But then I spotted him, stretched beneath a plane tree. Heâd shucked his jacket and his hat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. It was white, coarse, tucked into a pair of loose blue pants. On his feet, braided leather sandals. He lay on his stomach, surrounded by curls of orange peels. But he wasnât eating. With a wide pad spread out before him and a red ContĂ© crayon in hand, Luc CrĂ©pet was drawing.
Heâd once tucked a sketch into a letter, a quick, breathless Paris cafĂ© scene, yet Iâd never seen him with a pencil. I wanted to see more of his world, of the restless city where he lived during the week. It was the City of Light, the city of love, the city where revolutionaries stormed the Bastille and Impressionists stormed the AcadĂ©mie. I had been waiting, with each meeting, with each letter, for another glimpse of Paris. I had to be content with his words; they painted nearly as vibrant a picture.
I stepped closer, breath held. I wanted a peek at his sketch pad. Luc, away from his black suit, away from his studies and tennis, away from his maman, away from the chĂąteau dripping with art, he was drawing. I wanted a peek at this private, stolen moment.
But it wasnât Paris or even Mille Mots, those crumbling stones I always drew. It wasnât the trees or the caves in this solemn little clearing or the carpet of wood violets. It wasnât the orange peels. On his paper, Luc drew me.
This drawing, it wasnât casual, like the inked Paris cafĂ©, dashed off over, I imagined, glasses of wine and heady conversation. This one was careful, lines overlapped, erased, drawn in again. In sanguine, the drawing glowed. It was me and not me. My hair was pinned up, for one. My neck longer. My shoulders bare above a froth of lace.
I took another step and a branch cracked under my foot. âThatâs not me,â I said.
Luc spun at my voice. An elbow crushed into his sketch pad as he pushed upright, leaving a streak of red on his shirt.
âI said itâs not me.â My face was hot. âYouâve made me look much older.â
Something about itâwhether the upswept hair, the bare shoulders, the challenging expressionâmade me think of Mother and the painting Iâd found in Monsieur CrĂ©petâs studio. A forbidden pose, something undoubtedly adult, and it made me furiously embarrassed.
Luc looked every bit as furious. He flushed, then scrambled to his feet, snapping the book closed so quickly the cardboard cover tore. âWho asked you anyway?â
âThatâs exactly it. Nobody asked me.â I rubbed my cheeks. âDid you? Did you ask if you could draw my likeness?â
He didnât look the least bit apologetic. Rather, just discomfited at being caught out. âYouâre the daughter of an artist, arenât you? You should be used to it.â
Maybe the son of Claude CrĂ©pet would be used to posing. Iâd seen the hallways of portraits. But my own mother, she never let me near while she was at her easel. I asked her more times than I could count if sheâd paint me, draw me, trace me in the dust on the piano, but she always refused.
I parroted the response Mother always gave. âArtists do not choose what to paint. They are chosen.â Itâs what she said as she sat in front of blank canvases, waiting for inspiration to strike. She looked so beautiful, so confident, so artistic, that what could I do but believe her?
âThatâs ridiculous,â he said. âThe world is full of things to capture on the page. To say otherwise is to ignore a world of beauty.â
His scornful tone incensed me. As though, as a CrĂ©pet, he was the expert. âAnd how do you know what inspires someone?â I asked. âAre you the keeper of the muse?â
âIf you wait for inspiration to strike, you sit before an empty canvas. And then what have you gained?â
âGreatness.â
âWasted time.â
I shook my head. He was wrong. Mother knew what she was doing. Her empty canvases, her discarded studies, they were waiting for perfection. âThe masters were patient. They created, they perfected, and they achieved.â
âEven the masters had to put bread on the table.â
âAnd where is the romance in that?â I protested. âIn painting for money rather than painting for artâs sake?â
âWhat is romantic about starving in a Paris garret? About begging rent from friends âfor just one more weekâ? About waiting for that next big commission that might never come?â He tossed the crayon aside. âIn the meantime, you eat soup and lentils, if thatâs all there is in the kitchen. You stop up the leaks in the roof with old canvases that youâll never sell. You chase your children out into the world to pick up education as they can.â He drew in a broken breath. âYou tell yourself that it is all in the name of art. You tell yourself that itâs worth it.â
I looked to the red crayon lying in the leaves. âClearly we donât agree.â
âMademoiselle,â he said, âI wouldnât expect you to understand.â
I left, before he could see hot tears in my eyes. I was upset by his secretive sketch, by his disagreement, by his assertion that, all along, my mother had somehow been failing. I furiously kicked a rock.
As I wound back around the stone face, past the dark openings of the little caves, he called out behind me.
âWait, mademoiselle.â Dry leaves crunched. âClare.â
Back to the âClareâ of that quiet moment in the hallway of paintings, the âClareâ of the letters. I turned.
âIâm sorry.â He exhaled. âBeing an adult is sometimes exhausting.â
âEverything you said about the leaking roof, the children being sent out into the worldâŠthatâs all real, isnât it?â
He rubbed at his eyes and nodded. âI work in a cafĂ©, as a waiter, after my classes are done for the day, after my studying, after my precious few matches with Bauer. Something has to fund all of that.â
âBut your parentsâŠâ
He shook his head. âItâs all they can do to keep Mille Mots.â
I shifted. No one had ever talked to me about money.
âI do some tutoring. Thatâs where I met Bauer. At the cafĂ©, sometimes I sketch the customers. Mostly tourists. They buy the sketches as a little remembrance of their trip.â He shrugged. âItâs not drawing what I want, but it buys my wine, my books, my coffee, new strings for my racket.â He touched his inside pocket. I wondered what else money bought.
âYou must do what you must do.â I tugged at the sides of my skirt. âI didnât mean offense.â
âI know.â
âYou startled me with that sketch. Thatâs all.â It sounded inane when said aloud. What was there to be startled about? Being noticed? Being pinned to the page? âI donât look like that, you know.â
Softly he said, âTo me, you do.â
He didnât see me as an insubstantial girl, like the rest of the world, chipping as easily as china, wilting like a hothouse orchid. He wrote to me like an equal, he talked to me like a friend.
âLuc,â I said, to remind him we were beyond the âmonsieursâ and âmademoiselles.â âI didnât know.â
âI didnât tell you.â Bede darted through the clearing, tongue wagging, and Luc looked away.
âDid you want me to think you someone else?â
âI remember your house in Scotland. It was filled with real wallpaper, not cobwebs or disrepair. Your father wore smart suits, your mother had silverware that matched. Iâm sure you donât want to hear about my woes.â
âYou said you were exhausted. You said that you were weary with your life.â I took a step closer. âCanât matching silverware be exhausting? Starched dresses and governesses? Empty dining tables?â Overhead, a rook screeched and I wrapped my arms around my chest. âDo you think itâs not exhausting to be a fifteen-year-old girl who nobody wants?â
âI want you,â he said quickly, unthinkingly, and something skipped in my heart. He closed his eyes, just briefly. When he opened them again, they were clear. âI want you around.â
I let my arms drop.
âWould you like to come sit down?â he asked, almost shyly. âIâll share my oranges.â
âWe wonât argue again, will we?â