Page 11 of Sawyer
Damn.
CHAPTER
THREE
His life was moving as fast as the Seine before him.
Sitting on his favorite steps on the quay, Sawyer gritted his teeth, holding a pastel in his hand above his drawing tablet, unable to do what he loved, what he’d always dreamed of doing, what he now had a shot at making a living at. Creation!
This moment was his threshold, the one every person had to step through to embark on the quest to obtain what they wanted. Only he wasn’t exactly at the beginning, was he? There was no more hoping for recognition and opportunity. These were at his very feet.
Like a knight of old, he remembered his vow to himself—to fight his demons. Imagining his pastel was like a sword, he slashed at the invisible shackles around him before shading the river on the paper in a deep blue, telling himself he had to go with the flow like Dean had told him last night while they were celebrating with champagne.Try and lighten up and enjoy the ride, Doc. Remember how far you’ve come and focus on how far you can go.
Right.
A year ago, his daily existence had been planned. Scheduledand predictable, down to the hour. Classes. Grading papers. Open hours to meet with students. Scheduled articles in the right scholarly publications to help his tenure position. Someone else’s art show or poetry reading thrown in to break up the monotony. Maybe even some dating.
Now? People were literally beating down Nanine’s doors to seehisart. They were calling the restaurant and Kyle nonstop with inquiries about Sawyer’s commissions, whether he was represented, and issuing invitations for him to do a gallery show.
His mind still spun. Multiple offers! Him, Sawyer Jackson. Yes, the Three Fates had indeed altered something in his destiny thread. He imagined, with the chance, he’d even find a way to kiss them on their hideous cheeks for their benevolence.
A couple of gallery owners had even stopped by the restaurant and left their business cards. Brooke and Axel had advised him to speak to no one until he found an agent. Good news—agents were calling too. Now he had to sort through the list, add in his dream agents, and start taking meetings. Just the thought had him wanting to put his head between his legs. Thank God Axel knew this world well because of his interior design work. He and Brooke and Kyle would be great helpers in finding the right person.
If he could ever paint again…
He was glad he hadn’t had breakfast because his stomach was shaking as much as his hand.
Gripping the pastel, he watched as another tourist boat floated by, people waving from the top deck, clearly enjoying life and not thinking about things like a life purpose and moments of destiny or how in the hell to go with the flow in the midst of such upheaval.
He was being offered everything he could ever want, right? He’d drunk champagne with his friends last night until he was seeing dancing blue birds of happiness circlingaround his head—not Pierre, who’d partied with them until three after Madison closed the restaurant.
Those bubbles had gotten him to where he wanted to be:dans la luneas the French liked to say. But this morning, he was back on planet Earth and in the thick of an existential crisis. Okay, that was dramatic, but there was no denying the greats were whispering contrary words of wisdom to him.
Voltaire:Yourdestinyis that of a man, your vows those of a god.
Rousseau:Before I abandon myself to the fatality of my destiny, let me contemplate for a moment the prospect that awaited me had I fallen into the hands of a better master.
And because two philosophers weren’t enough in his buzzing head, Sartre had intruded with this humdinger:I am the architect of my own self, my own character and destiny. It is no use whining about what I might have been, I am the things I have done and nothing more. We are all free, completely free. We can each do any damn thing we want. Which is more than most of us dare to imagine.
Deep thoughts.
What had he done to wage battle with all the voices? Brought pastels to draw in his favorite spot along the Seine. Showing his reality—because he really did believe in free will—that he meant business.
His artist life was happening. Dammit, hewasup to the task of being an acclaimed painter. Axel had pointed out in his practical Nordic way that Sawyer had already done it. People had finally caught up in seeing his genius.
Genius.
His chest got a little tight every time someone called him that. His parents had judged him a genius when he was a mere two-year-old, scrutinizing his every behavior from block building to the first words he’d chosen to speak. He’d always wondered what would have happened to him if he hadn’t provided the filial validation they’d wanted in a trophy son.The psychological tests they’d arranged for him had backed up their hopes, though. Suzuki instruction began at three and stifling, rigorous schools and tutors had followed, which his mother, who was Chinese American, had insisted were necessary to bring out the best in him. Instead of saying she loved him, she’d always asked him one thing:Is it good enough, Sawyer?in a tone that suggested it wasn’t, despite other people throwing that genius word around.
That incessant, soul-torturing question had become hisraison d’être.His Holy Grail.
One he wasn’t even near close to answering as he gazed at the scene before him. The colors of Paris were a dazzling palette of warm golds and whisper-soft baby blues with fluffy Monet-reminiscent clouds. The nostalgic strands ofLa Vie en Rosewere being played by a nearby street musician.
The perfect day.
He had a bone-deep hunger to paint what he was experiencing—the warm stately lines of the Louvre Palace across the rushing water. The flutter of the remaining November leaves on the towering plane trees along the quay. The cascade of cumulous clouds over Pont Royal Bridge…
It was the kind of day that made tourists fall in love with Paris and stirred nostalgia capable of lasting a lifetime.
