Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I give up the idea of drawing and, instead, people watch in the garden. It’s quiet in the early afternoon. A family takes up a spot beside me, their two toddlers running amuck. One of them, a little girl with short blonde hair and a floral dress, flees from her sister, giggling wildly before she runs straight into me. I reach out, careful not to let her fall down the steps.
“Pardon!” her mother says, hurrying over to collect her child.
“No. No, it’s fine,” I say, smiling to let her know I’m not the least bit bothered.
She takes my word for it and sits back down. I let go of the toddler once I know she’s steady on her feet.
The little girl points to my sketchbook and says something in French.
“Dessine une image.”
I frown, not understanding.
She points harder, saying again, “Image. Image.”
Taking the hint, I flip open the sketchbook to show her my drawings, and her big brown eyes widen. Without asking, she starts to flip through the pages. I glance up to see her mom watching us, shooting me an appreciative smile.
“Do you want me to draw you?” I ask.
The little girl looks confused, so I turn to a blank page and wave my pencil. She immediately gets the hint. “Dessine! Dessine!”
I try to draw her, though she doesn’t make it easy. Instead of posing, she dances around the garden in front of me, putting on a show. I sketch quickly, my pencil flying around the page, capturing the whirl of her movements, the poof of her skirt as she spins around with glee.
For posterity’s sake, I sign the bottom and rip the page out of the sketchbook to hand over to the girl. She dashes to show it to her mother and the woman looks over at me, speaking in patchy English.
“Perhaps…vous serez…famous artist one day,” she says with a smile.
I return her smile, hoping she’s right.
I can barely sleep the night before my show. I lie in bed, going over my schedule and trying to suss out any last-minute details I might have forgotten. My dress is already hanging up on the back of the bathroom door. I decided to go with the same cheetah print dress I wore when I married Walt. I considered going out and buying something new for the show, but I didn’t want to give anyone a false impression of who I really am, not to mention I’d rather not spend what little money I have on some tacky blazer and slacks. Besides, I like that dress, and I especially like it paired with my Doc Martens.
I slip into it the next day as I’m getting ready, and I start layering my jewelry on top of it. I’m careful with my grandmother’s watch and my tiny locket. I hate that I notice how bare my left ring finger feels now.
I’ve stuck to my guns in Paris, largely staying off social media and Google to keep from driving myself crazy with updates about Walt. I’ve almost texted him quite a few times. It’s hard not to think of him in a city so famously known for its art. I see something around every corner that he would love, a painting or sculpture I know he’d want to see.
I wish he were here with me.
I wish he were by my side tonight, but I’m proud of myself for doing this on my own.
I stare at myself in my hotel mirror and shake out my hands.
“This is it,” I say to my reflection.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make a name for myself as an emerging young artist. Don’t fuck it up. I laugh to myself and shake my head, grabbing my purse and phone before heading down to the hotel lobby. Nadiya’s already waiting for me, joined by Agnès, the head of PR for Stein’s Paris gallery. They both applaud my outfit.
“It’s perfect. Very American,” Agnès says with a grin.
I have no idea what she means by that, but I take it as a compliment.
We hop into a car outside the hotel and book it to the gallery. The setting sun bathes the stone façades of Paris’ Haussmann buildings in golden light. Along the Seine, we pass vendors set up at their stalls. Tourists mill around them, exchanging euros for little trinkets and souvenirs. A motorcycle whirls in front of us, drawing my attention away from the river as we slow to a stop in front of the gallery.
Stein’s Paris location is housed in an old building facing the Seine. It has antique double doors painted a dark green and windows dressed with ornate wrought iron rails. There are already people here for the show, a few journalists with cameras hanging around their necks gathered out front. A team of caterers finish setting up an outdoor bar.