Chapter 31

I snagged a parking spot a couple of side streets away from Casey's gallery and turned off the ignition of the jeep. The inner city was raging today; there was some kind of heavy metal band in town said to play somewhere at the harbour, and people were flocking there in big crowds. I just wanted to go have a chat with my best friend, after I hadn't found time for calling her all week.

As I was waiting at a red light, an older gentleman approached me from the side. He looked distinguished in his pinstripe suit and brown coat, holding a cane in one hand and an old-fashioned hat in the other.

"Excuse me," he said with a European accent. "Could you tell me how to get to Morgan's Art Gallery?"

Surprise fluttered in my belly. I'd never seen the man. Was he a potential buyer for one of Emmanuelle's pieces that were still on display? I remembered how Casey had mentioned the private viewings.

Guess our chat will have to wait. Oh well.

"Of course, but I can also just show you the way. I'm headed there myself."

He leaned on his cane a bit now, eyeing the crowds. "That would be lovely. I admit I underestimated the crowds when I chose to walk from the hotel."

"It's not far," I said. "Please follow me."

I wondered where he'd come from. He was wealthy if he could afford a hotel here. If he bought some more of Emmanuelle's creations, then I would lead him through the whole city if necessary.

It was only five minutes later that we reached the gallery. To my surprise, Casey waited at the entrance. Relief coated her face when she saw me leading the older gentleman.

"Mr Lambert, it's such an honour for you to come visit. I'm glad you found the place alright."

I made a strangled sound somewhere in my throat.

What?

Thiswas Laurent Lambert? The Laurent Lambert?

"Thank you for receiving me. And I had some help with the directions."

I had trouble controlling my expression. Casey sent me a strict look after the Frenchman greeted her in the French way I'd grown so used to. Behave, her eyes seemed to say. When the two of them walked inside, I could only mutely follow. I was in shock. Did Emmanuelle know that he was coming here?

Probably not, I answered my own question. She would've never passed up the opportunity to meet him.

If Marguerite Renaud was a legendary artist, this man was a legendary art connoisseur. More than a century ago, his father had opened an art gallery aiming to be an international platform for contemporary art in the vibrant Marais area of Paris. I had read up on him after hearing Emmanuelle talk about him so much. Laurent Lambert was almost eighty, and the art community worshipped him like he was a god. Being chosen to display in his gallery was one of the highest professional compliments an artist could get and something most of them aspired to accomplish their whole lives, mostly in vain. I couldn't believe he was really here.

Inside, he took a long time looking at the artwork, but the longest time he spent gazing at Emmanuelle's centrepiece.

At some point, I stepped outside, no longer able to bear the oppressive air. Still, I was restless, squeezing my hands together and walking up and down until Laurent was led out the door by Casey again. My friend thanked him for his patronage, wished him safe travels, and after another weighty look in my direction, quietly closed the door.

The old man leaned on his cane, his gaze wandering towards the playground on the opposite side. It didn't look as abandoned now as when I'd sat on the sidewalk with Emmanuelle. I caught the weariness in his shoulders. "There are benches there. We can sit down, if you want? Or I could call you a cab."

"Sitting down would be nice, yes. Merci."

We found a bench some distance away from the swing, and there was a short moment of silence where the only thing we did was listen to the wind ruffling the almost bare branches of the trees and swirling up the foliage. It was cold, and the Frenchman huddled into his brown, buttery-soft-looking coat.

"It has been a while since I've done this. Made a detour to go snooping after an artist's work." He chuckled in amusement. "I heard from Ms Morgan that you know this artist well. You are friends, no?"

"Yes. Yes, we are."

Among other things.

He put his cane over his knees. "Whenever we view art, we need to look at layers. Like the onion, art has layers, and we need to peel back one after the other to reach what is beneath. What we find is the core, the essence of truth. All the surrounding background is just that—background. Noise. Insignificance. It is rare for a young artist to get this, but what I saw inside has pleased me greatly. Of course, being a Renaud comes with certain expectations, but today, I saw that Marguerite's granddaughter has the same skill as her grand-mère. That centrepiece is raw. Gripping. The very core of an onion."

"So you liked it?"

"I did."

My smile was very wide, and I felt so ridiculously happy that I wanted to jump up and down like a kindergartener. This was all Emmanuelle had ever wished for, and hearing him praise her work made me so proud of her that I had to take several deep breaths to quell the nervous excitement.

"Of course, it is all about connections, especially in the art community," he disclosed and chuckled. "When Marguerite called me, I had half a mind to tell her off for asking me to take a detour on my way home, though. I don't much like being brow-beaten. My time is valuable."

So it was her who told him to go have a look at it.

"But I can see that she was right. Which, of course, I will not tell her." He leaned back. "This comes just at the right time, though. I've been thinking of doing something more daring for a while. Discover new layers of art, reach ever deeper."

I nodded at him, intrigued, not knowing where he was going with this.

"I want to find talented young artists, artists who can paint their truth, and invite them to Paris. Give them a place to completely unfurl. Unlimited resources, the most fertile surroundings, bright collaborators. It will be a Cradle of Art, in a way. At least, I hope so. I want to host a big exhibit showcasing works from artists from all over the world."

A tightness slowly expanded in my chest, reaching the space in my mind reserved for logical thinking, and my smile dimmed a little in power. "Would you consider Emmanuelle as someone who can paint her truth then?"

"I would. I will need to sleep on it, but I think I'd like to ask her to come to Paris and work with me."

Of all the things I had worried about, this had never been one of them. I'd worried about Irene. I'd worried about my own screwed up past. I'd worried about Emmanuelle maybe not being serious, or me maybe not being brave enough. But this?

Laurent Lambert wanted Emmanuelle. Wanted her for his think tank. It was an offer that she could never refuse. It might take her away from Providence, and far away from me, but it was everything that she had ever dreamed about. This was her chance. This was it.

When a ball stopped to lie in front of the bench, I rubbed my sweaty palms over the top of my jeans. Only then did I pick it up and threw it back toward the kid who'd kicked it too hard. The small interruption gave me a little time to centre myself.

My former giddy elation ebbed and rose like waves lapping at the shore. Our relationship was still so new. Could it survive something like this? A new job, a different place to live, those were difficult things to cope with on their own, but to have everything happen all at once?

I leaned back and felt the hard backrest digging into my back. But I knew, right? Knew how much she cared, felt it in the way she held me when we were asleep, recognised it in the way she kept me grounded during a bout of anxiety or how she hadn't even blinked when I'd asked about meeting the old man. Despite Remi's words about how she'd never let anyone close, she had let me close.

I pictured that schooner from my blue painting. The symbol of hope I'd drawn into the storm and remembered Harry's words. You have to believe that it is worth it. I believed that she was worth it, I'd always believed that, but I needed to believe something else even more. Something I didn't think even Harry had realised. I needed to believe that I was worth it—worth sticking around for.

"What do you think?" Mr Lambert asked while we watched the children on the swing. "You're her friend. You know her. Do you think this is something that she'd like to do?"

There were so many things I could have said. My heart thudded with the knowledge that what I told him now might very well determine a part of Emmanuelle's future.

She would never know, a voice inside me said.

But I would know, I told the voice.

"Emmanuelle is a great artist. She will always pour everything she has into the art she produces. But it's the hard truths, the obstacles, and the doubts that she doesn't shy away from that make her so unique."

I paused, feeling the whole world shift, but how could I lie? How could I be dishonest when Emmanuelle herself had told me how much she admired the ease with which I did the right thing? Only now I didn't know what the right thing was. Or rather, I knew, but I really struggled with the easy part. It would be difficult to have a relationship over such a long distance, and there was still so much I hadn't told her.

Come on. You need to trust her.

"I'm sure that she'd really like to get the chance to work with you."

The Frenchman appeared deep in thought before he nodded. "I am inclined to believe you. Thank you for this talk, and for showing me the way." With effort, he got up from the bench. "I think it would be good if you called me a cab back to the hotel. Oh, and I'd appreciate it if you kept this conversation just between us, for now."

"Of course."

What would I even say to Emmanuelle? Sorry, baby, I might have just torpedoed our relationship despite the fact that I love you. But, bright side, you can finally achieve the innermost dream that you've had since you were six years old?

My lips quivered for a moment, but I managed to chase the dark thoughts away, getting out my phone to call a cab for Laurent. Would the small schooner sink in the end? I didn't want it to. I needed it, needed her to stay afloat. I just had to believe that we'd be okay, seek refuge in the knowledge that we shared something special. Something too special to give up.