Chapter 25 #2
“That is a bold-faced lie! I maybe spoke about you every other day.” She grinned.
“She said you paint impasto. Oui?”
“Yes, and dabble in illustration—more like doodling these days.”
“Je l’aime. I love it.” He slapped his hands together as though in prayer. “We must talk linseed and knives over choco chaud and croissant—or maybe a profiterole.”
“Sounds good ... I think,” William said.
René left them standing in the center of the busy café.
He bent to her ear, his warm breath tickling her cheek. “What is choco chaud?”
“Hot cocoa. His is to die for. Let’s sit outside,” she offered.
“I suddenly feel ... very uncomfortable and out of place. Obviously, I’m a third wheel here. Do you want me to go?” he said.
“No! You, uncomfortable? You’re not a third wheel at all. You’re like family to René. He knows everything.”
William raised an eyebrow.
Taking a seat at the table in front of the window, she carefully considered her response.
On those days before school officially began, she’d barely held her emotions together.
The regret and guilt over her cowardly, immature breakup gutted her.
How many times had she called him only to hang up after the first few rings?
“Um, let’s just say broken hearts and cognac-loaded Café Br?lot go hand in hand.
He was a good listener, and I was a good crier. ”
“Ah. I understand that acutely. I ... forget I said anything.”
She tilted her head, gazing into his expressive eyes, then laid a hand on his wrist. “Wait, are you ... are you jealous of René?”
“No, not at all!” he irascibly protested. “That was a long time ago, and didn’t we state we had moved on?”
“Yes, we did and have, but I didn’t moooove on, in the way you’re assuming, with René. We were just friends. Without him, I never would have made it at Beaux Arts. Besides, you’re engaged, so what should it matter after all these years?”
“Right. And you’re also engaged.” His gaze dropped to her hand, and she promptly placed it on her lap. He was gracious enough not to ask, and she was not about to break the illusion of her own betrothal.
“Exactly. Just think of René as though he were a brother from another mother. You two actually have a lot in common besides your medium. René inherited his father’s business, too. Both your dads worked with dough at all hours of the night for extremely demanding clientele. Same thing.”
He laughed. It did her heart good to see that every minute they spent together, Fitzwilliam Darcy was shedding his impenetrable mask.
She only hoped that Carrie appreciated this relaxed, authentic side of him.
Surely he let his guard down in front of her; otherwise, what type of marriage would they have?
“For the record, I repeat, I am not jealous of René or Wickham,” he said.
“Of course you’re not. Carrie is way more perfect for you than I ever was or ... would be.” She grinned.
William didn’t comment, just looked up with a half-smile as René approached their table holding a tray of pastry and mugs.
“Best seat in the house!” René said with a smile. “But it looks like rain.”
“We don’t mind,” she said, wrapping a hand around the warm mug after he placed it on the table.
Taking a seat between them, he took her free hand and squeezed it. “Now that you are single again, I may not let you go back to New York,” he said.
Shit! Her heart stopped, and she panicked, shooting him a look. “I ... no! ... I’m engaged to George. Yes. Engaged.”
“But you texted—”
“No! I’m getting married soon! Remember?” Followed by a quick explanation in French.
“Ah. I misunderstood. Yes, George, the would-be pornographer.”
“Photographer!”
“No, chérie. If one is going to be a pornographer, then why use the AI? It is a complete contradiction. A true artist is honest about his creation, no matter how scandaleux. He gives all porn a bad name, then.”
“Then, you approve of actual, live model pornography?” she goaded, picking up her dish and inhaling her favorite pate feuilleté. “Mon Dieu, what would your Catholic papa say?”
“That is not the point, and you know it! It is a dishonest trompe l’oeil. I am surprised you would tolerate such a man who would lie about his oeuvre and deceive the public by declaring he is technologically savvy.”
“No comment,” she said, hoping he’d change the subject away from George.
“I take it you don’t like Lizzy’s fiancé?” William asked.
René chuckled. “I don’t like anyone who pretends to be an artist by using AI, which steals from true artistry. There is no authenticity anymore in the world! Everything is a sloppy illusion.”
“Still passionate, still a purist, still a cynic,” she laughed, but he was right, and now she knew the truth about George’s “art.” He was a depraved pornographic photographer, and it made her sick. She’d tell René the truth eventually, but he’d probably still dislike George—authenticity or not.
“Do you know this George?” René asked William.
“We have a long history. I wish them well.”
“That is vague. Lizzy, your William does not like your fiancé either.”
Chewing, she shrugged, anxious to move on from the topic. “He’s not my William, but I think he likes your choco chaud, though.”
“I’m no authority, but it’s exceptional, and the croissant is just as Lizzy touted—delicious,” William commented.
“Thank you!” René leaned forward, speaking softly. “The secret is Belgian chocolate,” he then laughed.
“I won’t say a word,” William replied.
“It would turn away my customers if they knew.”
“I could tease you about authenticity, you know,” she joked.
“Ha! Yes, you have me there,” René conceded.
William looked around the busy establishment. “I doubt it would hurt business. It looks like you have a sure thing here. Is this your only location?”
“At present. I wish to open another patisserie in the eleventh arrondissement, near Opéra Garnier, but ... you know, times are tough. The profit margin is small now.”
“How much money do you think you would need?”
René looked at her with an odd expression. It was, after all, a delicate, maybe even considered vulgar question to ask a Frenchman.
“William is the top investment capitalist in New York,” she clarified, surprised and elated that her ex would offer to help her friend grow his business.
“I suppose, one hundred thousand euros,” René said.
“Hm. I might be able to help you with that.”
“Oui? Yes! I would be most happy to discuss this further.”
“Excellent.”
“But now, let’s talk impasto! Tell me, what type of palette knives do you enjoy using?”
“It depends on the subject matter, but recently I preferred an Italian twelve-centimeter, a few brushes ... and my fingers.”
René sat back. “Your fingers! I love it!”
“I like layers, and this way I could feel and mold the image better. It’s in the movement, like I’m touching beyond the paint. My subject ... moved me, literally ...” William’s eyes met hers across the table. “… using my fingers came naturally.”
“I love this man! You must dump the fake pornographer and marry him instead. It would be a great collaboration.”
In that moment, with René enthusiastically expounding on molding and texture in the background, their eyes locked across the table. Something breathtaking passed between their hearts, the unspoken words of their heartbeats. She’d marry him at this very moment if all their impediments disappeared.
Forcing herself to pull away, she said, “Um, René, does Terese still have her pottery studio? I thought William and I could take a class.”
“Absolument!” He took out his phone, then texted. “It is done. She will expect you for a private class at noon.”
“William, are you up for learning something new with me? Terese is a master potter and sculptor.”
“Absolument,” he said with a grin. “I’d love to do that with you. In fact, I’m up for anything.”