Moonlight Over Paris(78)
“Helena? Helena, darling, it’s Auntie A. May I come in? Helena?”
How long had her aunt been knocking? She sat up, untangled the sheets from around her legs, and rubbed the sleep from her still-swollen eyes. “Come in,” she called.
“There you are. Oh, heavens—Sam wasn’t exaggerating. Are you feeling better?”
“Not really. What time is it?”
“Nearly two in the afternoon. I thought it best to let you sleep. Sam is downstairs.”
“He’s what—he’s here? Why is he here?”
“I expect to see how you’re feeling. The poor man looks very tired, so you mustn’t keep him waiting. Should I ask him to come up?”
“No, I’ll come downstairs. I just need a few minutes to dress.”
Once out of bed, she had to admit she felt a little steadier, and her head had ceased pounding quite so relentlessly. She dressed hurriedly, in an old frock that had seen better days, and, after brushing her teeth again and smoothing her hair, gingerly made her way downstairs.
Sam was in the petit salon, sitting on a ridiculous little fauteuil that was far too fragile for his large frame, and for some reason he was wearing his best shirt and coat, the ones he reserved for important interviews at the élysée Palace. To her relief, his smile was wide and genuine, and when he greeted her it was with a heart-stopping kiss on her mouth, not her cheek.
“How are you?” he asked, guiding her to a nearby chair.
“Better. I felt like death warmed over this morning, but I went back to bed and that helped. Sam—I’m so sorry for last night. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You were right to be upset, given what you overheard at the Salon. And you’d had a long day, with hardly anything to eat. No wonder the drink went to your head.”
She smiled ruefully. “I’m fairly certain I will never drink another drop of champagne or spirits again, not as long as I live.”
“Are you still upset?” he asked.
“By what happened at the Salon? Yes. Of course I am.”
“Surely you can see that Czerny was wrong,” Sam reasoned. “He didn’t say your name. He might well have been speaking of someone else.”
“No,” she insisted. “He was talking about me, and he was right. Just look at étienne’s work. That’s the standard I need to judge myself against, and the truth is that I don’t even come close.”
“Oh, Ellie—”
“It really is the truth. I need to face it.”
He looked unconvinced, but rather than press the issue he simply asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m not sure. I think . . . I think I might like to travel. Go somewhere with Auntie A. Put all of this behind me.”
“‘All of this’?” he echoed. “What about your friends here? The life you’ve built for yourself?”
“I only ever planned on staying for a year. And I might return, one day. I haven’t really thought about it yet. All I know is that I need to make a change.”
“So that’s it. You’re just going to give up. One man criticizes you—the same man who has never given you the time of day, because he’s an idiot—and you fall apart.” Sam’s voice was shaking, and when she steeled herself to meet his gaze she was taken aback to realize just how angry he was.
“But Czerny was right,” she insisted. “I’ve known it all along, but I couldn’t admit it. I was wrong to think I had enough talent to succeed as an artist.”
“You aren’t wrong. You are talented—anyone can see that. Your paintings are beautiful.”
“So? Nearly anyone can produce a pretty picture. And that’s all I’m capable of. Pretty, decorative pictures. A hundred years from now étienne’s work will be hanging on the walls of museums, but mine will be forgotten. I know that now.”
“So that’s your response? You falter once and decide you’re done? I thought more of you. I thought you of all people would have the courage to persevere.” His voice grew rougher, sharper. “But I guess all your talk of learning how to live was just that. Talk.”
“Wait a moment—you’re criticizing me? You say you dream of becoming a proper journalist, but you’ve been working the rewrite desk for years now, even though you’re a better writer than all of your colleagues put together. Ten years from now, you’ll still be sitting in that miserable office, deciphering cables and writing piffle about film stars, because you’re scared to believe anything else might even be possible.”
He took a deep breath, as if to steady himself after a blow. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been facing,” he replied, his voice rising.
“If I’ve no idea, it’s because you never told me. I’ve a pretty good idea, though, and it begins with Howard Steel.”
He said nothing at first, the silence stretching thin and pale between them, and when he did speak his voice was eerily calm. “Who told you?”
“Sara. She assumed I knew. Apparently it’s an open secret here in Paris. Can you imagine how foolish I felt?”
“I’m sorry, Ellie. If it’s any consolation, that’s why I came here today. I mean, I wanted to make sure you were feeling better, but I also knew it was time to tell you about my family. To let you know that I’m returning to America.”