Brigitte walked over to Réjeanne and put her arms around her. “You're right. And I'm sorry. I haven't been a very good friend, have I?”
Réjeanne shook her head and began to weep again. “That's not what I said.”
“No, but it's the truth. I'm secretive and I keep everyone at arm’s length. I don't do it on purpose. I can't help it,” she said regretfully.
“Is that why you and Fortune broke up?”
Brigitte shook her head. “Fortune and I never had any intentions of marrying.”
“W-what? I don't believe it.” Réjeanne looked at Brigitte and saw that it was true. Her anger returned. “Well, that is the perfect example. You played this charade for two years. What else have you been lying to me about?”
“It wasn't a lie…”
“Wasn't it?” asked Réjeanne bitterly, then she turned and stormed out of the kitchen.
For a long time, Brigitte sat at the kitchen table, thinking. Everything Réjeanne had said was true. All of her adult life, she had never allowed anyone to get close. Except for Marcel, she thought bitterly. And he was older and married, therefore not really available. What is wrong with me? Other women my age look forward to falling in love. Why can't I?
* * *
The article in Le Monde launched Brigitte into the public eye. The next morning when she walked along the Champs Elizées, people recognized her and nodded or greeted her with, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” She stepped into Le Gallet and enjoyed the immediate stir of interest from the customers who turned to stare. It took five years to make me into an overnight success.
Brigitte walked briskly through the gallery and knocked on Fortune's door.
“Come in.” Fortune looked up from the art magazine he was reading. “Brigitte,” he exclaimed and quickly put away his magazine. “I'm glad you're here. I've just sold another of your paintings.”
“Which one?” asked Brigitte, feeling the usual mix of sadness and excitement at losing another of her pieces.
He smiled expansively. “Les Pigeons du Marché,” he said, naming Brigitte's largest and most detailed oil. “And I got the full asking price. This customer came back to look at it half a dozen times before deciding. I think the article in Le Monde clinched it. “
“Great! I've just finished Passion and it needs a lot of wall space,” said Brigitte, more interested in displaying her latest painting than in the amount of money the sale had just netted.
“I'll have it picked up from the studio and hung immediately.” Fortune picked up the telephone and barked a few orders. “Done,” he said afterwards. “Passion will be here within an hour.”
Later, Brigitte watched excitedly as her painting was hung on the main wall of the gallery. The spot faced the entrance so the first thing a customer saw upon entering was the enormous, bright oil.
“How's that?” asked the installer as he put away his tools. Émile was a pleasant old man and had been Fortune's handyman for as long as the gallery had existed.
“Perfect,” answered Brigitte. “Absolutely perfect.”
“I'm no expert, but I think this one is the best you’ve produced so far,” said the old man, respectfully as he put his tools away.
“Thank you. I think so, too. And hopefully, it won't be staying up there for very long. With any luck, you'll be taking it down again soon.”
The old man chuckled. “I’m sure it will sell fast.” He picked up his tool chest and nodded. “Have a nice day, Mademoiselle.”
“Have a nice day, Émile.”
The old man left and Brigitte admired her work. The gallery was almost deserted now, as it was almost every day in midafternoon. For that reason, this was always Brigitte's favorite time at Le Gallet. For an hour or so, she could wander around leisurely without having to deal with customers who felt compelled to give her their opinion, or worse, their unsolicited advice about her work.
She walked across the room and looked at Passion from a distance. It truly was a striking work. Fortune was right. Of all of her paintings, this was her best. The oil was a giant rendition of wild flowers. The petals were opened wide, displaying the floras’ pistil and stamen in a way that could only be described as erotically suggestive—hence its name. It's wonderful, Brigitte thought.
At that moment, the door opened and a man walked in. He strolled over to her newly displayed painting. From her position a few feet away, Brigitte watched with interest. This was would be the first reaction she would to witness to her to her new painting.
The man stood staring at it for a moment, a puzzled expression in his eyes, and then he shook his head. “What a joke!” he said, chuckling.
Brigitte was stunned. He hates it! She was filled with a sudden surge of anger. She walked over. “You do not like the painting, Monsieur?” she asked, carefully hiding her irritation behind a friendly smile. The man turned and looked at her.
The stranger had the bluest eyes Brigitte had ever seen.
* * *
Chapter 21
“You do not like the painting, Monsieur?” The voice was gentle, almost a whisper, and pleasantly accented.
He turned and found himself facing a striking young woman. Her hair was copper and pulled off her face in a loose chignon. She wore a pair of tight black Capri pants and a long-sleeved black turtleneck. Her eyes were deep green and stared at him with an intensity that seemed to penetrate his mind. Her entire bearing seemed to say, “And who the hell do you think you are?” At the same time, he realized that she was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he was surprised to find that he wanted very much for her to like him.
He hesitated. “It's just not my style,” he replied nervously. “I don't like all this modern stuff.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Modern art is not for everyone.” Her gaze wandered away.
“I-I can certainly understand why,” he said, eager to continue the conversation.
She looked at him again. “All right, tell me why.”
He cleared his throat. “Who would want to buy that? Rich, tasteless people whose need to acquire outweighs their intelligence. I know junk when I see it. This is junk.” She was interested, he could tell. Why else would she be smiling at him that way? He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “My name is Alex Ivanov and I don't know anyone in Paris. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? I could tell you about New York, and you could tell me about Paris.”
She looked at him for a moment, still smiling, almost teasing. “I don't think so. You see, I'm the artist whose work you think is junk.” She turned and walked away. A moment later she was out the door and lost in the crowd.
Alex felt as though he had just been slammed in the gut. He turned back to the painting. The brass plate underneath said simply, “Passion by Dartois.”
* * *
Alex returned to his room and worked furiously all night. He suddenly had an urgent reason to finish ahead of schedule. With only a few days remaining of his time in Paris, he desperately wanted an opportunity to see this Dartois woman again. Instead of interfering with his concentration, thoughts of the beautiful artist gave him a burst of energy. The way she had looked at him with her large green eyes, the way her mouth curled up when she smiled, made his heart flutter. There was something about her aloofness that enchanted him.
One by one, he finished the sketches, adding them to the completed pile until at last there was nothing more to add. Two days later, he delivered his finished plans to the offices of the Modern Design & Architecture.
Just as Alex was about to leave, Jean Pierre walked into the modern reception area. “Alex, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be working on your plans?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“They're finished.” He gestured toward the roll of sketches on the receptionist's desk. “I managed to bring them in for the original deadline.” He was exhausted but exhilarated.
“That's great,” answered Jean Pierre, but he sounded anything but pleased.
* * *
Later, freshly showered and changed, Alex rushed over to Le Gallet. “I hope you can help me,” he said to the short, heavy-set man who greeted him. “I would like to leave this for Mademoiselle Dartois.” He handed the man a long narrow box and the small envelope in which he had included the card with his name and telephone number. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left.
Never in his life had he bought red roses for a woman. Surely all women like them. He imagined her face when she opened the box. She would be curious, but delighted. Then, when she read the card, she would smile. She would probably not rush to the phone, but wait for an hour or so. The main thing was that he would hear from her by the end of the day.
Late afternoon stretched into evening and every time he heard footsteps in the hall Alex was sure were Madame Durand was coming to tell him there was a call for him. As the hours went by, it finally occurred to Alex that she might not call. By eleven, he knew she wouldn't. I guess I blew it when I insulted her work. When he climbed into bed, still feeling foolish, exhaustion got the better of him and he fell into a deep sleep.
At the knock on the door the next morning, he woke with a start. “Monsieur Ivanov, téléphone pour vous,” came Madame Durand's voice.
Alex pulled on his clothes in a rush and ran out to the reception desk. “Hello. Oh, hello, Jean Pierre.” He listened for a moment. “What do you mean one of the spec-sheets is missing? They were all there when I delivered the plans yesterday. I'll check in my room. I'll call you right back.”
He tore the room inside out, but the missing plans were nowhere to be found. Thank God, I still have the two days extension, he told himself as he dialed Modern Design & Architecture's number.
“I'm afraid you'll have to turn it in today,” Jean Pierre's voice came over the telephone.
“But, what about the extension you gave me?” asked Alex, still only mildly concerned.
“I don't know where you got that impression. The deadline was never changed. Unless you can bring the missing plans by the end of the day, I'm afraid we'll have no choice but to disqualify you.”
Alex put the telephone back in its cradle. He squeezed his eyes shut. That fucking bastard! Why? He rushed to the Modern Design & Architecture building and burst into Frédérique's office. No matter how much he tried to argue or explain, Frédérique remained adamant.
“I'm sorry, Alex,” said Frédérique apologetically. “A deadline is a deadline. The committee is meeting this afternoon. If your work is incomplete, I have no choice but to disqualify you. Both you and Darren have failed to finish your plans on time. The rules are very specific in this case. Perhaps it was too much to expect an inexperienced architect to deliver that massive amount of work in such short time.”
Alex returned to his auberge feeling like death. For the next two days, he stayed in his room, spread out on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He felt like a total failure.
* * *
Alex's suitcase was packed and waiting by the door. His Air France flight back to New York was confirmed and only hours away. As he prepared to leave Paris, Frédérique's words still echoed in his mind—“…such an inexperienced architect.” He could not remember ever feeling this bad. He was returning to New York a loser. How could he face William Brandon, not to mention Anne Turner? Who cares about Anne Turner? Suddenly, he thought of the woman in the gallery. Maybe, instead of waiting for her to call him, he should have called her. He looked at his watch again. He still had a few hours until his flight. If he hurried, there just might be enough time. He grabbed his jacket and ran out.
Alex walked into the gallery and felt an immediate sense of relief. She was there, talking to a wealthy looking older man. A few moments later, the man wandered off and the redhead noticed Alex standing a few feet away.
“You again,” she said. “I thought you didn't like the paintings in here.”
This is crazy, he thought feeling his heart hammering wildly in his chest. “Some tastes are acquired,” he said. “Maybe you could teach me.”
“Ah, mais vraiement!” She turned away when the chubby, middle-aged man Alex had seen there before called her from across the room.
“Un appel pour toi. C'est au sujet de David.”
Even from a distance, Alex saw her blanch. “What about David?” she asked, running to the telephone. She spoke quickly in French. Alex did not understand a word she was saying, but he could tell she was panicked.
“Can I do anything to help?” he asked when she slammed the receiver down.
“No, no you can't do anything. Just get out of my way. Fortune!” she called out to the heavy man. “Take me to the hospital! It's David!”
“I can't just close the gallery. Take a taxi,” he answered apologetically. “It will be much faster anyhow.”
“Come! I’ll get you a cab,” ordered Alex. He put an arm around her shoulders and hurried her out. A moment later, he was helping her into a taxi. He barely had time to slide in.
“L'hôpital Sainte Hélène, et vite,” she ordered, almost sobbing.
The car shot through the city and, minutes later, it pulled up in front of the emergency entrance. She jumped out of the cab before it came to a full stop.
“Wait!” She was already out of earshot. Alex handed the driver a fistful of francs. “Keep the change!”
“Merci beaucoup!” called the driver after him, as he chased up the steps and into the hospital.
Inside was a long white corridor with nurses and orderlies hurrying about. Where did she go? He ran up the hallway until he came to an intersecting corridor. There were dozens of people going in all directions, but not a trace of her.
“Damn!” He looked at his watch. “Damn!” he said again. “Now I'll never make my flight.” He walked back out, feeling even more like a fool. He hailed another cab and hopped in. “Le Gallet,” he ordered and sat back in the seat. I'm at least going to find out where the hell she lives.
* * *
As she ran along the corridor to the emergency department, the only thing on her mind was David. Oh God, please make him be all right. Moments later, when the doors slid open, the first person she saw was Réjeanne, sitting quietly in the waiting area.
“How is he?” asked Brigitte frantically as she rushed over.
“Brigitte.” Réjeanne stood to greet her and Brigitte saw the worry on the old woman's face. “This was the worst I've ever seen him,” said Réjeanne, her eyes filling with tears.
Fear flooded her. “Tell me. How bad is it?”
At that moment, the doctor arrived. “Madame Dartois?”
“Yes,” she replied, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She tried to read the doctor's expression. Please, God, I'll do anything.
“Your son is fine,” said the doctor, smiling reassuringly. “He'll be stiff and sore for a few days,” he continued, gently. “But by tomorrow morning, you'll be able to take him home with you.”
Brigitte felt weak with relief. “Why did this happen? I thought his medication…”
“Dosages sometimes need readjustment. Unfortunately in David's case, the drug we were giving him is no longer effective. I've changed his prescription to something new.” Seeing the worried expression Brigitte's face, he added, “I'm sure he will be fine.”
Brigitte dissolved into tears of relief. Réjeanne ruffled through her purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and handed it to Brigitte. “Why don't you bake a chocolate cake when we get back? When he comes home tomorrow, we can have a celebration.”
Brigitte wiped her eyes. “Thank you, Réjeanne.”
The woman gave Brigitte a quick hug. “Don't stay too late. You need your sleep, too.”
As soon as Réjeanne had left, Brigitte turned to the doctor. More than anything right now, she needed to see David.”Where is he?” she asked.
“He's still in the emergency room. Let me arrange for you to go in.”
A few minutes later she sat by David's bed. For a long time, she watched him sleep.
Then she leaned over and kissed him softly on each eyelid. “I love you, David.”
* * *
Hours later, when Brigitte stepped out of the cab, she was astonished to find the American man waiting on the front steps of her building.
Scorpio Rising Page 21
