Page 47 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
The unexpected truth of his words slammed into my chest. “Are you sure you’re not a writer? You certainly have a way with words.”
He shrugged. “I’m French.”
I laughed. I’d been here so long that French assurance had softened for me into a charming cultural bravado.
At that moment, I knew he had it, the same gift I’d come to understand all artists shared. The ability to see beyond a thing, beyond what was presented. Artists know what something is and what it can become. Unlike Jacques, he could perceive more than the physical. Potentially, he could see me ... if I let him, if I could let someone see me again after all this time and all that had happened.
René was a thing of beauty himself. His stride graceful, he easily navigated the crowded street. I studied him as we talked, orbiting each other as we navigated the crowds, the streets thick withlife. Vendors hawked from the corners, the fowler selling rows of plucked ducks strung upside down as carriages and wagons trundled past, sending the ripe scent of horse dung through the air. His clothes were well made, without a hint of paint; everything about him was even and precise.
He made me think about how long it had been since Jacques. With him, sex had been staid and safe. And while William and I were never together that way, I’d felt love and understanding, a shared sense of our pasts with him; this was a different sensation altogether. This felt like abandon. I’d seen others carried away with it, and despite being more than a hundred years old, I’d yet to experience that for myself.
His studio wasn’t far from the Palais-Royal, located in a three-story limestone walk-up. He stopped at a doorway on the third floor, by the stairs.
“Here we are.” He fumbled with the key—perhaps he was not as calm and collected as he seemed. He covered it masterfully and opened the door with a flourish, swinging it wide. “Welcome to my studio.”
The entire space was an artistic endeavor: an ample central room with draping next to an open window and a smaller bedroom just beyond, both spilling over with a variety of pieces at different stages of creation. Even the side table, with a loaf of bread, bright-green pears, and yellow cheese wedges, sat in a slant of sunlight, ready to be painted.
A detailed nude caught my eye: a blond with golden curls cascading down her neck, drawn languidly on a red velvet settee, arm above her head, apple-size breasts arched high, sporting pert nipples the color of strawberries, a fold of silvery fabric the only nod to modesty as she gazed at the viewer.
A lover.
Former or current was the only question. I blushed at the intimacy of it, her pleasure on display for the world to see.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his tone teasing. “We could explore this style, should you choose.”
“Uh, I think more ... conventional for the first one.”
“Ah, the first,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad to know there will be others.” He directed me to a small couch covered in a deep-blue fabric that contrasted with my dress. I sat delicately, fiddling with my skirts, my throat dry. Maybe thiswasall about a portrait. I should sit for it and be on my way.
He plucked a larger canvas from the stack and set it on his easel. “Since you don’t seem to know what kind of piece you’d like,” he said, “why don’t I make it a surprise?” He chose a wooden palette, smeared it with a brown tint, and worked a palette knife across the surface.
“We didn’t discuss a price,” I reminded him.
“Pay me what you think it’s worth.” He smiled easily as he selected a brush, flicking it through a small tin of solvent.
“You don’t understand business, do you?”
“I understand as much as I need to get by. This I do for ... personal reasons.”
We were quiet as he began, only the steady clop of horses outside and the scrape of his brush as he roughed in the shapes on the canvas.
“What brought you to Paris?” he asked.
“What makes you think I’m not from here?”
He smiled patiently, as all Parisians do. I wondered how he could detect what must’ve been the faintest of accents after all these years living in the city.
“Fine, I’m originally from America. I came here in ... I came for business and stayed for pleasure.”
His eyes twinkled, but he seemed to resist another quip. “Hold your head a bit higher,” he instructed.
I adjusted, half reclining on the couch. “Do you bring all your clients here?”
“No ... only the best ones,” he said, eyes lingering.
That sent a thrill through me.
“What do you do?” he asked, changing the subject. “How do you pass the time?”
