gabe by the time he left for Chicago, and she seemed excited to see Jake again.
“Dad was in a car accident and you need to go home. I think I do too.”
“What are you talking about? What kind of accident?” I forget that I hate Gabe, that he betrayed me. Gabe was in an accident. I can barely catch my breath. “Is he . . . okay?”
Ava starts to cry. “I don’t know. He’s really hurt. And I’m still really mad at him, but please just go take care of him, Mom. Be there for him, like always.”
My heart is beating fast. I sit on the bed, shaking. “Ava—please, tell me slowly, exactly what happened.”
Her voice is trembling. “Samantha called and told me to tell you. Why wouldn’t she have called you directly?”
Because. “Doesn’t matter—what did she say?”
“She said that Dad is at Northwestern Hospital with a severe concussion, two broken ribs, and a broken arm. Please go home and fix this. He needs you and I need you to be there for him.” Ava in a panic sounds like she’s twelve.
“Can I talk to Jake for a minute?”
“Mrs. Bloom?”
“Jake—call me Sophie—listen to me. Ava is all over the place. I want you to take care of her. I’m going to find out exactly what’s going on with her dad and I will call you directly. Is she okay . . . are you guys okay?”
“We’re good, Mrs. Bloom—Sophie. Not good right now obviously—but you know, good.”
“Good,” I say, thinking I’ve got to call Gabe. And if he’s not there, I’ve got to bite the bullet and call Samantha. “Okay, tell Ava I will call back as soon as I have more information. No reason to fly home yet. Just keep her calm. Can you do that, Jake?”
Gabe, Gabe. What hap
pened to you? So much bad stuff has hit our family and now this. I hate you, but I can’t lose you. I call him. Four rings. Pick up, damn it.
“Sophie?”
Thank God. “Gabe, what happened? I just got a call from Ava. She’s hysterical. Are you okay?”
“Not my best. I was hit on my way to work by someone who ran a light. I was uh . . . Sophie, where are you? I tried calling you several times but couldn’t get through.”
You’ve been deleted. “How bad are you, really?”
He hesitates. His voice is weak. “A few broken ribs, my arm, my head—the headache is excruciating. I won’t be able to operate for weeks, maybe more.”
“Who’s there with you?”
“My mother just stopped by and that just about did me in. And our friends have all been here . . .” He starts coughing, clearly hard for him to breathe.
Lauren? I wonder, barely hearing him choking on his words. They’re not “our” friends anymore. “Good,” I say absently, stealing Jake’s lone, dependable word.
“Soph, I need you. Come home. I know I fucked things up but . . .”
Cabo. The time when Gabe swam out too far and the waves were so choppy. I told him not to go swimming, that there were warnings, but it’s Gabe—a challenge is a challenge. Too far means not far enough. He defied the signs and swam anyway and, predictably, got pulled down by the undertow. I watched from the beach, screaming for him. It took two lifeguards to save him and when they did, he lay in my lap on the sand, waterlogged and tears filling his eyes. “I’m sorry I did that to you, Soph. I know I fucked up but I’ll never scare you like that again.”
“How long will you be in the hospital?” I ask, thinking should I go to him?
“I don’t know. When are you coming home?”
I have no home. I’m landless. My home is this hotel room.
“Please, I need you,” he begs softly.
I think of Jean-Paul and his psychedelic tats, those hard abs, and heavy breath—I want you—there’s a difference. But Gabe is hurt. Ava’s dad is hurt. Think of her, not you.
“I don’t know, Gabe. I’m not sure.”
“Soph . . .”
“Tell me more again,” I say, trying to buy myself time to figure out my next move. “How exactly did the accident happen? Were you alone?”
There is quiet. A pregnant pause. Maybe it’s a bad connection. Maybe the concussion?
“Gabe? You there? Gabe?”
“No.”
“No—you’re not there?”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“Who was with you?” I hold my breath. I don’t allow myself to feel anything. I don’t want to know. But I have to know. “Who, Gabe . . . answer me now.”
I can hear his difficulty breathing. “A nurse from the hospital. She’s hurt bad, much worse than me. She’s in surgery now for her—”
“Wait, wait—back up.” I literally put up my hand like a school crossing guard stopping the kids from running across the street. I know Gabe. And I know exactly who the injured nurse is. “Holly the nurse? That nurse. Are you fucking kidding me?”
Silence. And it’s definitely not the concussion. It’s guilt this time.
“Get well and goodbye, Gabe.”
I lean against the wall and slowly slide down. I stare at his grandma’s ring and then remove it. I hold it up to the light and peer through the tiny loop. He almost had me again, drew me in. I was back in Cabo, on the beach, his beautiful head of glistening curls nestled in my lap. I was stroking his drenched forehead. I was praying. For a moment, our past trumped our present. For a moment, I still loved him, still cared. And then along came Holly. And I hate him all over again.
IT’S 10:05, BRIDGET JONES IS ALMOST OVER. BRIDGET’S RUNNING THROUGH THE snowy streets wearing just a tank top, an unbuttoned sweater, panties, and untied sneakers to get Darcy back. Go, Bridge, go. He’s not leaving you—I scream inside my head—he’s inside that store, buying you another red diary. And then, just before the final kiss, my favorite part, there’s a three-tap knock at my door and I realize that Maybe, yes is no longer a maybe.
I open the door. Jean-Paul walks in and doesn’t wait for my objections, my rules, my regrets, my phone to ring. He doesn’t care. He’s been parking cars for the past three hours and working the front desk dealing with demanding hotel guests and their room issues. He doesn’t need me. He wants me. And right now, I don’t care if Gabe is concussing. I don’t care if Holly the flirty nurse comes out of surgery. I don’t care if Lea is at home happily painting body parts or if she’s majorly pissed off. I don’t care if Olivier Messier is plotting how to seduce me or spending the night with one of his students. I don’t care if Ava wants me to go take care of her cheating wounded father. I let my robe fall to the ground. I’m naked and more than ready. My forty-two years old presses up against his taut twenty-seven years young—and you know what—I just don’t care.
Chapter Eighteen
THE TEXT COMES THE SECOND I OPEN MY EYES THE NEXT MORNING. I HEAR THE ding, search around for my reading glasses, and bring the phone up close to my face.
O: Sophie. I am sorry about yesterday.
I sit up, find the glasses on the floor next to the bed, not knowing what to think or how “O” even got my number, and then I remember. I texted him after Ava’s procedure in Paris. I’m about to erase his text, block him for good, and then ding, another message comes in.
O: Please don’t ignore. There’s someone you should meet while you are here. She’s a sculptor. It is my gift to you, my sincere apology for my behavior.
His gift. Admittedly, a pretty good apology as far as apologies by assholes go. But again, it’s Olivier, there’s got to be a catch, something in it for him. Delete, block. I warn myself. Do it now. I tap at the phone, hesitating. The sculptor part is definitely intriguing. Who is she and why does he want me to meet her?
I reread the message again, trying to find a clue between the letters. Okay, I’m going to regret this but . . .
SOPHIE: Who?
I stare at the dancing dots as he writes back.
O: First, how long will you be here?
I shake my head. Now I’m the asshole. I’m not falling for this. It’s a trick question. This time I don’t answer. And like the man-child that Olivier is, his patience level does not exceed twenty seconds, and the dots begin to shuffle once again.
O: I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow, if that makes this easier. I won’t be around.
I respond.
SOPHIE: It does. Will be in Provence for a while. Who is the sculptor?
The dancing dots appear and then:
O: Nathalie Senard. You’ve heard of her?
I nearly drop the phone on my sheets. Heard of her? Who in the art world has not heard of Nathalie Senard and her handsome husband, the painter Luc Senard? It’s like asking a teenager if they’ve heard of Beyoncé and Jay-Z.
Nathalie, who is only in her midforties, has paved the way for contemporary women sculptors. She is famous for her larger-than-life Amazonian sculptures of women made out of every medium—metal, glass, clay, but particularly marble—always in powerful poses. Nathalie Senard’s women—“Les Bitches,” as the French press lovingly refers to her sculptures—are synonymous with Joan of Arc in stilettos. Her pieces have even been featured in several popular movies, both American and French. I can barely breathe. How does Olivier know her, and why does he want me to meet her?
In my excitement, I forget that I despise him. I pick up the phone and call him.
He laughs. “I had a feeling . . .”
“I’m sure you did. What is your connection to Nathalie Senard?” I don’t mention that she is an idol of mine, because it sounds pathetically fangirl. Nor will I tell him that one reviewer actually compared my “Mermaids and Madmen” exhibit to her work. It was the greatest compliment I ever received.
“Nathalie and I go way back, since art school,” Olivier explains, and then, as if reading my mind, he adds, “and no—we w
ere not together. Just friends. Believe it or not, Sophie, despite popular opinion, I actually do have a few of those. Her husband is a wonderful painter in his own right, but Nathalie is in a league of her own.” He sips something loudly into the phone. Probably the first of his daily espresso lineup. “But what I’m about to tell you is between us . . . can I trust you to keep it that way?”
I nod to myself. “Yes, of course.”
He takes a long, drawn-out breath. “She’s dying. Ovarian cancer. Stage four. They’ve done everything they can for her. The best doctors, all the possible treatments. It was discovered late and Nathalie has just months left to live.”
“What?” I gasp, shocked by the news. “That’s devastating. And yet, I’ve read nothing about it.”
“No one has. It’s not public knowledge. The Senards have paid a lot of money to keep her illness out of the press for as long as they can. They have lots of friends in high places. But between us, she has stopped all treatment because she wants to finish her final installation . . . which is truly magnificent.” He clears his throat and doesn’t try to hide the sadness in his voice. “The treatment has been brutal on her body, her hands. It incapacitates her. But she is determined to fight this until the end. For Nathalie, the art, of course, always comes first—even before her health. Anyway, I’ve put together an exhibition for her—an unveiling of this last sculpture. It will be held in Paris, at the Musée d’Orsay in mid-October.” I can hear the click of a lighter as Olivier sparks up a cigarette, and then his protracted exhale. “I’m scared she might not make it until then, and though she doesn’t say it, so is she.”
I feel sick to my stomach with this knowledge. What a true loss of one of the greatest talents. She must mean a lot to Olivier.
“The problem is Nathalie is very stubborn, determined to finish her work all on her own, refusing to accept assistance,” Olivier continues. “But the woman can barely hold a chisel. She needs help. I don’t know how she would receive this—it’s a long shot. But I think you could help her.”
“Me?” I’m taken aback. “I haven’t sculpted in years. Not just years, Olivier, but fourteen years.”
