by Tina Michele
By the time she reached Dulles International Airport, she had herself worked into a pulsing knot of tension and was on the brink of an emotional breakdown. As she pulled her car up to the valet, she managed to subdue most of the physical symptoms. If she was good at anything on her own it was putting on a pretty face. She was looking forward to not being Ainsley Rae Dencourt, daughter of the dearly departed Albert Randall Dencourt of the prominent Dencourt Gallery.
*
The flight from D.C. to Paris was uneventful, just as it always was. Lee wasn’t particularly fond of flying, but found it to be a necessary evil to get anywhere worth being. When she disembarked the plane, she was quickly thankful that she was without luggage and hoped that the clothes she kept at the flat would still fit. If anything, she thought they may be too large, but Lee couldn’t honestly remember having lost or gained weight in the previous year.
It was almost midnight in Paris when she arrived, and although the City of Light didn’t lack for late-night entertainment, Lee was exhausted. The twenty-five-minute cab ride to her flat was almost enough to put her to sleep. As much as she wanted to close her eyes for those few minutes, she took in the sights of her favorite place on earth. They passed the Arc de Triomphe, lit from all sides, making it shine like a beacon welcoming her back. The Eiffel Tower sparkled in its random show of artistry and light, and as they neared her apartment, she could see the warm glow of the Pyramide du Louvre and heard it calling her name. She answered its request with a silent promise to visit the next day. She couldn’t wait to dive into the depths of the mystery and wonder that was held in the palace, but more importantly, she wanted to escape from the world outside its walls. A world she didn’t have the power to contain.
Lee fished out her keys, knowing instinctively as she fingered the few the key ring held which one she was after. She tipped the driver generously and crawled out of the cab. Lee rode up the elevator to her fifth-floor flat, and once inside, she kicked off her shoes and placed them neatly in the foyer. She scanned her surroundings. Lee was glad she paid someone to clean and maintain the flat while she was away. It allowed her to make these unexpected trips easily. She briefly glanced over the room. It had been so long since her last stay. Lee moved slowly through the rooms, absentmindedly straightening the already impeccably placed items. They weren’t out of place, she knew that, but it made her feel better knowing that everything was how it should be. Content that nothing seemed particularly out of place, Lee padded down the hall to her bedroom.
She stripped out of her clothes and placed them in the hamper, then she took a quick shower to wash the eight-hour plane ride from her body while she imagined the water washing the world away. She wrapped herself in the robe she kept behind the door, noticing the freshly washed scent and thanking Marguerite, her housekeeper, for her attention to detail. Lee searched through her wardrobe for something to wear and smiled when she came across her favorite T-shirt, a well-worn, heather gray college tee that transported her back to happier days.
The comfort of the shirt was both physical and psychological. She slipped it on and hugged herself, welcoming the distant sense of well-being. Before making her way to bed, she stopped at the window to gaze down at the street and watch the few late evening revelers make their way home. Lee’s gaze was drawn to the couples walking arm in arm and holding tightly to each other as they slowly strolled along the sidewalk. The sight made her feel lonely.
Lee wasn’t sure what caused the memory of her golden-haired Venus from college. Maybe it was the combination of the memories from school and the comfort she saw between the couples on the street that sparked a forgotten image of the day Venus had walked out of her life forever. Lee stood at the window for a while longer, replaying the lightheartedness she last remembered feeling from so long ago. As she made her way to bed, Lee wondered absently about where she would be had she ever had the opportunity to introduce herself to Venus and where they would be, if anywhere, now. Would they be one of the couples wrapped in each other’s arms as they made their way through the romantic evening streets of Paris? Or would she have received a polite but curt brush-off the second Lee asked her out?
Lee slipped under the blankets, and for the few brief moments before sleep claimed her, she wondered about where life had taken the captivating young woman she called Venus.
“Where are you now?” Lee whispered before her eyes fluttered closed.
*
When Lee woke the next morning, she was surprised to see the bright midmorning sunlight trying to squeeze its way in through the seams of the heavy drapes. She rolled to her side and stared at the alarm clock. Eleven a.m., technically five a.m. in D.C. Despite the time difference, she couldn’t recall the last time she had slept so soundly or so comfortably since her father’s passing. Most of her nights were spent staying out late, dozing for a few hours, and then trying to find non gallery-related tasks to occupy both her time and her mind. This morning, she was refreshed and excited to make her way up the street and immerse herself in the depths of the museum’s secrets.
Lee couldn’t count the number of times she had visited the museum or stood at the base of the grand staircase staring up at the breathtaking splendor of the Nike of Samothrace. All Lee knew was that each time she visited, she experienced an overwhelming sense of completeness and received the unspoken answers to her heart’s unspoken questions. She only hoped that this trip yielded similar results.
Lee was glad she was wrong about not fitting into any of her clothes. She pulled on a pair of crisp, khaki cargo shorts, an equally crisp black polo, and her favorite all-black Converse. She thought to wear her usual jeans and pressed dress shirt, but didn’t think it terribly sensible for spending the day being invisible. She wet her short hair back, ran a couple dabs of wax balm through it, and gave it a shaggy, sexy, just-from-bed style. Lee couldn’t help but pop her collar up and stare at herself flirtatiously in the mirror, giving the best imitation of suave she could muster. She laughed at herself, smoothed her collar back down, and ran a comb neatly through her hair giving it a much tamer style. There was once a time when she would have left the house without a second glance at herself in the mirror. She didn’t think she could allow herself to relax enough to manage that anymore.
She stuffed her wallet in her back pocket, attached the signature chain to her belt loop, dropped her lip balm into her pocket, grabbed her keys and sunglasses off the counter, and made her way out into the beautiful French afternoon sun.
Chapter Two
Morgan wandered purposefully from piece to piece checking the alignment and placement of each frame. This exhibition was a collection of painting and sculpture called Three Graces: Charities of Time. The show was set to open in two days, and so far, everything was on schedule except for the focal piece of the exhibition, a newly acquired piece by Cranach. Currently, the artwork was with Restoration for preservation, and it was taking more time than anyone, including Morgan, had expected. She decided it was most likely due to the multitudes of journalists, scholarly magazines, art historians, and dignitaries that were coming from all over Europe to see the piece. This was common whenever a significant addition was obtained, especially when a large portion of the cost was funded by the French citizens.
However, it was more than a little irritating to Morgan that the director continued to give people exclusive access to the piece before it was officially unveiled as part of the museum’s extensive collection. She hoped that those visitors would only spread the word among their colleagues and contacts, which would inevitably increase viewing when the exhibition opened to the public. In addition to being a great addition to the museum, it was both a crowning achievement and a bittersweet end to Morgan’s time in Paris.
She still had two more months remaining of her eighteen-month position. Yet, the opening of this exhibit seemed more like the end. She had been working on this project since Director Peter Foillot and her mentor, Madame Adele Dautry had worked to acquire the piece from a priva
te collector. Madame Dautry had hand selected her team of interns and curatorial staff to work on the project, with Morgan being named the exhibition organizer and responsible for selecting the other artwork that would accompany the piece for the length of the show. Morgan had worked day and night making sure that she showcased both the similarities and differences of each artist’s interpretation of the Charities. She arranged and rearranged pieces, swapped out one for another, and even sat alone in the empty gallery for hours sketching and visualizing the perfect presentation.
When Morgan was chosen as the lead on the project, it certainly did not help her achieve acceptance among her French-born peers. Many of them believed that Americans had no place in their museum working with their masterpieces, regardless of the art’s original country of origin.
As an American, Morgan was exceptionally privileged to have been granted an opportunity to complete an internship in Paris. A position at the museum was a coveted achievement, and only the best of the best were afforded such a chance, and that was if they were a French native. Regardless of her exceptional academic standings or published master’s thesis on the women of eighteenth century art, her application to the program would never have been considered without a very influential French sponsorship.
Morgan’s friend, mentor, and college professor at Yale, Dr. Jeanne Melbeau, made it clear to Morgan that she did not give her recommendation to the Ecole du Louvre, lightly. She also told Morgan several times that she had never before and may never again go to these lengths for one of her students. However, Dr. Mel also said that she had never had a student with as much passion, knowledge, dedication, or talent as Morgan had. Dr. Mel and Morgan spoke often since her acceptance to the program and subsequent relocation to Paris. Morgan was eternally grateful not only for the endorsement but for the moral and mental support that Dr. Mel had given her during those early and difficult days of the program.
Since those days, Morgan had befriended many of her peers and a number of other staff members at the Museum, but she always knew that she would never be considered a substantial contribution to the French art scene, at least by those she did not work closely with. It was one of the many unfortunate side effects of cultural prejudice. She was truly sad to be leaving France, but more excited to be returning home to see her family and begin her career in the U.S. Although, where that would be was still to be determined.
*
Morgan looked up at the wall clock and realized she had once again missed a normal lunch time. It wasn’t until she noticed the time that she started to feel the pangs of hunger. She didn’t normally leave the museum for lunch, and today was no exception. She found it more convenient to just grab something from the café than get caught up in the throngs of tourists crowding the grounds and streets around the place.
Morgan always took the long way to the café from wherever she happened to be during lunchtime. Even after sixteen months, she still felt like a tourist seeing things for the first time. She didn’t imagine that she would ever be able to make her way through the place and not find herself enamored with some particular painting or sculpture that she came across. She loved when she could get so close to the art that she could see the artist’s delicate brushstrokes on the canvas or the tool marks left behind in the marble. Sometimes, if she got close enough to the glass, she even thought she could smell the fresh 500-year-old old paint DaVinci used on the Mona Lisa.
When she was in school, she took several classes on art restoration and preservation. It was there that Morgan developed a deep appreciation for the mechanical beauty of art. She knew all there was to know about the techniques, history, and even the science behind an artist’s creation. But more than that, she wanted to see the desire in the colors and feel the hunger in each stroke. She wanted to bask in the pleasure she got from being so close to the painting, just as the artist had once been, like two lovers basking in the afterglow. There were a few pieces that Morgan knew more intimately than she even knew herself, more intimately than she thought she could ever know anyone.
She got in line at the café and scanned the menu board for something that appealed to her growing state of hunger. Out of the corner of her eye, a dark-haired figure caught her attention and brought a sense of familiarity and a memory of the mysterious, dark-haired girl from college. Morgan watched the figure until it disappeared around a corner, and only when she heard the frustrated voice of the caissière did she snap out of her trance. She quickly paid for her meal and then carried her tray to a table within an unobstructed view of the corner. She spent the next several minutes hoping for the figure to reappear. Morgan intently observed each face that made its way from behind the wall. The figure did not rematerialize, yet Morgan was still left with an image of the stunning blue-eyed woman sleeping next to her. Her racing heart slowly returned to its standard beat. For the first time in months, she was once again plagued by the searing memory of her secret desire.
Morgan told herself that it was highly improbable that her tall dark stranger from Yale, the one that had haunted so many of her dreams for years, could be in her museum, in Paris. She remembered that she had spent nearly every day of her last semester searching for the woman and waiting for her to stroll into yet another lecture late looking ravishing and irresistible. Even after Morgan convinced herself that she must have been expelled for poor grades or simply dropped out because Daddy stopped her funding, she still found a part of her hoping to see the woman again. It was that part of Morgan that hoped the enigmatic figure she had seen minutes ago was the beautiful woman from her past.
*
Just as she did every Wednesday, Morgan called her parents right after she finished her lunch.
“Bonjour, Momma! How’s life down on the farm?”
“Heya, darlin’! How is my baby girl today?” Morgan’s mother, Elizabeth Blake, was one-third owner and operator of Will-Ridge Farms. The other owners being her father, John, and her little brother, Jake. Will-Ridge was a small, family run organic dairy and u-pick farm in eastern Virginia and Morgan’s childhood home.
“I’m great, Momma. The exhibit opens in two days, and it’s nearly as perfect as it is ever gonna get…if I can pry the preservationists’ hands off the last piece.” Morgan loved talking to her mother about her work, but she usually tried to sway conversations so that her mother ended up talking about home instead. She’d rather hear about what was going on back home instead of wasting time talking about herself. Nothing but art ever happened to Morgan.
“That’s wonderful, dear. So when are you coming home?” Her mother asked Morgan the same question every time they spoke.
“Ma! Really? You’ve had the date marked on the calendar since before I graduated college.”
Her mother giggled. “I know, but every time I ask you, it gets closer. It always stays in the same place on the silly calendar.”
“You are too much, you know that?”
Morgan and her mother spent the next thirty minutes discussing farm gossip, including her little brother, Jake’s, love life. She certainly didn’t have one to share. They also discussed her father’s suggestion that Morgan come home and stay with them in Virginia until she found a suitable position. He didn’t want her wasting her talent and education in a poor-paying, entry-level museum position. He said his little girl was too extraordinary for that. Although Morgan had hoped to go home to her dream job, she knew that applying for positions and interviewing for them would be impossible from Paris. She finally accepted the proposition and was actually excited at the possibility of relaxing for the first time since she’d graduated from high school.
“Okay, Momma, I’ve got to go harass the conservationist for an ETA on ‘la pièce de résistance.’” Morgan disconnected from the call and made her way to the curator’s office.
Chapter Three
Lee knew that she didn’t have to wait in line with everyone else. All it would take was a quick phone call and she’d be escorted in like royalty. She actually enjoyed
the anticipation that built in her belly when she stood in the queue just like any other awestruck tourist. It was nice to pretend, even for a moment, that she wasn’t Ainsley Rae Dencourt, and it reminded her again of how simple life had been in college.
While she waited patiently, Lee sipped on her bottled water and watched the other people milling about around her. She thought about how she’d left her mother in D.C to continue to look after the responsibilities that Lee knew were her own. She knew it wasn’t right, but she just couldn’t bring herself to step into her father’s shoes. She still felt fragile and disheveled each time she went into the office. The last thing Lee ever wanted to do was disappoint him, in life or in death. She was simply not confident in her ability to overcome the anxiety and manage the business he had left to her.
Before she allowed the emotion to surface, the line moved and she was finally inside, protected by the walls of the palace. Once Lee made her way around the throngs of gawking tourists that always managed to stop in awe inches from the entrance, she paused in the open vestibule and closed her eyes. Her other senses heightened as she took in the scents and sounds. She listened to the familiar echo of voices in the hall and breathed in the fragrances of centuries past. Lee opened her eyes and made her way toward the staircase leading to the ground level. She stepped off to the side and leaned on the nearest wall to prepare herself for the day ahead. As she allowed the excitement to grow within her and the burdens of life slowly slipped away, she welcomed the peace that washed over her.
As she reviewed the gallery maps and floor plans, she found herself disappointed that the new Cranach acquisition, The Three Graces, had yet to be displayed. She was already fond of his other, less provocative, piece by the same name that was on display at the Nelson-Atkins in Kansas City. Lee continued to scan the guide and was pleased to see an announcement for the Three Graces exhibition that was scheduled to open in only two more days. Lee contemplated making that earlier call just so she could see the piece before the opening, in case she didn’t plan on staying in Paris until then. It was only two days away and she had no intention of leaving so soon. She also knew firsthand how annoying it could be to a curator to have a constant throng of unexpected visitors impacting their deadlines, so she decided not to impose.
