Moonlight Over Paris(89)

“Will they be upset with me? For taking you away from Howard Steel, and back to Europe?”

“No. They know it was my decision alone. Besides, there’s no reason they can’t travel now that my father is retiring. Mother’s always wanted to do the Grand Tour.”

It occurred to her that, with the Howard millions dispersed, Sam would need to work for a living. “Do you think the Tribune will give you your old job back?”

“I don’t need it. I’ve had an offer from John Ellis, the editor of the Liverpool Herald. He’s asked me to be the paper’s European correspondent. The pay is better than at the Tribune, and we can live in Paris or London—whichever you prefer.”

“Definitely Paris.”

“I’ll have to travel a lot, but I thought you could come with me, at least some of the time.”

“That ties in perfectly with my new profession.”

“Your new . . . ?” he asked, mystified.

“Not entirely new. I spoke with Ma?tre Czerny the day after the vernissage—no, don’t make that face. étienne and Mathilde and I smuggled in my other painting—Le train bleu, the one I’d been nervous about—and he saw it, and liked it. He told me I should consider becoming a commercial artist, designing travel posters or book jackets or things like that.”

She wriggled off his lap and reached for her bag, which she’d left propped on the floor at the end of the sofa. In it was the portfolio of drawings she’d created on the voyage to America. He leafed through them slowly, his face a picture of delight and admiration.

“These are wonderful—although, to be honest, I love all your work.”

“Thank you. I’m still . . . I mean, I lost my nerve, and I haven’t quite got it back yet. But I’ve got to try, no matter what.”

“That’s the spirit. I wouldn’t have been offered the job at the Herald if it weren’t for you. You were the one who encouraged me to focus on my writing, and it was the series I wrote on the Anglo-French accord—remember how long I worked on those articles?—that got me the job. I sent them to Mr. Ellis, just to show him the sort of work I was doing, and he liked them so much he offered me a job with his paper.”

“Have I said before that I am terribly proud of you?”

“Not in so many words, but I’m glad to hear it. Now, are we ready to go? Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so—oh, no! I forgot about Daisy!”

“Why don’t we join her downstairs?” he asked. “They can’t serve us champagne, but we could have some tea.”

“And toast the end of my year in Paris?”

“That, and the beginning of many more.”





Epilogue


October, 1925

Paris, France

It was the night of étienne’s vernissage at the Galérie Bellamy, and if Sam didn’t return home very soon they would be late. He’d been out all afternoon, busy with various errands, and Helena was beginning to worry that he’d lost track of time.

They had been married in America at the beginning of June, in the drawing room of his parents’ cottage in Connecticut, though she still found it odd to call a house with forty rooms a cottage. Daisy had been her maid of honor, while Sam had asked his father to be his witness. They’d returned to Europe via London, where they’d celebrated quietly with her parents and sisters, and had been settled in Paris by the middle of July.

They’d found a small flat on the rue Vavin, just off the boulevard Raspail, and after digging through Agnes’s attics and scouring every brocante market in the central arrondissements they had managed to furnish it; for decoration they’d hung its walls with paintings by Helena and her friends.

Of course Agnes had insisted on throwing a grand party for them, stuffing her home full of friends, acquaintances, and random fixtures of Parisian salon life. Of the guests, the only ones she could truly count as friends were Sara and Gerald Murphy. It had been great fun, but Helena had far preferred the much smaller gathering that Mathilde and étienne had hosted a week later.

The weeks and months since then had flown by, for Sam had been busy settling into his position at the Herald and already he had traveled twice to Germany in connection with various stories he was pursuing.

Helena had been much occupied with her first commissions as a commercial artist, for Ma?tre Czerny had kept his word and recommended her work to several art directors he knew. Already she had completed a poster for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, was working on a brochure for Thomas Cook, and was waiting to hear if she’d won the commission for a series of book jackets for the Clarendon Press in Oxford.

Just then she heard the scrape of a key in the lock, the sound of bags being deposited on the table, and before she could blink her husband was at the door of their bedroom.

“Hello there,” he said, and his grin had something of the Cheshire cat about it.

“Hello,” she replied, and hurried over to kiss him. “If you hurry, you’ve just enough time for a bath before we leave.”

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, stepping back so he might admire her frock. She knew he would approve, for she was wearing the golden gown he loved so much.

“Put on your coat. There’s something I need to show you.”