by Lisa Barr
Inhaling the fresh air and letting its warmth fill my senses, I walk through the restaurant’s small stoned archway, which opens up onto a sprawling terrace. Two steps in, and I’m greeted by a magnificent giant thumb sculpture by César Baldaccini.
“Oh my god, love this,” I say to myself, stopping to observe the realistic-looking thumb sticking out of the ground, with its huge nail and defined ridges. What a strange, yet perfect introduction. The maître d’, smiling at my reaction, leads me to a lovely small corner table shaded by ivy and a large overhanging tree. I look around the bustling terrace packed with faces from all over the world. The patio itself is the color of olive oil, rich with lush vines and vibrant flowers, which emit a spicy, intoxicating aroma. It smells like my yoga class before the workout—an infusion of essential oils. Practically every table is filled. My imagination begins to swirl. It’s truly a gem—I can see why actors and artists flock here. So inspiring. My gaze freezes and my breath catches.
Luc.
His back to me, I spot him dining on the far side of the restaurant with a small group. His hands are moving animatedly, clearly in deep conversation. He’s with a woman and two men—all well dressed, all around my age. Friends? Artists? Art dealers?
I tip the tall menu upward to hide myself while I take a better look. From my angle, he can’t see me, but I can see him. The waiter, meanwhile, comes to the table and presents me with a magnificent basket of raw vegetables, artichokes, radishes, cucumbers, carrots, and celery, explaining that this is merely a pre-hors d’oeuvre, compliments of the restaurant. I tell him in my improving French mixed with English to choose something special for me—his favorite fish (only without a head) with baked Provençal tomatoes, beans, and eggplant.
I then peer over again at Luc and his friends. Should I go over there—say hello? Or just pretend I don’t see him? Probably best to just leave it be. Is that rude? I munch on celery. Why do I suddenly feel so nervous?
The waiter returns with a goblet-sized glass of rosé—perfect. I pull out my leather journal, which I’ve learned is an excellent accompaniment while dining alone. Better than a phone, which makes you feel lonely, and disconnected. And better than a book, which looks like you are trying too hard not to look alone. A journal and a glass of wine, I’ve figured out, is empowering. I’m writing. I’m drinking. I’m eating—I’m taking care of me.
But instead of writing, I doodle aimlessly, and my mind wanders once more over to Luc’s table. I can’t concentrate. That’s it. I put my pen down, take a long sip of wine, and decide to end this nervousness (Rule No. 4: Take control), so I can move on to other things and fully enjoy my lunch.
I stand, taking the wineglass with me as I walk over to Luc’s table. I tap him lightly on the shoulder. “Luc—hi.”
He turns, his eyes flash. “Sophie . . . what a surprise. When did you get back?”
“Today actually,” I say, aware of the other guests at the table wondering who I am. “I am trying to avoid jet lag, so”—I gesture to my table across the terrace—“I’ve been wanting to come here and . . .”
He stares at me for an awkward moment, collects his thoughts, and turns to the others. “This is Sophie Bloom, from Chicago. A friend of Nathalie’s . . .”
I nod, smile to everyone at his table, toss out a few bonjours. “Sophie . . . these are friends in town from Paris, from the d’Orsay.”
Ahh, I think, the Musée d’Orsay, where Eve will be unveiled in mid-October. Our eyes lock briefly, and it is clear to both of us that there will be no mention of my working with Nathalie as her ghost sculptor. I remember Olivier’s words. No one can know. No credit. That was the deal. Luc probably received the same marching orders.
I smile warmly. “Well, lovely to meet you all, and enjoy Saint-Paul.” I turn to Luc. “My very best to Nathalie.” A few more pleasantries are exchanged, and I return to my table. I realize after a few minutes of sitting and staring at my journal, clutching the stem of my rosé, that I haven’t let out a single breath.
I PAY MY BILL AND FINISH OFF A CAPPUCCINO AND FRESH BERRIES. JUST BEFORE I get up to leave, the waiter tells me, “Madame, you must go inside and see . . .”
I nod. “I plan on it. Merci beaucoup. This was truly fantastique.” I sprinkle as much French as I can into my closing sentence, and for a man who clearly takes his job and his French pride seriously, he grins with appreciation.
“Pas mal?” I add with a smile. Not bad, ay? At least I’m trying.
“Pas mal,” he replies with a wink.
I purposely walk around the opposite side of the terrace, so as not to interrupt the lunch that Luc is still having with d’Orsay people. I stop briefly to admire the large colorful ceramic mural Hands of a Dove by Fernand Léger, perched on the wall between tables and shaded by fig trees.
Entering the hotel from the terrace, I walk past the concierge and the bathroom, and then stop in my tracks when I see the rustic dining room up ahead filled with white-clothed tables already prepped for the dinner crowd. It is chock-full of antique knickknacks and paintings. I peer in closely. Not just paintings, I realize, but masterworks. There’s a Miró in one corner. A Picasso hanging over a table for two. That’s a Braque over there. And in another crevice, hangs a Chagall. My heart races.
Looking around, I see no one around—not even a security guard. The lunch crowd is all outside. I’m sure there are hidden cameras. Let them catch me. I enter the vacant dining room to peruse the magnificent artwork up close. I practically have to stop myself from twirling around. Just me, hanging out with my idols. Unbelievable.
A good twenty minutes or so fly by, and I force myself to tear away, and check out other rooms. I walk through a windy corridor, and stop in my tracks. In the distance, out the large back window, I see the lovely pool filled with hotel guests, and spot a rotating Calder mobile near the shallow end of the pool, just as a little girl, oblivious to the famous sculpture, jumps in right next to it, with a giant splash. To the right of the Calder, as though dropped in haphazardly, sits a gigantic green apple sculpture by Hans Hedberg. Am I dreaming? It’s as though I too have been dropped into the most marvelous home filled with hidden treasures. No guards that I can see, no thick bulletproof glass surrounding the artwork, no stuffy plaques naming the art and announcing its donor. Just pure simplicity. The art itself hanging out, as though it too is on vacation from all the pretense.
Reluctantly, I head back toward the lobby exit, and I see Luc in the distance, alone, his back toward me, staring at a drawing by Henri Matisse.
I clear my throat, not wanting to bother him, but there is no way around him, no other way to leave the restaurant. “We meet again,” I say lightly as I approach.
He looks slightly startled. “I was just thinking about you,” he says, pressing his lips tightly together. “I want to apologize. I wish I could have introduced you properly, and I know you were dining alone. I would have invited you to join us but the lunch was all business. They are representing the group of investors who commissioned Eve for the museum, and are underwriting the opening-night festivities. There were lots of details to discuss, and—”
“Please don’t worry at all,” I interject. “Really. I’ve had the loveliest time here. No need to apologize. How long are your guests in town?”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. He looks relieved. “They’re leaving after lunch. They came out to the house last night to view Eve for the first time.” He stops speaking. There’s an awkward silence between us. “They were amazed, to say the least . . . but I also had to let them know how sick Nathalie is. It was a very emotional night, as you can imagine. Very hard for her. She didn’t come out of our bedroom, didn’t want them to see her this way. It was rough. I’m sorry, I . . .”
I hold up my hand, then place it against my chest. “I can’t even begin to imagine. It must have been overwhelming for her. And she’s so private that way.”
“Yes, very. The art here . . .” He looks around, clearly wanting to change the
subject. “I just love this place, especially the casual display of the artwork. It is as art should be—part of life, infused, not separate and standoffish.”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing behind me. “Did you see the Calder by the swimming pool? And that thumb at the entrance. Everything is so unexpected, yet so perfect.”
His eyes, which seconds ago darkened, now glisten, the same golden green as the terrace. “Nathalie and I used to come here on special occasions, and whenever we have guests in town, we . . .” He draws in a deep breath, as though contemplating the “we” and all of its ramifications. “She’s very sick, Sophie. She’s taken a downturn since you left. I don’t know . . . I just don’t know.” He averts his distraught gaze, and I see him wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
I can’t help it. I touch Luc’s arm, to comfort him. “It’s going to be okay.”
He shakes his head. “See that’s the thing . . . it’s not.”
I gently remove my hand. He’s right. It’s not going to get any better. I wish I knew the thing to say. There are no words for a man who is grieving so much at once.
“And how was your visit home?” he asks, trying to reel in his emotion. “I know from our conversation the other day that it must have been tough for you.”
In all his pain, he remembered.
“It was very tough at first. A lot to deal with . . . but then, surprisingly, there was closure.” I think back to how much happened in those few days. Lauren. Gabe. Ava.
“I’m glad for you.” He holds my gaze, as though he wants to say more and then changes his mind. “Well, I’ve got to go.” He points over his shoulder. “I was actually headed to the WC. I’m sure they’re wondering if I ran away.”
I laugh. “See you back at the studio tomorrow. And again, my best to Nathalie. And Luc . . .” He turns to me. I notice a muscle in his jaw twitch slightly. “She’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. I’ve seen her have really bad days and she always manages to turn it around.”
Not this time. I can see it in his eyes. “Au revoir, Sophie.”
Luc turns, and I watch his long stride move toward the restroom and then disappear. But something inexplicable is left behind, a thickening of the air around me, as though Luc is still here, still with me.
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE EARLY MORNING BREEZE LIGHTLY CARESSES MY NECK AND CHEEKS AS I PICK up a café au lait and an almond croissant from the small bakery around the corner from Lea and Jean-Paul’s apartment before driving out to the studio. I’m excited to get back to work.
When I arrive at the Senards’, there’s an Audi sports car parked in the driveway that I don’t recognize. I wonder who’s here. Entering the studio, I expect to see Nathalie waiting for me, smoking a joint and Claudia watching over her, making herself busy. But when I walk in, it’s Olivier standing there instead, alone, surveying Eve. I’m startled, taken aback by his unexpected presence.
He looks up. “Bonjour, Sophie.” As if it were normal. His eyes are baggy and his grayish face is drawn. Something is wrong. He points to Eve. “Beyond what I even imagined she could be.”
I look around, my heart pounds. “Why are you here? Where’s Nathalie?”
“She’s . . .” He shakes his head and his lips press tightly together.
Oh no. My whole body tightens with fear.
“Did she?”
“No, but soon. It’s happening.” Olivier lets out a hard breath and it’s clearly an effort to speak. “Claudia called me last night, told me to come. Told me to wait here. I left Paris right away, drove all night.”
She’s dying. I think, panicking. Luc.
“You need to go,” I say firmly. “You can’t be here.”
Olivier ignores my warning and circles Eve. “It’s her best work. You have done a wonderful job. I knew you would.”
“Listen to me, damn it.” I raise my voice. “Her husband is in town. You can’t be here.”
“We’re all friends,” he says, standing his ground. “She asked me to come.”
We’re all friends. The lies. “Then trust me when I say, as her friend, leave now.” I stop short of saying Luc knows the truth about you and Nathalie. I don’t want to break Luc’s trust or Nathalie’s.
“It’s the goddamn end, Sophie,” he growls. “I was told to be here and I’m staying.”
“Luc knows and Nathalie doesn’t know he knows,” I blurt out, betraying everybody’s confidence. “This lie of yours, this lie of hers—he fucking knows. And I know, because I know you, that you’re not just friends.”
Olivier rakes his hand through his thick hair as though pulling it. His gaze is distant and sad. “I knew she was lying to me. She told me it was just a fling and it was over. But it wasn’t for me nor for her. And now I’m about to lose her forever.”
I feel my fists tightening. I’ve got to get him out of this damn studio now. “Do you understand that you are not about to lose her—Luc is. Don’t do this. It’s not about you for once. Give Luc the time he deserves with his wife. Leave now and I will tell her you came.” I move toward him. If I have to drag Olivier out of here, I will. If I have to stab him with a chisel or knock him out with a hammer, I will.
He stands at the base of the statue and lightly strokes Eve’s foot. “I’ve done so many bad things in my life. But Nathalie . . . I’ve always known it was her. She was the one. And now . . .”
The door opens and Claudia wheels Nathalie inside. She is propped up with pillows on all sides. She looks much worse than any time I have ever seen her look before. Luc was right—she has taken a downward turn. Her face is ashen and swollen, her chapped lips are nearly white. There is nothing left to her. Could that much have changed so quickly?
Claudia sees Olivier near the statue and looks fearful. She, too, knows he should not be here. She understands exactly how this is going to play out if Luc walks through those doors, and he will. I don’t know where Luc is now, but he was in town yesterday. I can’t bear this. I pick up my purse and grab my sweater. “I’m leaving.”
“No.” Nathalie clings to the sides of her wheelchair, her voice barely audible. “Stay. Don’t go. Not today.”
I stop moving, not sure what to do. My body feels feverish. She wants me here as a cover. This is so wrong on every front. “Please don’t ask this of me. Claudia is here. She will stay.”
“I need you.” Her voice is so unbearably weak, but she is Nathalie Senard—she will demand and receive until her very last breath. “Eve is everything I dreamed her to be. Her hair . . .” She slowly reaches up, touches her own head, the patchy baldness beneath the violet paisley-patterned scarf. Her vanished blonde hair was once a lion’s mane, thick and billowy, a golden river photographed in so many French magazines. Her barely lucid gaze does not veer from mine. She is asking me for one final moment with the man she loves. Who am I to judge? Her days are no longer numbered, they are at zero, I can see it—anybody could. But I feel Luc’s looming presence like a tide in the distance you can see from shore, making its way toward you. I glance at Claudia for help. She shakes her head, her forehead furrows. Neither of us can stop the inevitable, neither of us can protect any of the players here.
“Work,” Nathalie barks, half breath, half cough. “Please, finish her hair,” she adds. The bark turns to a beg.
I put down my sweater, the purse, gather my tools, and slowly climb up the scaffold. From the corner of my eye, I see Olivier on his knees in front of Nathalie’s wheelchair, his head against her lap. It’s a version of him I’ve never seen before, nor could I have imagined. Her shaking hands stroke his head. Her turquoise eyes, the only part of her that is still vital, are now twinkling bright. She is a woman in love, even as she dies. And Olivier . . . even the fallen fall in love. I think of Ava, his rebound, his filler. I will never forgive him for that. But look at him now. A man who idealizes beauty for once doesn’t care that it’s gone. He is holding on to Nathalie’s essence, his true love, one last time.
I put on my goggles
and begin to work. Strand by strand, using a sand cloth, I start to polish the long marble lines of nearly three feet of Eve’s wild mane, scrubbing softly at first, then hard and angry, until the ivory marble starts to shine. But for the first time, I don’t even notice. I glance down again. Olivier’s arms are now wrapped around Nathalie’s frail shoulders. His mouth is on hers, when Luc walks in.
I stop polishing, stop breathing, my hands go numb. Time halts like an electrical short as love, death, and betrayal all meet up in the same dark room.
There is no punching, no shouting. No explanations, no lies. Just an unbearable silence hovering before the storm. The sound of a broken vase crashing against the wall breaks the stillness. Luc looks up at me after he throws it, with a disbelieving accusatory Et tu, Brute? glare—and nothing, I mean nothing, has ever hurt me more. He thinks I’m in on it, part of the collusion: a duplicitous contributor to his ultimate humiliation and betrayal. The studio door flings open, then slams, and I hear the harsh sound of an engine revved up in the distance, the flooring of a car careening against the stony driveway.
Descending the ladder, I look at both Olivier and Nathalie, the guilty. Rodin’s star-crossed lovers, doomed to an afterlife spent together in purgatory. My eyes meet Claudia’s terrified gaze. Go, she begs me silently. I throw down the goggles, my tools, my cloths, and race out the door after Luc. I feel the familiar betrayal pounding inside my bones, stomping me, choking me as it had the night of my birthday. Luc’s pain is mine revisited. He’s a good man, loving her despite it all, and now this, the greatest of all betrayals. In his face, and through his heart.
PANICKING, I GET INTO MY CAR AND RACE TOWARD THE VILLAGE OF ÈZE. I DRIVE around until I finally spot Luc’s parked car, near a guy who sells spices. At this point I don’t care about getting a ticket. I park in a nearby no-parking zone, and jump out, glancing up at the cone-shaped rock housing the maze of shops, art galleries, perfumeries, restaurants, hotels, and at the very pinnacle, the exotic garden, known for its vibrant plants and flowers, sculptures of goddesses, waterfalls, and a panoramic view of the French Riviera. Luc had said it was his favorite spot in that article in the Paris Match. It’s a long shot, my only shot. There. He has to be up there.
