Page 67 of Sawyer
Nanine brought over the other bag, casually carrying it as she walked over to the three easels on display, studying each. In addition to the one he was still painting, two were finished and drying. Scenes of a woman like Phoebe in various places. With her back turned as she regarded a turbulent sea. Her profile as she gazed out across a field of red poppies, a straw hat in her hand.
“She is your muse, yes? I can see all the love you have for her. How the world is brighter with her in it. I hope I may say this, and you will know it is from my heart. You paint your best when you do it for love.”
Love.
He thought back to his conversation with Thea along the Seine. They had mentioned his perfect recipe including self-confidence but not love. That insight had taken a while to reveal itself, perhaps because he hadn’t fully understood what it was to paint with love until he’d devoted more of his time to his art, with Phoebe as his muse. Beverly had noted that he painted with great sensitivity. Only she hadn’t identified the emotion underlying those works. Yes, love had been his perfect ingredient, after all.
No wonder he’d failed at twenty. What had that boy known of love? Suddenly, he could feel all the old hurts and doubts associated with that time leaving him, as if the warmth of the moment had finally ushered it all away. Nothing had gone wrong. He hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t even a question of being good enough or his work being good enough. He only hadn’t yet come across the perfect ingredient for his journey, for his life’s passion. But it had begun here—in Paris—and now the circle was complete.
His throat grew tight in the midst of such a profound epiphany. “Funny, how it now seems even more obvious that I attracted attention for my work because I painted people I loved—you, of course, and Thea, Brooke, and Madison, although I’ve never admitted that outright until now.”
“I believe they know. I did. I could see your heart in every brushstroke. Now the world will see what I have always seen inside you, Fourth Course.”
His gaze went to his holiday present. “You know, Phoebe’s Christmas present to me wasThe Little Prince.”
“Ah…how I adore that book.”
“Yes, but it strikes me now how much its most famous quote suits you.It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.Nanine, you know how much you matter to me. At least I hope you know. You changed my life.”
Framing his face with her hands, she studied him with deep brown eyes filled with warmth. “And you mine.” She kissed his cheeks, the gesture tender and almost honorific. “Speaking of gifts, I have one for you. Although it is not a holiday one.”
He was still too moved to raise a brow, but he accepted the cloth bag she handed him. There was an old bottle of wine inside. He drew it out, his mouth parting at the age. “Holy— Nanine, this is from 1973. It’s older than I am.”
“The age of this Château Mouton Rothschild is unimportant, although I believe it will be an excellent wine—one for you to open the night of your first gallery showing.”
His eyes burned behind his spectacles. “Oh, man, Nanine, you’re killing me here.”
She only patted his back. “I don’t believe you know the story of how the Mouton motto changed in 1973. The chateau had been making wine for centuries, and it was not what is called first growth in France. At that time, they went by the words,First I cannot be; second I do not deign to be; I am Mouton.”
So his Nanine was giving him a philosophy lesson, speaking to his heart.
“Jacqueline would know the details better,” she continued, “but something changed for them in 1973. They finally had their first breakout wine, as you might say. The baron even said he was changing their motto toFirst I am; second I was, but Mouton does not change.”
His mind related it to Descartes’ famous quoteI think, therefore, I am, but his heart understood.
“I believe you have been on the same journey—an artist’s journey—which is why I selected this wine for you above all others. Because to me you will always be Sawyer. Fourth Course. Despite what was and what you are now or will become.”
He embraced her, shifting the wine to his side. “You couldnot have found me a better gift, Nanine. Thank you. I… You must drink it with me for my first show.”
“We will all be there with you that night and many more,” she said, holding him warmly.
He had to squeeze his eyes shut as the emotion of the day flooded him. First, Phoebe leaving, and now this moment with Nanine. “I’m so lucky to have all of you.”
“We are also lucky.” She drew away and righted his glasses. “Now, you will change into your painter’s smock, pick up your paintbrush, and do what you love. Remembering of course that you will always be Sawyer. But that only happens after I leave. First, I will find you a plate and some utensils. Because my food deserves real cutlery and such.”
They shared a smile before he chuckled. “You deserve everything and more, Nanine.
If eating like a civilized man is all you require of me, then I am a lucky man indeed.”
“Civilized.” She made a very French sound. “As if plates and utensils have not been around since the early days of man. But I will go and find some while you change.”
When she left, he caressed the old bottle and took it over to rest beside Phoebe’s beautiful gift. The enormity of the gifts struck him. Phoebe had given him a book that held world records for being the most translated and one of the best-selling books of all time. How long had Antoine de Saint-Exupéry worked on that slim volume of mastery? Nanine had told him the same had been true of the vines and wine production for Château Mouton Rothschild. A lot of work had gone into this bottle. Years of groundwork leading to this moment…
He knew his journey to this point had been the same.
A vast sea of peace opened up inside him. Studying his finished paintings lined up along the wall as well as the ones in process, he realized he was closer to his first show than ever. He had commissions to begin after that. His life hadbecome that of a serious artist with one of the most renowned agents in the world.
This year had been a defining change for him, like 1973 had been for Rothschild. He would look back in his golden years and think of the man he’d been and the one he’d become. He tipped his head up to the skylights, awash in the wonder of the cerulean blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds, a marvel he would spend the rest of his life trying to capture. Suddenly he knew what the next step of the journey was.
