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  “—Luxembourg Palace, just a little to the south of here.”

  “I can’t even right now!” I look at her through wide, worshipful eyes. “You are seriously giving me life.”

  “You’re giving me life.”

  We lean against the stone wall that stands between the cathedral and the river and stare into the breeze-rippled waters of the Seine. A batobus filled with picture-snapping tourists glides by, the cathedral and clouds above reflected in its glass-topped roof. We keep watching even as the sun sinks low behind the mansard roofs and streaks the bruised sky with angry orange welts.

  The cathedral bells begin ringing. Dong-dong-dong . . . Six haunting dongs that echo in the dark night.

  “We better get going if we want to make it to the restaurant in time to meet the Galliard-Cadré family,” I say, taking a last look at the river. “Monsieur Alexandre might have me sent to the guillotine if I am late again.”

  We have made it back to the Marais and are only a few blocks from the restaurant when I decide to share a warm fuzzy with Rigby.

  “I am so glad you’re here, Rigby. I think we are going to be super-tight friends.”

  “Me too.”

  “I don’t have many girlfriends.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’m serious. I have a Theo.”

  “Oo, who is Theo? Your boyfriend?”

  “Eww!” I shudder. “That is disgusting. Theo is my BFF.”

  “So you have a BFF, but not a BF?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about the suit guy?”

  I play dumb. “What suit guy?”

  “Don’t even.” Rigby hits my forearm. “I saw the way he looked at you, like a starving man looking at a jar of Goober.”

  “I’m not sure how I should take being compared to a jar of Goober.” I laugh. “Destiny has brought me to Paris to study art.”

  “Maybe destiny has brought you to Paris for more than one reason. Art and love.”

  “I will be happy with art and friendship.”

  “You don’t strike me as a lonely person.”

  “I am too happy to be lonely, but sometimes I wish I had a girlfriend who gets me the way Fanny gets Vivia.”

  “Fanny?”

  I tell Rigby about all about Fanny, about how we met in Alaska, how she introduced me to her outrageously funny best friend, Vivia, and about how I envy their super-tight friendship because I have never had that with another woman.

  “People don’t get me.”

  “I get you,” Rigby says, linking her arm through mine. “At least, I think I do.”

  “I think you do too.”

  Chapter 12

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World

  “Me Against the World” by Simple Plan

  “Bienvenue dans Bâtard de Valadon, mesdames.”

  A large man with slicked-back black hair and an aura indicating cheerfulness and mischief greets us as soon as we step into the foyer of the elegant restaurant. Rigby tells him we are with the Galliard-Cadré group.

  “Ah, but you are early.”

  I look at my Minnie Mouse watch. 6:22.

  “Je suis desolée, monsieur. Nous reviendrons.”

  “Nonsense,” he says, dismissing my offer to return at the appointed hour with a flick of his wrist. “If you would like, you are quite welcome to sit in the winter garden. Perhaps you would like a glass of wine?”

  We follow him down a long, dark-paneled hallway, passing a curio cabinet filled with strange objects, to an enclosed courtyard topped with an art deco glass dome.

  “Voilà! Le jardin d’hiver.”

  The winter garden is an intimate space with gray-painted walls, clear Lucite tables, and dramatic black-and-white photographs of flowers in bloom.

  “What a beautiful room.”

  “Merci.” He holds his hand out, inviting us to be seated at one of the tables. “My name is Robert, and it would be my pleasure to bring you a glass of wine. Which would you prefer, red or white?”

  “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Robert.” I take a seat on one of the Lucite chairs and repeat our host’s name in my head several times to commit it to memory. “I am a starving artist. L’eau de la vie is not in my budget.”

  “Une situation tragique.” He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Please, allow me to bring you a complimentary glass of wine.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “Mademoiselle.” Robert presses his hand to his heart. “I am a Parisian, born and raised. It pains me to think of you spending your first night in my city without at least one glass of l’eau de la vie. S’il vous plâit?”

  “That would be lovely,” Rigby says. “Merci.”

  “Red or white?” He holds up his hand. “Non, leave it to me.”

  Robert returns carrying two glasses and a bottle of wine on a silver tray. He places the glasses on the table, pulls the cork out of the bottle, and pours us each a glass of white wine. We thank him.

  “Bâtard de Valadon,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “Valadon’s Bastard. That’s an interesting name for a restaurant.”

  “Oui.”

  I am waiting for Robert to elaborate, but he merely crosses his arms and rests them on his rotund belly, smiling at me with a twinkle in his eye. I haven’t decided which painting represents Robert’s aura, but it is definitely one with a lot of yellow. Maybe Van Gogh’s Wheat Field with Reaper and Sun.

  “You know this name, Valadon?” he asks.

  I nod my head. “Suzanne Valadon was a painter and popular artist’s model in the late nineteenth century. She sat for many famous artists, including Renoir.”

  “In fact, she is the woman dancing in his painting Dance at Bougival,” Rigby says.

  “Brava!” Robert uncrosses his arms and claps his hands together. “Now I shall tell you the story of how this restaurant came to be called Bâtard de Valadon.”

  Robert drags another chair over to our table. He takes his time situating himself. He leans leaning back in the chair and sticks his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He forms a steeple with his fingers and takes a deep breath. Robert is definitely a showman, a natural-born storyteller who knows how to build suspense.

  “You are correct, mademoiselles. Suzanne Valadon was a popular artist’s model. In the days of Renoir and Degas, it was common for models to pose nude. It is only natural a man should feel a stirring of desire if he spends hour after hour staring at a naked woman.” Robert pauses, his stomach rising and falling several times before he resumes his tale. “Artists, they often practiced more than just painting, eh? They practiced the art of séduction.”

  I look at Rigby and know what she is thinking. Robert’s story is basic. Every art history student knows artists often seduced their models. Rose Beuret spent fifty years as Auguste Rodin’s muse and lover before he finally put a ring on it (she died two weeks later).

  “You are thinking, but Monsieur Robert, this is common knowledge, eh?” He chuckles. “Nine months after modeling for Renoir and Degas, Suzanne Valadon gave birth to a bâtard. She took the infant to Renoir, and do you know what he said?”

  I know the answer, but I shake my head.

  “Renoir lifted the blanket, looked at the squalling infant, and said, ‘He can’t be mine, the color is terrible!’” He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Then she went to see Degas. He lifted the blanket, looked at the squalling infant, and said, ‘He can’t be mine, the form is terrible!’”

  Robert pauses again, giving us time to sip our wine.

  “Poor, miserable Suzanne, cast off by Renoir, discarded by Degas, went to a café to drown her sorrows in wine, but while she was there, she saw another artist, Miguel Utrillo. She told him her unfortunate story, and Utrillo said, ‘Call the baby Utrillo. I would be glad to put my name to the work of either Renoir or Degas!’”

  Robert crosses his arms and stares at us expectantly, his eyes twinkling.

  “Wait,” I say.
“Is this the café where Valadon told Utrillo her sad story? Here?”

  Robert shrugs his shoulders. “It is believed by some. Nobody knows for certain, but it makes for a very good story, no?”

  He looks down the hallway.

  “Ah, I see Monsieur Cadré has arrived.”

  * * *

  Monsieur Alexandre arrived along with his intimidating family, two well-known Parisian artists, the Ministre de la Culture, the curator of the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, and a journalist for one of France’s most popular art magazines. Gunthar, Giorgio, and Julia followed close behind.

  Bâtard de Valadon’s dining room is beyond elegant—way, way beyond—with wood floors stained black, plush velvet upholstered chairs, and art deco chandeliers. I am seated between an elderly woman wearing a Pucci scarf tied artfully around her orange hair and the journalist.

  Would it be negative if I said I wished I were back in the jardin d’hiver enjoying Robert’s infectious bonhomie, or back in Boulder at Munch & Lunch noshing on a Bipolar sandwich? Yes, yes, it would. I take a deep breath and remind myself that every minute brings a new opportunity, and every new opportunity brings a chance to connect in a meaningful, spiritual way. Breathe in positivity, breathe out negativity.

  Monsieur Alexandre is seated at the head of the table. He stands and clears his throat.

  “I would like to thank zhe Ministre de la Culture for taking time out of her busy schedule to join us tonight.” Monsieur Alexandre nods at the minister, a petite, dark-haired woman with Michelangelo-worthy bone structure, and she nods back. “Two hundred and fourteen years ago, Jean-Baptiste Galliard began collecting superlative works of art by young masters in what would become zhe Galliard-Cadré Gallery. Sixty years ago, my grandfather, zhe distinguished gentleman seated at zhe far end of zhe table, conceived of an idea to foster young artists by giving them an opportunity to live in a working gallery. Zhe Galliard-Cadré family is proud to act as patrons to a new group of talented young artists. It is our pleasure, our passion, our destiny to nurture your talent, and so, we welcome you, our artistes en résidence.”

  Monsieur Alexandre introduces each person seated at the table. Jacques-Louis Galliard de Cadré, the patriarch of the family, nods his head but does not smile. He is everything I imagine the head of an art dynasty to be—reserved, watchful, dignified, discerning. He is tall, like Monsieur Alexandre, but with silver streaks through his dark hair. His wife, seated beside him, is equally dignified. Madame Galliard de Cadré is an accomplished watercolorist, and her artwork has hung in Europe’s most prestigious galleries.

  Monsieur Alexandre’s parents stare at each of us as if assessing our value. Madame Galliard catches me staring and regally nods her head.

  Monsieur Alexandre introduces his sister next. Impeccably dressed in a black pencil skirt, a sheer black silk blouse, and high heels that lace up her ankles, Celine Galliard de Cadré is the embodiment of every woman’s fear when they imagine themselves visiting a Parisian boutique. Her dark hair has been cut in a sharply angled bob that frames her beautiful face. Celine has made a name for herself by organizing pop-up exhibitions of edgy contemporary artists. Her art raves are held in abandoned buildings and draw heiresses with money to burn and bad-boy princes. The young elite attending her events sip expensive champagne, listen to technopop spun by millionaire DJs, and spend small fortunes on paintings by artists they hope will be the next big thing.

  Finally, there is Aunt Fantine, the Pucci-wearing elderly woman seated beside me. Fantine Galliard, known simply as Fantine, has been an eccentric figure on the art scene for over fifty years. She partied with the Rebel Painters, the post–World War II artists who challenged the aesthetic establishment with their radical abstract expressionism and shifted the world’s focus from Paris to New York. She’s rumored to have been Adolph Gottlieb’s muse and Jackson Pollock’s mistress. Until her retirement a few years ago, she was the most coveted guest speaker at museums and art schools on the subject of abstract art.

  “My brother had other obligations and could not join us, but you will meet him at some point,” Monsieur Alexandre says, finishing his introductions. “Now let us dine and get to know each other better.”

  I divide my time between Aunt Fantine, who turns out to be as colorful as an Andy Warhol painting, and the journalist, Henri, who asks me about my art and seems genuinely interested when I tell him about my exhibit at Munch & Lunch.

  “Munch and Lunch is like McD, only with art on the walls?”

  “McDonalds?” I laugh. “No, Munch and Lunch is not a fast-food restaurant. The chef is classically trained and serves farm-to-table, organically grown food. He makes a turkey sandwich called the Bipolar that literally gives me life.”

  I look down at the lamb chop with balsamic vinegar and creamy carrots on my plate and feel a pang of homesickness.

  “You don’t like zhe lamb chop?” Henri asks. “You would rather have Big Mac?”

  “I am morally opposed to the eating of baby animals.” I take a bite of the carrots and swallow. “The carrots are delicious, though.”

  “But you aren’t morally opposed to eating turkey?”

  “No, why?”

  “You must know turkeys raised on farms for gastronomy are hatched in incubators. Zhey do not see zheir mothers.” Henri clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Zheir beaks are cut off and zhey are forced to eat only antibiotic-laced cornmeal. Most of zhem die young, starving zhemselves from zhe stress of zheir environment.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Oui.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  Henri shrugs, as if to say, “Eh, what can you do?” He turns his attention to Julia, who is seated on his other side.

  I look down at the pinkish lamb chop on my plate. Truthfully, I don’t know why I boycott lamb and not pork, beef, or chicken. Did I imagine poultry farmers to be more humane than sheep farmers? I guess I never really thought about it. The anti-lamb bandwagon was big in Boulder, so I jumped on. Truthfully, I don’t know how I feel about eating lamb. It’s just another thing I am trying to figure out. In college, it’s easy to follow the crowd onto the bandwagon. Maybe it’s time I figured out if I want to keep riding or get off.

  I glance down the table at Monsieur Alexandre and notice he has been watching my exchange with Henri. This spread probably cost the gallery several hundred euros. I don’t want Monsieur Alexandre to think I am an ungrateful, uncouth American, so I cut my lamb into small pieces and pretend to fork some into my mouth. When he looks away, I hide the meat under my greens.

  Aunt Fantine elbows me and crooks her finger. I lean closer.

  “I do not like lamb, either,” she whispers in French. “What they do to those poor animals is barbaric. I preordered a steak. Would you like some?”

  I told you Aunt Fantine was a cool old bird. In another life, we were probably best friends.

  “I am all good, but thank you.”

  “De rien.” Aunt Fantine lifts her wineglass and tosses back the contents. “My nephew doesn’t eat lamb.”

  “Monsieur Alexandre?”

  “Non, his brother, my other nephew.” Aunt Fantine nods at a waiter. He hurries over and refills her empty glass. “He is a nonconformist, like me.”

  I look at Monsieur and Madame Galliard de Cadré, the very picture of decorum, and find it hard to believe that one of their children is a rebel. Aunt Fantine tilts her head and squints, peering deep into my eyes, as if reading my soul.

  “You are a nonconformist, aren’t you?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Bon! The world needs more people who aren’t afraid to march to the tune of their own drum.”

  “Sometimes it would be a lot easier if I marched to everyone else’s beat.”

  Before I realize it, I am metaphorically stretched out on a couch, unloading my life story on Aunt Fantine Freud. I tell her about my life back in Boulder. I tell her how difficult it was for me to be the disorganized, dyslexic, attention-challenged
child of two highly organized and focused college professors. I tell her about my gigs as Lunaria the Unicorn and singing with my band at nameless dives around Denver. I even tell her about crashing my car, getting evicted, and having to move back home with my mom and dad.

  “My parents would like me to be more like them, conservative, responsible, mature, professionally ambitious, but I am not trying to be different. I am just being . . . me.”

  Aunt Fantine pats my arm. “The biggest challenge in life is to be yourself in a world that is trying to make you like everyone else.”

  “Wow. You get my struggle.”

  “Ralph Waldo Emerson gets your struggle, ma cherie. That was his quote, not mine.” She tenderly squeezes my arm before letting it go. “I will tell you what I used to tell my nephew: You are not alone in this world. You are part of a minority of souls who are truly unique. The Divine One used more crayons when he sketched you. Do not be ashamed of your different colors.”

  Chapter 13

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “I Love Paris” by Avalon Jazz Band

  “What I Wouldn’t Do” by A Fine Frenzy

  I am thinking about Aunt Fantine’s words the next morning as I set up my easel in the gardens of the Tuileries. I have found a quiet spot in the shadow of the Musée de l’Orangerie, the museum that is home to eight of Monet’s Water Lilies murals, and I am watching the early-morning sunlight spill from the sky like liquid gold.

  I woke up before the fairies had sprinkled the morning dew, my body clock all jacked up from jet lag, and decided to get a jump on the day. I am not scheduled to work in the gallery until after lunch, which means I have several hours free to paint, people watch, and absorb the atmosphere.

  I lean back in one of the many green lawn chairs scattered around the park and lift my face to the sky. It’s too early to get a suntan, but the warmth feels good on my cold cheeks. I am waiting for my muse to suddenly materialize like a gossamer specter, to float on the breeze and whisper in my ear a language that is all our own, a language of whimsical ideas and unspoken poetry. But it is the ghost of Aunt Fantine that whispers in my ear.