It was Paris, so I had packed one decent black dress in addition to my low-key jeans, jackets, and lifetime supply of scarves. Actually, it was more than decent: it was a fitted Roland Mouret number with a deep square neckline my mother had bought for herself a few seasons ago but then claimed was “too young” for a woman of a certain age. “It was a weak moment. Me, a good cabernet, and the Neiman Marcus catalog.” She forced it in my bag along with that Elsa Peretti cuff, insisting, “You never know who you might meet.”
After a walk up and down a good stretch of the Seine to take in the skyline and stay awake, I felt refreshed. Being back in the city I loved was like a jolt of energy running through my brain. Seeing the jagged profile of Notre-Dame against the background of gray sky was all I needed to shake the jet lag—from the travel and the last few months. Everything had changed and nothing had changed. I popped into several markets on the way back to the hotel to assemble a light lunch of bread and cheese and more bread. I did one of those idiotic American gestures, taking a theatrical breath as I walked into Boulangerie Julien for a baguette. The locals paid no attention, but I knew I needed a few more days here before I acquired the cool shrug of belonging that Parisians shared.
I spent the afternoon babysitting the sketches, attempting to give myself a professional-looking blowout, and checking my email. My brain nearly short-wired when I saw a message in my inbox from Casey with the subject line “You look great. Can we meet?” First a text, now an email? He must need something, a favor or introduction to someone. The gall, I thought. But was even more shocked when the email itself hinted about a reconciliation with a line about meeting so that we could “heal together.” The ego and the gall. I deleted it in case I might be tempted to answer it after a few glasses of wine. Then I retrieved it and stuck it in the folder labeled “Casey Sucks” with all my divorce-related emails. Maybe one day I would respond.
But my rage led me down a rabbit hole of searching for images of Casey and family online, like the paparazzi was going to care if a second-tier photographer and his baby mama went on vacation. One quick search did bring up several photos of the two of them together at various restaurant openings and art shows. There was even a shot of the whole family at the Eagle Rock farmers market four years ago. I didn’t even want to do the math on that one, triangulating my location in relationship to his lies. I shouldn’t have looked. I clapped my laptop closed to spare the further shredding of my self-esteem.
A message from Tai saved me from myself: How’s Paris?
I replied: Glorious. But Art dealer flaked! No show. How weird is that?
Tai came right back: Weird, for sure. Will ask around to my sources and see what people say about her. Send me her details again.
Mike was already on the official channels to find out if Beatrice was legit, but I thought Tai might have some off-book sources who might know some scuttlebutt, so I did as Tai asked. I hadn’t bothered with due diligence prior to getting on the plane, unusual for me. I was too excited to anticipate any issues with the art agent. Better to have more information now so that I was ready to meet with Beatrice on Monday.
My watch alarm went off, telling me it was time to get ready for dinner. I was afraid I’d fall asleep and miss dinner, so I’d set a reminder. The image of Nate on the plane popped into my mind, earnest and polite. There was something there or else he wouldn’t have invited me to dinner, right? I checked myself in the mirror. No way my mother bought this for herself, I thought. She was always going to give this to me. The dress fit perfectly, and I felt halfway to okay for the first time since Casey confessed his deceit. Not bad for a dental hygienist. I’d be wildly early if I left now, but sitting in my room was getting claustrophobic. I gathered my coat and bag and headed out the door, determined to have some fun.
Nate was at the tiny bar inside the bustling restaurant, which was, as Polly had said, a modern spot with warm white walls and pristine white tablecloths, filled with attractive young people, laughing, drinking, passionately engaged in conversation. He was sipping on a beer and checking his phone, either a nervous habit or a genuine device dependency. Given his occupation, I was betting on the latter, but then he slipped the phone into his coat pocket, not leaving it on the bar like Casey would have. Score one for Nate. The sweater vest was gone, replaced by a proper shirt and jacket. I have to say, I didn’t miss the sweater vest.
He stood to greet me. There was no buss on the cheek or faux hug; he just started to talk. “I didn’t want to fall asleep in my room, so I walked the whole way here to wake up, and then I was thirsty. Sorry for starting early.” He paused and took me in. “Hello.”
I removed my coat, a little more dramatically than I had intended, but my mother would have been proud, especially at the shoulder shimmy. I’m not in the business of turning heads like she was, but I managed to turn Nate’s—the wrong way. “Wow,” Nate said, and immediately looked away, pretending to flag down the bartender. When he finally got the nerve to address me face-to-face, he said, “You don’t look like the same woman who was crying at Toy Story.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Done what?” He looked worried.
“Met a seatmate after deplaning.”
“Right. Me neither.”
I had never done this before either: slept with a seatmate. I don’t know if it was the champagne followed by red wine or the long, slow meal that included a “mousse de chou-fleur” and something called “crumble chocolat” that we shared while making a significant amount of eye contact. Maybe it was the clack of the cobblestones under our feet on the walk through Saint-Germain to my hotel reminding me that I was a single girl in a foreign country. It certainly had something to do with the fact that Nate was focused on me in a way that resonated through my whole body. And then there was the drumbeat of whispers in my head of everyone who told me to cut loose, enjoy life, have a wild love affair. Maybe a one-night stand with a man possessing a doctorate in computer science doesn’t sound like a wild night to everybody, but it worked for me.
Once Nate relaxed into the evening, he told some engaging stories about life at a start-up, the quirks of colleagues, and the endless hours of coding. I listened intently because the last thing I wanted was to have the conversation turn to my alleged work, but also because Nate’s earnestness was disarming. He spoke about the mythology of failure, a concept he thought was bogus until one of his start-ups was a spectacular fail, and then he became a believer. “Failure doesn’t only make us stronger; it makes us smarter and grateful and . . . more humble.”
Amen. Not a classic pickup line, but I wanted all those things after my failed marriage. At least the smarter and more grateful part. I felt I was pretty humble already, thanks to being the average child of a great beauty and a great artist, but I was totally on board with moving into the next part of my life with more intelligence and gratitude. “That’s a good theory. Do you have others?” I thought of Casey and his limited intellect, then I pushed him out of my mind. This night was not about him. See ya. It was about me.
“Am I talking too much?”
“Not at all. Your work is fascinating. And I mean it this time,” I said, referring to our in-flight conversation. I leaned in and gently pushed the dessert plate toward him, brushing his hand as it held a wineglass. “Though I think you better eat some of this amazing ‘crumble chocolat’ before I finish it.”
He picked up the spoon. “Your French is much better than mine.”
“Well, your French is nonexistent, so that’s not much of compliment.”
“Touché.” Then Nate stared straight down my dress. Ah, merci, Roland Mouret. “That’s French, right?”