Find Me in Paris

Chapter 13

Thirteen

SOPHIE

Sophie’s legs were tired from hours of strolling the streets, not that she wanted to stop. Today, Gabriel had taken her to Montmartre, the charming little village perched on a hill where Sophie imagined she might live if she had been lucky enough to have come to Paris when she’d planned. They’d taken the metro together early in the morning to beat the tourists and ascended what felt like dozens of flights of stairs, rounding their way up to the street above as they took in colorful murals painted on the metro walls. Sophie couldn’t get enough of every corner of this neighborhood, from the small gardens that were lush with greenery and flowers, to the charming variety of houses in different colors and styles that looked out onto the shops and restaurants lining the winding and narrow cobblestoned streets. She especially enjoyed the Place du Tertre featuring artists who worked on landscapes or painted portraits on-site.

“You know,” she said as they leisurely strolled. It was nice to slow down, something that she didn’t do often enough in New York. “You still haven’t told me what you paint or what your collection is about.”

“If I told you then it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Gabriel said, seemingly amused by her comment.

She gave him a funny look, wondering if he was serious, but then realized that he didn’t want to talk to her about his work and that this was his way of telling her so. It reminded her of when she was little and her father was working on something new, something that he didn’t want to put into words, but wanted to simply show everyone once it was complete.

“I get it,” she said with a nod, because she did. They paused to admire a few more artists, neither of them commenting on the work, but each quietly assessing. She was sure that Gabriel had his own view, as an artist and as a teacher, but she was also sure that as a creative, he was not prone to judge, but rather to study, observe, and reflect.

Perhaps it was why she was so comfortable in his company. In many ways, he reminded her of her father. The good parts of him, at least.

“This is somewhere Papa would have liked,” Sophie said, feeling nostalgic. Though she didn’t know much of his life in Paris, she was sure that these streets were familiar to him.

“I’m sure,” Gabriel said. “Your father is a very gifted artist.”

“A tormented one,” Sophie said ruefully. “He was always searching for his muse. I’m not sure that he ever found it.”

“Isn’t that what keeps life interesting?” Gabriel said as they rounded another corner, this one leading them farther up a hill toward the Basilica Sacre-Coeur. They stopped when they reached the top of the steps to look out over the Paris skyline.

Sophie took it all in, imagining her sisters somewhere down there, going about their business, Isabelle in her gallery, Camille probably on the phone with her daughter. And for the first time, even though she was technically removed from it all, she felt like a part of it.

Even, perhaps, a part of the family.

“I suppose that it is,” she finally said when they’d seen enough. “But that’s not what my mother would say.”

“I take it that your mother is different than your father?” Gabriel asked.

Sophie laughed, even though it was far from funny. Once, there had been a time when her mother and father had a lot in common, back when her mother was involved in the local theater, making costumes and working on set designs. It was there that she’d met Papa, when he’d been in New York for a gallery opening and stopped by the playhouse to take in a show.

Her mother hadn’t stepped foot in a theater in fifteen years. She hadn’t picked up a paintbrush, either.

“My mother believes that life is better spent boring than interesting. That it’s better to stay in one place, doing the same thing every day, even if it’s something you don’t enjoy, than to wish for something more. She’s all about…embracing reality.”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “And she was married to your father? The great artist, Paul Laurent?”

Sophie wasn’t so sure that her father was a great artist, but one part of Gabriel’s question was true. “ Was married. They divorced when I was twelve. My father loves adventure. And my mother…she loves security.”

“She sounds like a woman who has been disappointed by life,” Gabriel said sadly.

Sophie glanced at him, surprised by how quickly he picked up on this. “Unfortunately, she wants to keep me locked up beside her. If she had it her way, I’d live a small life, within a ten-mile radius of my childhood home.”

“Maybe she’s protecting you?” Gabriel said.

Sophie thought of Camille, and how she’d treated her this morning. It had been amusing, even flattering, to feel like her sister cared enough to be worried about her welfare, but now she saw it as something else, too. A symptom of Camille’s own fears and worries, an outcome of her disappointments.

Life had let Camille down. And now she was trying to control it.

Maybe the same could be said for her mother. She knew that her mother worried about her, that deep down she only wanted the best for her. But the best for Sophie wasn’t to be sitting in a gray cubicle doing a job she didn’t enjoy day after day, simply because it paid the bills and came with a health plan. And it wasn’t to marry a man she didn’t love, either.

She glanced at Gabriel, who was giving her a funny smile, and for the first time in a long time, she felt a connection. Without having to say much of anything, or explain herself, someone simply understood.

Maybe even better than she did.

“Coffee?” Gabriel asked, sensing that she was getting fatigued. “Or…wine?”

“Coffee,” Sophie said firmly, and not just because she needed the caffeine. She needed to keep a clear head around this man who wasn’t just turning out to be an excellent tour guide, but also, rather worthwhile company.

She’d almost forgotten that she wasn’t just spending time with him as a favor to Isabelle, but now she checked herself as he led her to the café across the street.

“You know every inch of this city,” she remarked once they’d settled at a wrought-iron table on a narrow stretch of sidewalk, each with a café au lait in front of them.

“You’d think I lived here all my life,” Gabriel said.

Sophie looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head. “I only moved here a few years ago. Oh, I visited all the time, of course. But I was born and raised in a village about two hours from here, and that’s where I lived until recently.”

Sophie stared at him, trying to make sense of this information and how it changed the image she had of him. All this time, she’d assumed that his confidence with this city came from having grown up here. “What made you decide to move?”

“I needed a change,” he said simply. “Besides…does anyone ever need a reason to move to Paris?”

She grinned. “So this city is new to you, too.”

“Not new,” he corrected her, “but, I’m still discovering it. There’s always something to uncover.”

“I feel like there’s more to take in than I could ever possibly see!” Sophie agreed, widening her arms, as if embracing the busy streets around her, wishing that she could take them all with her back to New York.

“So, is Paris everything you hoped it would be?” he asked.

She smiled broadly, feeling her heart swell in a way that she couldn’t ever remember it doing. It felt full, when for so long, a part of it was missing, and she hadn’t even realized it. Or perhaps hadn’t dared to admit it.

“More,” she said.

A little wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. “Why is it that you haven’t visited before? You have a sister here.”

“Isabelle has only been living in Paris since her—I mean, our—grandmother passed away and gave her the apartment,” Sophie said. Even though she knew that technically the apartment had been left to the three of them, Sophie had never even considered asking for it. It wouldn’t have felt right.

And Paris…Paris had still felt off the table. A forgotten dream. A forbidden place.

Not wanting to talk about her reasons for never visiting France, she quickly changed the topic.

Thinking of Isabelle’s request that morning, she asked, “So…have you gotten much painting done since I last saw you?”

“Are you asking for yourself or your sister?” His mouth twitched when he asked the question, and Sophie felt comfortable enough to answer with full honesty.

“Both, I suppose.” She gave a little smile. “I’m curious to know how you work. In fits and bursts? Or…methodically?”

“If I waited for inspiration to strike, I’d be a very poor man,” Gabriel said with a laugh. “As it is, I pay my bills by teaching.”

“Do you plan to continue doing that if the show is a big success?” Sophie asked. “To hear my sister tell it, this opening could be the start of a big career for you.”

“My day job isn’t just for the security,” Gabriel went on. “I enjoy sharing my expertise.”

Ah, the ego had returned. Only this time, for some reason Sophie found it more charming than irritating. Maybe because she’d come to see the person behind it.

“Can I ask you something?” Sophie asked. “If you don’t paint exclusively when inspiration strikes, then why has it taken you so long to finish this painting?”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, drawing a flush from Sophie’s cheeks.

“Either you’ve done your homework or Isabelle’s been complaining about me.”

Sophie laughed. “I’m not stalking you, just so you know. I have better things to do. Like explore Paris.” They exchanged a smile. “And Isabelle isn’t complaining. She just wants the show to be a success.”

“That makes two of us.” Gabriel seemed pensive. “I don’t always need inspiration, but with this painting, I do. Objectively, it’s finished. But in my gut…” He squinted as he shook his head. “When it’s finished, I’ll know.”

Sophie understood. “When you know, you just know.”

“Exactly. It’s not an assessment. It’s a feeling. Like love.”

Sophie knew she was blushing again, and she picked up her coffee to take a sip, nearly burning her mouth because she’d forgotten how hot it was.

Did you just know when you were in love? Did you get a feeling, something to confirm that yes, this was the one, the person who was meant to find you, to complete you, to share your life?

If so, it hadn’t happened for Sophie yet. Either that or it had, and she just hadn’t known what to look for.

“Even love is never certain,” Sophie replied.

“Very true,” Gabriel said with a firm nod.

“People marry and divorce all the time. My parents did.”

“Are you saying that what they had wasn’t love?” Gabriel countered, again with the stare, patiently waiting for her answer.

Sophie thought back on her parents’ relationship, something she rarely did and hadn’t done in years. It was happy at times, especially in the early years, and her childhood had seemed almost idyllic, with Papa always laughing, her mother greeting him each evening with a kiss and a long, lingering smile.

Until it all changed. Without warning. Then the memories became cloudy and confusing, mostly filled with her mother’s tears, and later, her anger, which seemed to settle over her, defining the rest of her life.

Changing her. Not for the better. But for the worse.

“Maybe it was,” she said reluctantly. “Or maybe it was infatuation. I’d like to think that real love shouldn’t suddenly stop.”

“You’re an idealist,” Gabriel observed, seeming amused.

“More like I’m a realist,” she said, giving him a pointed look.

“A cynic?” He looked at her in disbelief. “But how can you not believe in love when you are here, in Paris?”

He spread his arms wide and Sophie took in the view, the people walking hand in hand, others on bicycles, weaving through the crowd, their baskets filled with flowers and books, baked goods, and notebooks. Music piped from the cafés, which seemed to anchor every street corner, and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue.

“It’s as pretty as a painting,” she mused.

Gabriel grinned. “That’s exactly what it is.”

Sophie didn’t go straight back to the apartment after leaving Gabriel, only today it wasn’t because she was avoiding Camille. The talk with her sister this morning had been…progress. Not great. Far from wonderful. Certainly not enough to make her envision long nights spent giggling together the way she’d once hoped to do.

But all the same…progress.

Sophie parked herself at the café terrasse she’d come to most prefer in their little neighborhood because of its cheerful flowers and prime people watching, feeling more comfortable each time she visited, even though she was alone. She ordered her usual, feeling a sense of pleasure that she’d been in Paris long enough to not feel completely overwhelmed, and pulled out her notebook. Since arriving, she’d jotted down various things: what she saw, what she ate, and memories that she hoped would last a lifetime.

Only today, after writing down all the details of the day, Sophie turned the page and started jotting something else.

It wasn’t a continuation of her long-abandoned novel, the one that now served as a reminder of her failure, rather than a hope for success.

It wasn’t much of anything at all. Just…ideas. Inspiration, perhaps.

Or maybe a feeling.

Just as quickly, that feeling was shattered when her phone beeped. And then beeped again.

Two texts from her mother were quickly followed by a third and then a fourth, and just like that, Sophie felt like she was back in New York along with all of her problems.

She stared at the screen, feeling skittish and guilty, even though she knew that she had absolutely nothing to feel bad about other than being dishonest—and the only reason she couldn’t tell the truth was because she knew how her mother would react if she did.

She did the math. It was now roughly lunchtime back home. Her mother would have a short break in the day before she had to get back to her desk. She never complained about the job or the fact that she brought the same turkey sandwich and apple with her in a brown bag each day. The two weeks of vacation she accrued were the same each year: one week at Christmas, which Sophie was expected to spend at the house, one day for Sophie’s birthday, which Sophie was also expected to spend with her, and one week in the spring, which was used for cleaning and gardening.

Sophie thought back to what Gabriel had said, about how Sophie’s mother was just trying to protect her, and felt her heart soften a little.

She tapped out a reply, mentioning that she was having a great time and hoped that all was well on the home front.

Her mother didn’t waste thirty seconds before replying, asking for a phone call, complaining that she needed to hear Sophie’s voice.

The familiar tension returned to Sophie’s shoulders.

She picked up the phone and again imagined a situation where she and her mother had the kind of relationship where they could talk about things adult to adult, not parent to child. A world in which she could tell her mother about everything she’d been doing here, the things she’d seen, the food she’d eaten, the conversations she’d had with her sisters.

She smiled when she thought of her mother asking her to tell her more, sharing in her excitement, and reveling in the adventure she was having.

But she knew that she couldn’t tell her any of it. Not when her mother wouldn’t understand.

Not when she wouldn’t support it.

Sophie put the phone back into her bag and zipped it tight, then went back to her notebook.

And all the lovely sounds of the streets of Paris.