by Lisa Barr
I move as though there is a motor beneath me, racing up the winding tiny cobblestone streets punctuated by vaulted passages, running amid the crush of pedestrians, neither seeing nor hearing them.
I’m out of breath when I finally arrive at the garden entrance; my throat is parched and I’m dying of thirst. I stop in my tracks, and through the succulents and cacti, I heave a sigh of relief when I spot Luc standing in the distance. He is near the far edge of the overlook, alone near the rocks. Don’t jump, I silently beg him, my heart beating fast. But I understand if you want to.
He hears my approaching footsteps against the grounds, but doesn’t turn, doesn’t move. I stand behind him and whisper. “Luc.”
He turns slowly. His face is tear streaked, his eyes are blazing, pained. My heart breaks just looking at him.
“How could you do that to me—in my own home? Working as if it didn’t matter. You knew . . .”
He is turning his anger on me, because there is no one else to blame. “I walked in this morning to work and he was there,” I whisper. “I swear, I had nothing to do with it.”
Luc shakes his head. He believes no one. Everyone is a liar. I get it. “And yet you didn’t leave either,” he counters. “You stayed, you sculpted, you allowed them to be together—you enabled. After everything I told you . . .”
I can’t let him go down that road without a fight. “I told Olivier to leave immediately. I even told him you knew. I betrayed your trust just to get him out of the studio.” My voice rises protectively. “Please believe me.”
He stares blankly over my shoulder, then glares at me. “I believe no one.”
I understand him. He needs someone to accuse—better than himself. Better than the dying woman whom he has loved his whole life but who betrayed him in the end—not just for the affair, but for choosing Olivier over him in her final days, perhaps moments. I wish I could take this harrowing pain away from Luc, but I can’t. Just like I couldn’t protect Ava. Or even Gabe from himself. Or me, from all the lies around me.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, but he doesn’t respond. He looks away. Behind him I see picture-taking tourists and young travelers taking selfies. Just listen to him, I tell myself. Don’t move, stay.
He finally speaks. “I wanted the time she had left just to be with her, to be together. But the truth is, she chose Eve over me. I’m a painter—I understand her choice more than you know. But when I walked into the studio today I understood that Nathalie’s choice wasn’t just about Eve, it was him too. She chose him . . . over me.” He shields his tormented face with his hand.
I want to hold him. Take care of him. Protect him. Kiss him, I admit, then scold myself. He’s not yours. But something stronger, magnetic, propels me forward anyway. I lift my face upward, my lips move toward his. His eyes open wide and he pulls back. “How can you? Do you think I’m like them?” he shouts, and it’s as if I’ve been slapped, shot. My whole body retracts.
“Nathalie is dying, you work with her.” His green eyes are burning.
“You’re right, and I’m very sorry. I just . . .” Have I lost my mind? I get up and walk away quickly, head held high clinging to whatever shreds of dignity I have left. Once I pass through the exit and out of his view, I run, rushing along the path with tears flowing down my face. Luc is mourning his dying disloyal wife—the woman he still loves—and I tried to kiss him?
Who’s the cheater now?
Chapter Thirty-Five
I GET THE DREADED CALL FROM CLAUDIA IN THE LATE AFTERNOON. NATHALIE, SHE cries into the phone, has passed. I can barely hear Claudia’s words through her tears. The giant hole opening inside me seems to swallow me up.
I pour myself a glass of wine, and then smoke a joint to calm myself. There’s a stash in Lea’s nightstand, next to her condoms and an old picture of her with her mother taken at a swimming pool. I examine the photo closely. The white-framed Kodak print is crinkled from years of holding. That’s when I really cry.
The phone rings again.
“Hello, hello?” I say, clearing my throat. I hear a man’s muffled voice.
“Luc?”
But it’s Jean-Paul calling from Capri.
“Are you okay? Is Lea okay?” I ask.
“Yes, yes.” He laughs. “Everybody is more than okay—we’re great. Sophie, we are pregnant.”
“Oh my—wow—that’s wonderful.” A death and a birth simultaneously. Two calls, two souls exchanging places. I can barely breathe.
“I’m so happy for you both,” I manage, fighting off tears.
“It’s really crazy. We had been wondering why Lea was so sick this past week. We thought it was the flu and then this.” I can practically see his handsome face smiling through the phone. “We’ve decided it’s best to come home early. I gave my notice at the hotel. We are coming back at the end of this week, so . . .”
“Don’t even say another word. I will figure it out.” I inwardly begin to panic. What am I going to do now? Where do I go? Eve is still not done. Nathalie is dead . . . and Luc. “Give Lea my love. This is fantastic news.”
I get off the phone and think of Jean-Paul with his chest-to-toe tats and Lea with all her New Age philosophies of life and relationships. It’s hard to imagine them as parents, yet they are both so loving, so generous.
I sit at the table, downing more wine, and think about the timing. Six hours. Claudia had said Nathalie passed away six hours ago, which meant she died in the studio in Olivier’s arms. Not Luc’s. He never got to say goodbye. I don’t think, I move. I get into my same clothes because they are at the edge of the bed. Tipsy and high, I call a cab to take me to Èze. Luc needs me, kiss or no kiss, whether he knows it or not.
WHEN WE PULL UP TO THE SENARD HOME, I HURRIEDLY HAND A WAD OF EUROS TO the driver and jump out. I clumsily type in the gate code and stumble across the pebble driveway toward the studio. The light is on, as I knew it would be. I can see someone moving through the window.
I fling open the door, and I don’t find Luc—instead, I come face-to-face with an axe murderer. A crazed, shirtless man wielding an actual axe in his hand—where did he get that? And the studio looks like it has been hit by an earthquake. Luc has destroyed everything—random sculptures, the shelves, the tools, the vases—even the mini-refrigerator is bashed in. Everything is wrecked except for Eve. The best for last—Eve will be his final strike. I understand him. Everything inside Luc is broken, but I have to protect Eve from him no matter what. For Nathalie. He sees me. His face is blank and unrecognizable.
“Luc, stop, please. Enough!” I shout, as he moves toward the far corner of the studio and smashes through the lone standing shelf of tiny sculptures. Unfinished figurines. Nathalie’s “rejection collection,” she called them. But she could not bring herself to throw them out. One by one, Luc chops and destroys them.
I come up from behind him, this grief-stricken madman, and he stops in midswing. “Again? Leave me be. Get out of here!” he yells.
“No, I’m not leaving you!” I shout back, my head spinning, my thoughts and words not quite in sync.
“She died in his arms. His arms—do you hear me?” Luc’s roar echoes throughout the hollow studio as though we are in a church or a cave.
“I hear you. Please, put that down.” I’m wobbly but strong. “Give me that, damn it.” I yank the axe out of his relenting hands and he stands there, limp and shattered. He sinks to the ground amid the debris, the marble, the glass, the clay, the plaster, so many pieces and fragments. I slip down next to him and gather him into my arms, and this time he doesn’t pull away or shout at me or shame me. He melds into me.
“You’ve been drinking,” he whispers.
“Yes,” I say. “I could not bear what happened earlier between us, and then I heard about Nathalie. I’m so sorry. Look at me.” He obeys, looking up. His eyes, the glimmery color of a forest just after it rains. So beautiful, this man. Give him something to hold on to. “Love is unfair and uneven. But she loved you deeply. You w
ere her history, her youth, her passion. Things change sometimes when we’re not looking. Sometimes it’s one of us, sometimes it’s both. But you did not live a lie. She loved you.”
“She loved him.”
“Perhaps, yes, at the end. But the beginning, the middle, the growing up together were all yours. Only yours. Hold on to that. Remember that.”
I’m telling him these things as much for his benefit as my own. I’m mothering him as I should mother myself. We are the same, he and I, mirror images. Broken, left behind. I slowly pull away from him, feeling something so deep, a force so strong and inexplicably tender, but knowing that he was right earlier, that it’s not right—and I’m not Olivier, I’m not Gabe: I’m still me. I will not get in the way of what belongs solely to Luc: his grief. Be there for him. And for now, that is enough.
I stand, wipe the dust off my jeans. My determined gaze boldly meets Eve, who has seen it all in this studio. She is now battle-ready and thankfully spared by Luc. I carefully walk across the room, never more coherent than I am now in my altered state. I grab a broom and begin to sweep up the debris. I sweep around Luc, hunched over, head buried in his hands. I brush away all the pieces, cleaning up the remnants of what was, hoping only to make way for what is.
Chapter Thirty-Six
TONIGHT IS EVE’S DEBUT AT THE MUSÉE D’ORSAY IN THE HEART OF PARIS, AND I’m so excited that I can hardly contain myself. It took nearly seven weeks, working around the clock since Nathalie’s funeral, to complete Eve and bring her to the level I know Nathalie would have wanted. This time instead of working on Eve from bottom to top, I began from top to bottom. I started with her hair—reminiscent of Nathalie’s golden mane, and made my way down to her feet. No detail was spared as I toiled from early morning through the wee hours at the studio. My world was just me, Eve, and Claudia, whom I began to thoroughly enjoy and depend on. We would have coffee together in the morning, then break for lunch at the house. She would bring me a tray of dinner before she left for the evening. Luc had insisted she stay on, to be there with me, to give me whatever I needed while finishing Eve in time for the exhibition.
Luc did it for Nathalie. As betrayed and hurt as he was, he pulled himself together, separating his emotions from her art. Eve is Nathalie’s crowning glory and no matter what, he would give her that honor. But Luc himself stayed away, living instead at their apartment in Paris, in the Sixth. I’ve seen him only once since the funeral, when he returned home to box up Nathalie’s clothes and personal belongings, as well as all the memorable pieces defining their life together. I offered to help him and Claudia but he declined, which I understood. He needed those final moments in the house for himself to mourn and to perhaps begin the process of healing.
Claudia told me that Luc is planning to sell the house in Èze. I, on the other hand, decided to stay. I found a charming one-bedroom apartment to sublet in the village of Èze through December, and I’ve fallen madly in love with this medieval town and all of its eccentricities.
I flew from Nice to Paris two days ago to prepare for the exhibition. Eve was brought to Paris in an armored truck, escorted by two police cars driving alongside it for the entire ten-hour journey. Clearly, France takes her art seriously. But yesterday was lovely and all mine. I spent the entire day alone, walking along the Seine, and doing nothing but shop, eat, and drink coffee. No agenda, just being with me, and it was perfect. Today is all about the getting ready—the “car wash,” as Samantha used to call it—hair, nails, brows, wax, and makeup.
I glance at the clock in the hotel room. Nearly two p.m. Time seems to be flying and standing still. In less than two hours, Ava will be here. She is arriving with Samantha and Lauren. They will rest a bit, and together, we will attend the cocktail reception tonight at the museum. Luc had told me to invite anyone I wanted to attend the exhibition.
I try on my new dress. It’s tea length, black lace, form-fitting, off the shoulder, and elegant. I found it at a small upscale boutique along Rue Saint-Honoré. I gaze proudly in the mirror. I look good, ready—not just from the outside but from the inside. I feel the change, the lightness of being. I reach inside my suitcase to try on my jewelry with the dress. But instead of the jewelry case, I pull out my laptop. I look at it and smile to myself. Why not?
I sit on the bed and open it up to the “Me_The Sequel” file. My list—my recipe for healing.
I read through it slowly. Without knowing it, I accomplished everything I had set out to do, both the little things and the big: I changed my hairstyle, I eat what I want, I take long walks, I listen to music and no longer spend hours on TV binges, I got off all social networking sites, I got rid of everyone toxic in my life, I’ve taken control of those things that matter to me, I’ve stopped rushing, I’ve had incredibly passionate experiences, when I smile I now feel it, I am sculpting again, and more than anything, I have embraced and been surprised by life—my life.
I did it.
Glancing up, I catch my reflection again in the mirror: a woman all dressed up with somewhere to go. The wounded woman who came here to heal has done just that. I hug myself. I don’t just like what I see . . . for the first time in so very long, I love how I feel.
SITUATED ON THE LEFT BANK OF THE SEINE, THE MUSÉE D’ORSAY IS A GRANDIOSE turn-of-the-century structure, a historical landmark, which was once the Gare d’Orsay, a railway station that had been constructed for the 1900 World’s Fair. The station was renovated in the 1980s to become one of the world’s greatest art museums. And tonight, it belongs to us, I think, as Ava clings to my arm. We look up at the giant clock portal embedded in stone at the entrance of the museum. Without saying a word, we both know that Nathalie’s exhibition is way bigger than we are. It’s history in the making.
I glance at my daughter. Ava is stunning. She decided to wear a trendy white Calvin Klein one-shoulder jumpsuit, a perfect match to her gleaming marble doppelgänger awaiting us inside the museum. She knows that just as Eve is being launched, so will she as the young American model. All eyes will be on both of them. Ava is not only smart and savvy, but also, like all teens of this generation, she understands fully how to self-promote. I squeeze her tightly, protectively. My girls—Ava and Eve—will both be making their debut.
“I’m so proud of you, Mommy,” she whispers as we enter the building.
Mommy, I think. Little girl and woman rolled into one. She leans her head on my shoulder just as a photographer snaps our picture. Samantha and Lauren are walking slightly behind us. An usher leads us all into the ballroom, dazzling with its impeccably preserved turn-of-the-century décor filled with paintings, murals, and opulent chandeliers. Ava grips my arm tightly and whispers, “Don’t look, but there he is.”
I follow her startled gaze and see Olivier holding court amid a circle of guests in the distance, drinking champagne, his arm wrapped loosely around a tall blonde clad in a glittery gold dress. I see only the back of her coiffed head but I know exactly who she is. Sabine.
“It will be okay,” I reassure her, leading us in the opposite direction. “We talked about this. He curated the show. Just stay classy. Say hello, smile, be polite, and move on. No more, no less. You got this, and I won’t leave you.”
Looking around, I search the room for Luc, but he is nowhere to be found. And then I spot Claudia in the distance. Out of her white uniform and in a strapless red dress with her dark hair piled high in a bun, she looks glamorous and ten years younger. That must be her husband, Maxim, next to her. She waves across the crowd and I wave back warmly. Still no Luc.
Eve stands strong and proud in the center of the ballroom, camouflaged by a massive canvas sheath custom-made to size. There will be an unveiling, dramatics. Perched next to Eve is an enlarged photo of Nathalie sculpting back in her glory days. Candles surround the image, illuminating her golden hair. I feel a chill course through me. Nathalie in her prime is a goddess, a genius whose work will be celebrated for years to come.
This is all for you, a tiny voice inside my h
ead whispers to her photo.
“Mom, look who’s here.” Ava points across the room and I begin to laugh. I can’t help it when I spot Lauren and Samantha mingling with none other than Dr. Vivienne Goldberg, the gynecologist.
Of course, she’s here. She’s a patron of the arts, friends with Sabine, and most likely an integral part of Parisian society. This evening is considered a major event in the art world—the great Nathalie Senard’s final gift is being presented. There are photographers and journalists everywhere. But it is Lauren who catches my eye, flipping her glossy ginger hair back in the same coquettish way she used to when standing with a boy at her locker. She is a little too close to the doctor. Are they flirting? I wonder. Is that what’s going on over there? I smile. Good for her, good for both of them.
Samantha signals she’s coming my way. She leaves the two women to themselves and walks over to me. “Talk about being a third wheel,” she says. “The new improved gay Lauren is in the house. It will take some getting used to, I admit, but she is happy. All that matters, right?”
“Yes.” I loop my arm through hers. “Do you believe this, Sam? I feel like I’m dreaming.”
“It’s amazing.” Her eyes shine. “I’m so damn proud of you. I know it’s all about Nathalie tonight, but you, my friend, earn a gold star and smiley face.”
Our joke since we were kids. We hug. Ava smiles. Yes, we’re back to us.
“Only no one can know it, don’t forget,” I whisper as a reminder.
Samantha is having none of it. “You know it. I know it. Ava knows it. Your hands, your talent, made this happen. No one can take that away. Now after this, when you come home, your ass better be back in a studio. No excuses.”
