Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Books had a way of bringing out every good facet and feeling in a person.
Phoebe was like that for Sawyer, too. By the time they grabbed a cab, they were both giggling and panting, having made the mutual decision to rush down the street to catch one that was flying by.
He was feeling as light as the proverbial feather. Not a single rumination about painting, his life, or all the changes. All his mind could focus on—wanted to focus on—was her.
“You make me present in the moment,” he confessed as they were driven through the golden-lit streets. “Very few people do that.”
The streetlights reaching into the car highlighted the carefree grin on her face as she reached for his hand and wove their fingers together. “I’m glad. You make it easy to just be me.”
That surprised him. “You always seem to be yourself. When aren’t you?”
She looked away then, the smile slipping from her face. “When there are expectations,” she only said, and after that, fell silent.
He held her hand the whole way to Chez Marie, and when the car stopped, he went around to open her door, but she was already hopping out. “Oops! I’ll try and wait next time. But I won’t always. I’m usually too eager to get moving.”
“I like that about you,” he said, striding to open the restaurant’s modest brown door.
She sailed through it after patting his cheek and murmuring, “Merci.”
Then Mathieau called out Sawyer’s name, and Phoebe stepped aside as the server hurried forward to greet them.
“It is wonderful to see you, Sawyer,” he began in French. “All of us here have been delighted to see the good press about Nanine’s reopening. Everyone must be pleased.”
“We are,” he answered, his heart warming at the reminder of how many people cared.
“Marie and all of us would like to offer you and your guest a glass of champagne to celebrate.”
“That is very kind of you,” he answered, putting his hand to Phoebe’s back as Mathieau led them to a reserved table in the corner that had more room than most and featured a window view.
When they were seated, Phoebe leaned forward as she shrugged out of her coat, her red hair almost bouncing as it came to rest against her chest. He wanted to reach out and touch a strand. Rub his fingers over the texture. Examine the hues of the highlights. Study how it contrasted to her fair skin.
“Are you sizing me up for another painting?” She struck a pose. “How about this? Is the light flattering? Is this my good side?”
He leaned closer, mostly to be close enough to feel the vitality radiating from her, rather like how heat radiates off a road in the desert.
She had so much life inside her, and for tonight, he was glad it was all his.
“Every side on you is marvelous, Phoebe, and yes, I was. Your hair in particular. It’s gorgeous. ”
Fluffing it playfully, she smiled. “So is yours. I adore the way it curls. It reminds me of black ink and a bunch of Oxford commas drawn together. I believe in it, you should know.”
“The Oxford comma?” God, he never knew what she was going to say, which was fun. “Why? Because you’re an alum?”
“No, because I dislike ambiguity. Clarity at all costs is my motto.”
He was laughing as Mathieau set down their champagne. He managed to give a gracious thank you along with Phoebe before he pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up higher. “Language is riddled with ambiguity.”
She gasped playfully. “Why, Dr. Sawyer Jackson, I’m surprised at you. So you think we are doomed to be unclear in our thoughts and feelings?”
He picked up his flute and swirled around his champagne, enjoying the color and the way the bubbles rose in a straight line.
Her bubbles, he noted, were more like a cyclone.
Somehow even the champagne had picked up on their individual energies.
“We do our best to be clear, but there are always hidden meanings and subtext. The same is true with art.”
She shook her finger. “No, no, no. We cannot speak about art. So let us toast to Nanine’s with this very nice gift from your friends here at the restaurant. I’m glad you brought me someplace that matters to you. I’d wondered where you’d take me. I like this place. Oh, but wait! Let’s toast. Santé!”
“Santé.” Her vivaciousness had him smiling as he took that first sip. “I’m glad you’re happy. Nanine loves this restaurant, as do many of my roommates. Plus, we can stroll to Sacre Coeur and watch the city at night. I know it’s cliché, but the view is spectacular.”
“You are a romantic to your soul, Dr. Jackson.” Her green eyes sparkled. “Good thing I am too—although I can be practical when it calls for it. But life is so much more fun with things like romance and spontaneity and magic, don’t you think?”
He nodded, feeling like he had a front row seat to the best show in town. The Phoebe Anderson Theater. He was going to savor every act.
They browsed the menu, her taking his recommendations.
When Mathieau arrived to take their order, he asked for his advice about a red wine and settled on a robust Burgundy they agreed would suit their boeuf bourguignon.
After he left, taking their empty flutes with him, Phoebe wiggled in her chair and started rubbing her hands together.
“Are you cold?”
“No, I’m getting ready to do the whole tell me more about yourself thing.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “I’m surprised you don’t already know everything there is to know about me.”
She laughed. “I probably deserve that, but no, there is plenty we haven’t covered.
I’ll start. You already know I’m half British and half American.
Which means I’m in complete conflict over two things.
Whether I like a burger and fries better than fish and chips and whether I should be a fan of the royal family or dislike the institution as a whole.
Tough life decisions, let me assure you. ”
He ran his tongue over his teeth, chuckling. “Descartes would be worried for you.”
“I know! That whole I think, therefore I am quote should be I think I like an American burger more, therefore I am.”
“Oh, Phoebe. Descartes is rolling in his grave.”
“I know, but I’m not finished with my inner anguish. I also went to school in both countries. London and New York, which means that half of the time I dress stylish while the other half I think I’m dressing stylish but I’m probably not.”
“I’ve never found your fashion choices questionable.”
“But you’ve only seen me three times! See.
Now you’re worrying, aren’t you?” She lifted her napkin and playfully placed it over her chest like it was a prop in a show.
“I might show up in a grape-colored jumper with houndstooth pants—which I have, you should know. It’s quite a statement.
I once had a famous French designer see me in that outfit.
He said it was a bold choice and a little crazy, but he liked it. I took that as a win.”
Was she always this fun? Yeah, he thought she probably was. “What else do I need to know?”
She put a finger to her mouth. “I’m a Gemini, so I bore easily.
Not that I get bored if I’m in charge, which is why I like to be.
Let’s see. I love Paris because she’s beautiful.
The people here worship art, and the French truly don’t care much about who you are or what your parents did.
Their insouciance is a balm to my soul after London and New York. ”
The way her mouth twisted told the story of how much people’s shallowness toward her still stung, and he had another glimpse of the vulnerable young girl she’d been.
“Their diffidence makes me want to skip down the streets sometimes. When they are rude to me, I know it isn’t personal.”
“I love that too,” he confessed. “They’re so unconcerned about catering to other people.”
“Right! Whereas in some circles in London and New York, people either smiled through their teeth or kissed my ass. There was little honesty. It’s one of my favorite values in people.
That’s why I liked you so much from the start and was delighted you liked me before you knew who I was. You, Dr. Jackson, are an honest soul.”
He leaned forward and gave a little bow. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you!” She lifted her glass and they toasted each other. “Lying would be a moral conundrum for you, and in the end, your sense of reason as much as your goodness would win out.”
She had him down. “A Voltaire quote I love comes to mind. Everything you say should be true, but not everything true should be said.”
“Yes!” She beamed at him as she lifted her glass again. “Oh, I must remember that. You’ll have to text it to me. I should have that embroidered on a bath towel and sent to my mother.”
He reached for some bread, wondering if he’d ever laughed so much with anyone other than Dean. “Why a bath towel?”
“Because she’d have to use it every day, and perhaps running it over her body would force the sentiment in.
A girl can hope. As you have inferred, we don’t get along.
Mostly. We both love art and artists. Believe it can be a force of good in the world.
Something that should be cultivated and nurtured. ”
The passion in her voice was so strong he would have painted it scarlet red.
“It’s that shared love I go back to,” she continued, “when I wonder whether she and I can continue to have a relationship. This new gallery is either going to make us or break us.”
Again, the hurt was evident under her passion.
“Which is why I didn’t strike out on my own despite much moral agony.
” She toyed with her napkin, glancing away.
“I’m prepared to, but I…dammit, I’d like to hope that the woman who gave birth to me could retain at least one positive function in my life besides the initial act of creation.
Because mothers like mine are like Shiva.
Inside them is some driving force to destroy what they’ve created, and I don’t want to go down that way. ”