Moonlight Over Paris(73)
They danced for ages, song after song after song, stopping only when the band announced they were taking a break. Mathilde had gone off with someone she knew from the école des Beaux-Arts, so Helena was alone, waiting for étienne to return with some drinks, when Sam came over and sat next to her.
“Hello,” she said, and offered a careful smile. “I hadn’t realized you were coming. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested.”
“I’m not, to be honest. I got strong-armed into it by a friend at work. His wife’s younger sister is visiting, so they asked me to keep her company.”
“Ah,” Helena said. “Are you having a good time?” Of course she didn’t really care, but it was polite to ask.
“Not really. She’s a nice enough girl but dull as . . . well, you know. Dull as a twenty-two-year-old from the Midwest, I guess you could say.”
She thought, but was too well-bred to say, that such a girl was exactly what he deserved. A dull, dutiful, and obedient girl who would never ask him questions or push at him or expect anything more than dinner and a chaste kiss at the door.
“I miss you,” he said. “I feel as if we never see one another anymore.”
She wouldn’t look up. Couldn’t, else risk him seeing, and understanding, everything. So she inspected the flaking paint on her frock and then, once she could be certain her voice was steady, she answered. “I’ve been busy with school. Preparing my work for the Salon des Indépendants.”
“When is it?”
“The vernissage is next Saturday,” she said evenly.
She waited for him to say he would be there, or that he should have liked to be there but was busy with work or some other obligation, but he remained silent.
étienne reappeared just then, fortunately with a tall glass of seltzer for her, and he and Sam shook hands and greeted one another warmly. She gulped nearly all of it down, then, feeling much restored, resolved that she would dance some more.
“étienne and I are off to dance again,” she announced.
“And I had better get back to my friends.” With this he bent his head, kissed her cheek quickly, and disappeared into the crowd.
She spent the rest of the evening dancing with étienne’s friends, with men she knew from the academy, and even with a few strangers. Every time she looked over their shoulders, her eyes searching the room, she found Sam, and his gaze was invariably fixed on her.
She danced and danced, and then, not long after midnight, the instep strap broke on her left shoe. étienne and Mathilde were set on staying, so she wished them good night and went in search of her aunt. She found Agnes sitting with the Murphys, who were dressed as South American deities; Gerald told her the names, which contained an alarming number of consonants, and which she promptly forgot.
“Would you mind if we went home?” she asked Agnes. “The strap on my shoe is broken, and I’m feeling quite tired.”
“Of course we can go. Did you say good night to Sam? I saw you talking with him earlier.”
“No . . . he was busy with his friends.”
As they departed, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder one last time. He was watching her, just as he’d done all evening, but rather than wave good-bye she turned her back and followed Agnes into the night.
Chapter 26
Later, when the ordeal of the opening reception was done and she could think clearly again, she’d feel badly about the lie she was about to tell her aunt. But not today.
“étienne is feeling nervous about the vernissage,” she announced as she and Agnes were finishing their lunch. “I told him I’d go over with him a little early. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. What time do you want me there?”
“The invitations say six o’clock, but no one is ever on time for these things. Any time after that is fine.”
“You and étienne will take a taxi? Promise?”
“I promise.”
They would do nothing of the sort, for étienne was God only knew where, and she was going to make the journey on the Métro, contrary to her aunt’s wishes. If the Salon des Indépendants weren’t being held at such a distance from the city center she’d have happily walked, or even taken a taxi. Most years it took place at the Grand Palais, but this spring it was being held at the Palais de Bois, a good three and a half miles distant.
On any other day, she’d have been happy to make the journey with Agnes, but her aunt was so transparently delighted by Helena’s inclusion in the Salon that she all but burst into applause every time their paths crossed. It didn’t matter that the Salon was a nonjuried exhibition that anyone might enter; simply the fact that Helena’s painting would be seen alongside the works of established artists was enough to delight Agnes’s generous heart.
The afternoon crept by in glacial fashion, with little for Helena to do beyond fret and pace. At four o’clock she began to get ready, and by half past four she was ready to depart.
As she said good-bye to Agnes and walked north across the Pont Louis-Philippe, Helena found herself wishing that she had planned to meet up with étienne or Mathilde, for they would understand and likely be just as nervous, too. It was too late for a change of plans, however, for she’d no idea where either friend was that afternoon. There was nothing for it but to get on the Métro and see for herself where her painting had ended up.