Chasing Paris Page 10

  “I don’t want my portrait drawn,” she responded.

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  She slung her hair behind her shoulder. “Many artists have tried to create images of me before,” she said, this time in English. “Yours will be just like the rest.”

  “Only if you look at it the same way you’ve looked at the others,” he responded more comfortably in English.

  His fingers finally began to warm. He started to sketch, and she continued talking with Billy’s artist neighbor.

  The drawing was only half-finished when she stood and touched her friend’s shoulder to say goodbye. She stepped toward Billy’s easel and examined his progress.

  “You’re right,” she said, again speaking in English. “Yours is different. Unfinished.” She walked down the row of artists, her hair swishing behind her, her skirt snapping around her legs.

  “Where are you going?” Billy called after her. She simply shook her head, responding with a ripple of her hair. He rubbed his blackened hands on his pants and removed the dusty drawing from the easel. “Who is that woman?” he asked his artist neighbor in French.

  Jean scratched his beard, looking after her. “Elizabeth Hathaway. Her sister is a student at the Sorbonne, and she visits every summer. She likes to come out here sometimes and talk to the artists.”

  “You know her well?”

  “We are friendly. She likes stories.”

  “Have I seen her before?”

  The artist chuckled. “If you haven’t, you’ve been blind.”

  Billy’s continued gazing in her direction. “I’m blind no longer. Do you know where I can find her? If I wanted to see her again?”

  “Go to the University,” his neighbor said. “I am sure she’s staying with her sister.”

  “The Sorbonne, yes?”

  “Or, you could wait until she comes back here. It won’t be long.”

  Billy nodded slowly. “The Sorbonne.” His mind wandered over the possibilities. Then he put Elizabeth out of his mind and began concentrating on his work.

  That night, he finished the sketch by memory. With the last stroke of charcoal, he stepped back and smiled. He would see her again. Somehow, he was sure of it.

  ***

  As Will finished the second page, he felt Amy’s eyes on him. He looked up.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  She was leaning back in her chair, drumming her fingers against the table. “I didn’t know Nana went to college in Paris.” She fell silent for a moment. “Why didn’t I know that? It seems like something that would have come up.”

  “Maybe,” Will said slowly, “you didn’t know because she doesn’t talk about anything that has to do with Lizzie. And going to school in Paris was connected in some way to Lizzie.”

  Amy dropped her eyes to the stack of papers. “There’s just so much I don’t know.”

  “Not for long.”

  Amy nodded at the papers but didn’t answer.

  “Hey, what about your grandmother there?” Will said. “Lizzie sounds like she was a firecracker.”

  Amy smiled, cringed, and laughed at the same time. “I’m getting that feeling too.” She sat forward in her chair again. “I wonder,” her voice trailed off as she began reading once more.

  ***

  And Billy was right. It wasn’t long before he saw Lizzie again—in fact, it was sooner than he expected.

  “So, are you going to finish that portrait of me?”

  Her voice came from behind, melting on Billy’s neck. The words cooled his skin, tingling down his backbone. He turned around, looking Elizabeth up and down. She wore another long, layered skirt, this time pale pink, and a white sleeveless shirt. Still, his first thought was that of a mischievous nymph in a tale told centuries before.

  “I already finished it,” he said, watching her eyes ever so closely.

  “Oh?” The expression on Elizabeth’s face betrayed no surprise, no amusement, no real interest. She sat down on Billy’s stool, only a foot from where he stood at his easel. “You’re not new here, are you?” she asked.

  “No.” Billy turned back to his work. “But neither are you.”

  “Before yesterday, you hadn’t seen me.”

  Billy smiled at his painting. “What gave you that idea?”

  She sighed, her voice spreading warmth through the air. “So, are you going to bring out the drawing of me or not?”

  He didn’t look at her as his right hand gained speed, dashing across the canvas. “What makes you think I want to show you?”

  “Yesterday you bragged that it would be unlike any of the others.”

  Billy shook his head. “I said it would only be like the others if you looked at it the same way that you looked at the others.” He tapped his temple with the pointed end of his brush. “Our perceptions can change everything.”

  She sat quietly for a moment and then tapped her toes on the ground, alternating left and right. The tapping was slow at first, but soon it quickened.

  “Tell me a story,” she said.

  “A story?” He dabbed his canvas with the tip of his brush, concentrating on the result. “Once upon a time, a beautiful girl found herself enamored by a man whose social status did not match hers. She was well-monied, and he was a soldier. In fact, he was a great soldier fighting in a tumultuous war that had been waged for many long years.” He dipped his brush in a schmear of paint on his palette. With a long exhale, he continued, “These different social statuses, however, did not pose the biggest problem in their relationship. The girl’s father was a traitor. He had given information to the enemy, and everyone knew—”

  “So you read great literature, do you?”

  Billy cocked his head to one side, still focusing his eyes on his canvas. “You know that Shakespeare play, do you? It’s not exactly popular.”

  Lizzie didn’t answer for a moment. “I was thinking of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, which is much better than Shakespeare’s version—Troilus and Cressida. You know, Shakespeare did a poor job portraying the heroine, Criseyde. She is quite misrepresented and misunderstood. Perhaps that is why his is not very popular and Chaucer’s is so much stronger.”

  “Ah, and you know about being misrepresented and misunderstood?”

  “I’m too young for either, really.” Lizzie peered around the corner of his canvas, trying to get a look at the shapes coming to life through Billy’s hands. “But if you showed me the portrait you were working on yesterday, I may find that you’ve created a misrepresented or misunderstood version of me.”

  He never stopped painting. “My, my. It seems that you really want to see it. Yesterday you didn’t want me to bother with it at all.”

  She pretended not to hear him. “So, will you show me or not?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you waste your time doing it?”

  He turned toward her, studying the thick eyelashes framing her eyes. “Are you ever going to introduce yourself to me?”

  She stood up, eyes shining. “You already know who I am.”

  “Do I?”

  She straightened her skirt, almost imperceptibly, and nearly smiled. “It was nice talking to you, Billy Shakespeare. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

  She floated down the row of artists and disappeared into the mouth of a coffeehouse.

  ***

  Amy looked up, realizing dusk was falling on them. She felt heavy questions sinking in her chest and imminent darkness weighing on her shoulders. She sat silently, thinking. Then she took out her cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” Will asked, looking up from his page.

  Amy scrolled through the phone numbers on her phone. “I have to call Miles and tell him not to come over tonight.” She glanced at her watch. “He might already be on his way.” She held the phone to her ear and tapped her index finger on the table impatiently. “Good, voicemail,” she sai
d. “Hi Miles, it’s me. Hey, it looks like I’m going to be stuck working late tonight, so don’t worry about coming over. I’ll call you later. Bye.” She dropped the phone on the table.

  Will watched her, eyebrows raised.

  Amy sighed. “I know, I know. It looks like I lie to Miles a lot. And lately, yes, I have been lying and hiding things from him. But before this Lizzie thing came up, I never did that. Right now I don’t have much choice—unless I want to tell him about what we’re doing, and that will just end in an argument.” Before Will could comment, she changed the subject. “Hey, I’m getting hungry and a little cold out here. Do you want to take the books to my house and finish reading Eva’s Words there? If we’re lucky, my sister might have dinner made already.”

  “Dinner? That sounds good. Your sister wouldn’t mind me coming over and eating her food?”

  “As long as you don’t question her cooking methods, she’ll feed you anything you like. She loves cooking.”

  They packed up Eva’s story and headed through the coffee shop toward the exit. As Amy pushed open the door, she said, “I only live a couple blocks away, so I walked here.”

  Will stepped next to her on the sidewalk and pointed down the street. “I parked over there. Want to ride with me?”

  Amy nodded.

  “So,” she said as they began walking to his truck, “we haven’t gotten too far into it yet, but what do you make of what Eva wrote?”

  Will shoved his hands in his pockets and halfway shrugged. “I don’t know. Lizzie and Billy both seem strong-willed. And of course something is going to happen with them, but whether it’s going to be good or bad, I can’t tell.”

  Amy looked at her feet. “Why did Eva write this?” she muttered.

  Will didn’t answer.

  The drive to Amy’s house took no more than three minutes. Aside from giving Will directions, she sat quietly, staring out the window, musing over what she had just read.

  As they pulled into the driveway, Amy could see her sister through the kitchen window, standing at the stove.

  “Looks like April’s making dinner,” she said as they got out of the car.

  “I feel sort of bad showing up unannounced.”

  “Don’t.” Amy went around to the back of the truck and waited for Will to hand her a box from the bed. “She always cooks enough to feed the entire block.”

  Will put a box in Amy’s hands and grabbed one for himself. As they walked up the driveway, Amy said, “But just a warning—my sister doesn’t always think before she speaks.”

  Will grinned. “Neither do I.”

  Amy dropped her box at the front door step and fished a key from her pocket. She unlocked and pushed the door open.

  “Hi April,” she called, grabbing her box and moving through the entryway. “Smells good. What are you making?”

  Will followed her into the kitchen and set his box on the table next to where Amy put hers.

  April turned from the stove and eyed Amy and Will. “Who are you?” she asked Will.

  “I’m Will. The one who emailed you about the book your sister lost.”

  She turned back to the stove and stirred the contents of a Dutch oven. “We’re having a shrimp boil tonight.”

  “That sounds great,” Amy said. “Do you want to help us with some boxes?”

  “Nope.”

  “Please?”

  April stepped away from the stove and followed Amy and Will as they moved toward the front door. “What are these boxes anyway?”

  “They’re Billy Strath’s books,” Amy said over her shoulder. “The ones that Lizzie gave him.”

  “Really? You really did it? I can’t believe you actually went through with it.”

  Amy gave her sister the details as they hauled boxes from the truck to the house. Will watched and listened to the girls as they moved back and forth across the driveway. April clearly wasn’t interested in a long-lost grandmother, and she clucked and shook her head throughout Amy’s narrative. In the falling darkness, he had to pay attention to each girl’s words to tell them apart. They looked almost like twins in the shadows of evening with their curly blonde hair and green eyes. Only when they finished unloading the boxes and returned inside could Will tell that April’s skin was darker and her face was thinner. Unlike Amy, she had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  “Do you want to read this with us?” Amy asked her sister, holding up the stack of Eva’s Words.

  “Not a chance. I want to finish making dinner. Then I want to watch some mindless television and fall asleep.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good night,” Will said as he followed Amy into the family room.

  “I know,” she called after them, returning to the stove.

  “Call us when dinner is ready,” Amy said.

  “You’ve got it.”

  Amy sat down on the couch and placed Eva’s Words on the coffee table. She picked up the piece of paper Will had been reading and handed it to him. “Here you go.” Then she picked up another piece of paper and began reading.

  Will sat down on the other side of the couch and began reading as well.

  FIFTEEN

  B

  illy seated himself at the table a few feet from hers. He opened a menu and held it high enough to shield most of his face. Over its top, he watched her talking to a male companion. He waited. When the waiter came by, he ordered a cup of coffee. And when the waiter delivered the order, Billy sipped the coffee slowly, still waiting.

  Minutes had lapsed when Lizzie took the napkin off her lap and placed it on the table. Billy set his coffee cup down. He watched her stand and turn around. She didn’t notice him sitting just one table over as she stepped away from her company.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” Billy said, reaching to touch her arm. Lizzie stopped. “Can you give me one moment, please?” he continued.

  She nearly gasped, surprised, but stifled it. “You!” she said, barely aware that his hand was still on her arm. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.” Billy glanced at the man sitting at Lizzie’s table. “But maybe I shouldn’t be. Your gentleman-friend doesn’t seem too happy that I’m talking to you.”

  “Why would he be?”

  Billy’s hand slid down Lizzie’s arm until his fingers met hers. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Lizzie laughed. “Is this really why you came here? To make my friend jealous?”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Well, you see me, don’t you?”

  “I do.” He continued holding her hand.

  She smiled. “All right. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the ladies’ room, if you ever give me my hand back.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I will call my friend over here,” she said, “and he will force you to give it back to me.”

  “No one forces me to do anything.”

  She smiled. “That may someday change.”

  Billy dropped her hand and watched her float away, dark hair swaying behind her.

  Time ticked by as he waited for her to return. He finished his coffee, still waiting. He left some money on the table and headed toward the door.

  On the way out of the restaurant, he heard a voice calling after him. “It took you long enough,” she said.

  Billy turned around. Lizzie was walking toward him.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I’ve been waiting here for you. I was just about to give up and go back to having dinner with my friend.”

  Billy continued his walk out of the restaurant. “Are you saying that since you’ve been to the ladies’ room you’ve been waiting here for me to come out, intending to leave with me instead of finishing your meal with that man?”

  She reached his side. “Yes.”

  “That’s not a very friendly way to treat a friend, now is it?”

  “What do you care?” />
  “I don’t.”

  They walked down the street in silence.

  “So why did you come looking for me?” she asked.

  “I came to give you the portrait from the other day.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “That’s fine. Then I won’t give it to you.”

  They slipped into silence again. Billy didn’t know where they were going. He wasn’t familiar with the Latin Quarter of Paris, which was largely populated by students. Lizzie seemed comfortable with their direction. He followed her lead.

  “Do you have it with you?” she asked.

  “Have what?”

  “The portrait.”

  “Oh.” He shook his head. “No.”

  “Then why—” Lizzie cut herself off, deciding to keep her thoughts to herself. She watched her feet moving on the concrete. “You should meet my sister,” she said.

  “Why is that?”

  “She’s an artist. Like you.”

  “Is that what she does for a living?”

  “No. She’s in school right now.”

  Billy nodded. “And you? Are you an artist? Or are you in school right now, too?”

  “I am both, but right now I am neither.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m on my summer break for school. I’m just out here to visit Eva—my sister. I’m supposed to go back in a couple of weeks—to school, I mean.”

  “And, how is it that you are an artist, but not at the moment?”

  “I’m not the same kind of artist that you are. I don’t draw or paint. I’m an actress.”

  “But you’re not acting right now?”

  She shook her head.

  “And are you looking forward to your return to school?”

  She shook her head again. “It bores me.”

  A cigarette appeared in Billy’s hand, and he lit it. “What are you studying in school?”

  “My parents think I’m studying English, and I am a little bit. Enough to keep them fooled. But really, I’m studying theater.”

  Billy exhaled smoke. “You’re lying to your parents about what you’re studying?”

  “I am.” She took the cigarette from his fingers and brought it to her lips.