9. Chapter Four George Devereaux
Chapter Four: George Devereaux
I ’d never thought I would meet a woman who seemed to be my match in nearly everything.
Georgia Philips, however, was something else.
She nearly matched me in height—she stood at approximately five-foot-ten—and she had a air of inquisitiveness about her that drew me in. The way she appreciated my paintings gave me more respect for her than I’d had before we’d talked.
Some of the women I’d surrounded myself with since I’d left Montréal four years ago had been interested in art in a purely intellectual way, eager to have long discussions about techniques and history. Or they had been utterly clueless about art, only with me for the money or fame they thought I would bring them.
To those women, I’d been an object to use, or a stepping stone to the next brighter, sparklier star. Georgia, though, after I’d observed her for the past few days, seemed different. At least, I was hoping she was different. I hoped she could see past my fame to the person I really was .
Still, the way her mouth hung open after I told her about my true identity made a smile tug at my lips. “And no, I’m not upset that you’re seeing my studio.”
She did the unexpected: she gave my arm a gentle smack. “I thought you would be some puny little French artist, like a Degas or Cézanne.”
An ungentlemanly noise of protest, mingled with disbelief and amusement, burst from my throat. “That’s the first thing you have to say? You meet the artist whose work you’ve been swooning over and you tell me you thought I’d be shorter and skinnier?”
It was Georgia’s turn to choke. “I never swooned over you.”
“I said you swooned over my art , but it’s nice to know you were crushing on me, too.”
“I most certainly was not . I just pictured you a certain way, and… you’re definitely not how I imagined you. Are you even French?”
The thought of the stunning woman in front of me conjuring up visions of how I might appear—based on my initials and my last name—warmed my heart more than it should have. “I’m from Montréal originally.”
“So, French-lite. Knockoff French.”
“French Canadian. We speak French in Montréal, mademoiselle .” I chuckled at her dismissiveness over my hometown. “What about my appearance was surprising to you?”
“You’re just really…” She swept her gaze over my form before locking her eyes with mine. “Tall. And you’re… scruffier than I thought an artist would be.”
“Now you’re insulting my grooming?” I couldn’t help the smile spreading across my face at her attempts to categorize me.
She threw her hands in the air. “All I’m saying is, you give off lumberjack vibes. ”
“Lumberjack vibes,” I repeated. My exercise regimen must have paid off. I spent the days I had creative block at the gym, swimming at my apartment building’s pool, or doing frenetic pushups until the image came to me of how a painting should look. “I’m flattered. Can this lumberjack buy you dinner tonight?”
“Did you give me your painting just so you can take me to dinner?” she asked. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a man go to such lengths to take me on a date before.”
“I hope to be the first man to impress you in more ways than that, if you’ll let me. Mostly with my art.”
Her blue eyes had a light to them that reminded me of the clear blue Italian skies outside, and the endless summers on the Amalfi coast. She made me crave a canvas to capture her with, to encapsulate this moment forever.
“Well, it won’t be with your manners.” She planted a hand on her hip playfully. “Has anyone ever told you it’s presumptuous to ask out women you’ve just met, when all you know is their name?”
“I also know you have excellent taste in art, but very well. My exhibit here is being cleared out today. After that, I’ll be free to explore Italy and see everything I’ve missed while stuck in this studio. If you’d care to join me?”
“I came to Italy with my cousin. She’s probably wondering where I am.”
“Tell her you were swept off your feet by a dashing stranger.”
“Then she’ll definitely call the cops. Do you want Interpol hunting you down?”
“No, then my family might find me.” The words slipped far too easily from my lips. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but it was too late to take it back now .
Instead of being shocked by my answer, she stepped closer. The scent of her perfume—orange blossoms and almonds—wafted toward me. “Relatable.”
“Didn’t you just say something about being here with your cousin?”
“It’s the other members of my family that I have a problem with. I’ll flee the country to avoid her brother Alexander any day.” Her phone buzzed, breaking the spell her eyes had put me under. “I bet that’s my cousin right now. I’ll see you for dinner, George Devereaux.”
Before I could so much as protest or ask how she knew she’d see me again, she had slipped past the red curtain and vanished.
***
“So how long have you been in Italy?” I asked Georgia as we made our way away from the museum toward an area with more restaurants and shops. I was glad she’d taken me up on my offer of a date.
She’d shown up outside the gallery just as it had closed and I was walking out. I’d asked the museum staff to wrap the painting up for her, in the secret hope I would encounter her again. The only problem was, I wasn’t sure where I would find her. I wasn’t about to stalk her—I’d already done enough creepy-ish watching from afar and wasn’t about to repeat it—so I was grateful to see her again. She’d given the hotel staff her address and they had arranged for it to be shipped to her home.
Now, we were walking away from the tourist areas and toward a quieter section of Rome. Crowds of visitors snapping pictures receded into the background, and were replaced by locals going about their lives. The souvenir shops gave way to small restaurants, cafes, and some grocery and convenience stores.
“My cousin and I have been here a week and we’ll be staying for another two weeks,” said Georgia.
“Then where will you go?” Perhaps they’d continue their European travels, as many did. I was half-hoping they might; it might have enticed me to leave Italy and move on. “Paris? London?”
“No, home. To New York.”
My heart sank. I don’t know why I had thought this would be anything other than a vacation fling for her, as I’d regrettably had so many of those in the past as well. Perhaps God was mocking me for my past sins and tempting me with what I couldn’t have.
The longer I spent with her, the more I thought that Georgia wasn’t the kind of woman I could be satisfied with knowing for only a handful of days or weeks.
She turned the question on me as we walked toward a street filled with gelato shops and bakeries. “How long are you going to be in Italy? Do you live here?”
I had been here for the past few months, deciding to stay in Rome as my savings dwindled. It was expensive living in Italy, especially in more touristy areas, but I had felt called to remain in Rome for longer than I typically stayed in one place. Perhaps it was because there were no more highs for me to chase, or dreams to fulfill in the ever-expanding distance of my life. I was content to remain here, for once not running after the next shiny thing on the horizon..
Usually I would have gallivanted off somewhere else by now. Perhaps fate or even God had placed me here for a reason. Although Georgia’s presence in my life was temporary, she provided a much-needed respite from my routine of painting and not much else .
“I’ve been living in Rome since last Thanksgiving, so about five months.”
She frowned. “Thanksgiving is in November. It’s February now, so wouldn’t you have been here for four months?”
“My bad. Canadian Thanksgiving.“ I chuckled at the minor difference between our countries. “I love Italy. The food, the people, the culture…”
I wasn’t just talking up the country to her. Aside from Montréal, it was the only place that had ever felt like home.
Although I’d taken off from my hometown at the age of eighteen and not looked back since, I still missed it at times. I missed my father, and my younger sister, Katerina. But the escape had been necessary. A reprieve from the monotone, mundane life of taking over my father’s manufacturing and shipping company, Devereaux Inc.
Then, after a few months, it had been less about escape and more about exploration. Now, I felt like I’d seen so much that going home would be foreign to me.
“I agree,” Georgia said, her hand brushing against mine as her arms swung by her sides. She wore a white linen dress that had puffy sleeves and a lace-up bodice; the outfit conjured up visions of romantic, idyllic picnics in the countryside. “There’s a beauty about this place that you just can’t find anywhere else.”
“Yes.” The gorgeous cathedrals and the faint glimmer of St Peter’s Basilica in the distance beckoned to me. My gaze scanned the cobblestoned streets and colourful signs in nearby shop windows. Finally, it landed on her, and I wondered how she would look in a painting, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun with the lively backdrop of the square. “There is.”
The tingle I’d felt when her hand brushed mine distracted me, and I almost missed her next words. “There’s the gelato shop! ”
We walked inside. She ordered a pistachio ice cream while I got a caramel gelato, and we watched as the worker carefully scooped our desserts into the shapes of rose petals.
I pulled out my wallet to pay before she protested or reached for her purse. Despite my long-severed connection to the place of my upbringing, my mother’s admonitions to always be a gentleman still weighed heavily on my shoulders.
We sat in silence on a park bench and watched people go by as we finished the treats. I found it surprisingly easy to sit quietly next to her; there was no need to fill the silence with awkward conversation or forced laughter. A gentle evening breeze stirred my hair, wafting the faint aroma of her perfume toward me.
“Thanks for the ice cream,” she said. “Now, where to next?”
“I know a beautiful fountain where we can throw coins. It’ll be less crowded than the Trevi Fountain.”
“But how will our wishes come true?” She grinned and let me lead her toward the fountain anyway.
Mine already has sprang to my lips and I quashed it down. What was wrong with me, letting myself envision romantic fantasies with a woman who was leaving in two weeks? Especially one who was most likely never going to return or remember who I was?
“Don’t worry. I don’t believe in wishes.”
“Don’t believe in wishes ?” She gave a dramatic gasp, her rose-petal lips dropping open in a perfect O . “What kind of artist are you?”
“A practical one,” I said, putting my hand on the small of her back to steer her toward the motorcycle rental shop I knew was nearby. “Now, how do you feel about motorcycles?”
“Well, I’ll get on one with you, but only because you claim to be a practical artist. Not one with his head in the clouds who would be bound to steer us into a tree.” Georgia grinned. Again, that million-dollar smile looked to me like it should have been gazing back at me from a magazine. But no, magazine-cover beauty was too shallow a definition for her appearance. She should have been adorning the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling, or starring in a painting of Aphrodite or the Muses.
“But you’re wearing a dress.”
She shook her head. “I have shorts under. You never know when you might need to get on a motorcycle for the first time.”
I chuckled. I was surprised and strangely touched by her assurance that I wouldn’t steer us wrong. That she trusted me. As I helped her put on her helmet, my thumb brushed the soft underside of her jaw. I was grateful the visor came down to cover her face so I wouldn’t be so terribly distracted by her.
She bunched up her skirt in her hands as she waited for me to sit down first, adjusting her outfit to keep her dress from getting caught in the motorcycle or burned by the exhaust.
No one had trusted me with their safety in a long time. So the fact that she did made a flame of hope sputter to life in my chest.