Once the house was sold and my job was gone, decisions came quickly and easily. My share of the house sale made it possible to buy a work-live space in the downtown LA Arts District, which both Tai and Luther assured me was going to be hot, hot, hot. I had decided to open my own version of Atelier Artemesium, a gallery, shop, and gathering spot. But with Wi-Fi and an espresso bar, because Luther and I ran the numbers and I’d never make it otherwise. According to Luther, conversation was a fine idea, but not income generating. My shop would be on the ground floor of a converted flour mill; my loft on the second floor. There was parking underneath, a brew pub and yoga studio down the street, and a taco truck on Saturday nights. For now, that was all I needed. Well, almost all.
For the past few months, while architects drew up plans, contractors submitted bids, and workers arrived to finish off the space, I put Kiandra in charge of on-site construction, communication, and scheduling. I’d been on a buying trip—from Cuba to Kyoto to Cairo—looking for relics, antiquities, any pieces that brought strength to the buyer, touching on faith, hope, healing, everything from neon signs to ancient amphora to modern triptychs. I’d commissioned a metal artist in North Carolina to create a series of coins, like the ones my father and Jacques kept in their pockets, like the one Nate had given me. I wanted to create a shop organized around the creative principle that objects held meaning, both personally and spiritually powerful.
The devotion I’d seen to Saint Joan had taught me not to dismiss the mystic, how something as simple as a well-rubbed coin could hold someone’s life together.
The art buying itself had been a thrill, literally a visceral experience that raised my heart rate and flushed my skin, propelling me from one country to another. All those years of research at the museum had informed both my eye and my head. I was good at this. Tai called it my Eat, Pray, Art phase, and that sums it up perfectly. Hopefully, there would be many more such trips if I prayed hard enough to the art gods and my publicity team. I’d be part shopkeeper, part gallerist. My existence, my choice.
The last stop on my world tour had been Paris. I saw Polly, JM, and the baby, a camera-ready bundle swaddled in all white, named Genevieve Marie-Jean Davis-de La Fontaine. So many, many syllables. Like a pro, Polly had successfully incorporated haute-Parisian parenting into her blog, confiding in me that she considered Genevieve to be as powerful a tastemaker as her contemporary, Harper Beckham. “Did you see my Instagram post with Genevieve in that pink-and-white-bunny sweater? Well, it sold out the next day at Jacadi!” Polly crooned. “Take that, Posh Spice.” JM mouthed the word “hormones” to me, but I give Polly more credit than that.
I also popped in to see Guy at Galerie Luna and told him the whole story behind our visit to the opening that night. He was astounded and delighted to have played a part, asking about Nate and how he was enjoying his photo. As I left, he insisted I give my mother his card. He said again that it was time for a Suzi Clements Blakely retrospective, and Galerie Luna was eager to show my mother’s vintage photos as well as anything new she might have, especially now that she was going to be spending so much time in France. I passed along the information. She was on it. Between the musical and the show, Suzi Clements Blakely would be having a moment next year.
But my primary reason for stopping in Paris was to see Jacques de Baubin, to show him my plans and get his advice. It was another long afternoon that segued into evening, filled with memories, wine, and laughter. When I was leaving, he took the beautiful oil painting of Joan of Arc off the wall, the one he’d bought in a Paris flea market and the one I had admired on that first evening, and he handed it to me. “Take this, Jehanne. For strength.”
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
I agreed to take it, but only for a price. Jacques nodded, stating, “We are both in the art-buying business now, so that seems fair.” I took the painting and wept, for the last time, I think, about my father.
On Monday, I would hang that painting on the wall behind the desk at Artemesium LA, and the Sam Francis on the wall of living room in the loft above, and I’d be home. But tonight, I had some old business to attend to.
“It’s nice to see you again, Joan Blakely.”
“And you, Dr. Andrews.”
“Please, call me Mason. I’m off duty.” He leaned toward me as he took the bar stool next to mine. I thought he might kiss me, but no. He was settling in, pulling the bar stool closer. Yes, freshly showered from the gym, with a warm, rummy scent. “Well, what have you been up to? It’s been a minute.”
Ten months and seventeen days since he kissed me at my hotel room door. “I followed the doctor’s orders.”
“I see.” He was more than amused; he was flattered. “You are a very good patient. And I must be a very good doctor. Because you look to be in excellent . . . health.” Mason looked straight into my eyes, then let his gaze wander over my shoulders, clavicle, and below. Lightning. The months of travel had loosened everything up about me. My hair was longer, my skin brighter, my smile quicker. There was a little less black in my closet and a little more color. I did feel like I was in excellent health, especially tonight.
The bartender placed a beer and bowl of nuts in front of Mason, and he took a swig and handful. “Thanks, Dougie.” Then he turned his attention to me again. I felt heat in my chest and was pretty sure I was blushing. “As I recall, I suggested a couple of Advils and a rebound guy. Is that correct?”
“You did.”
“And . . .”
“Very solid medical advice. Which I heeded.”
“And the ex? Still gone?”
“Very. He remarried.”
“The baby mama, I presume.”
“Unbelievably, no. Some other woman. Apparently, in addition to having a second family, he was also having an affair. It was in the New York Times last month with a giant photo of the whole happy wedding party riding down a dirt road in Montana on a hay wagon.” And a paragraph of gory details that mentioned my name, Marissa and the twins and, of course, the late Henry Blakely. Somehow Casey found a real estate heiress with a chain of cupcake stores in the New York area to marry him and be absorbed into his self-absorbed life. So much for being a “father to his sons,” as the announcement mentioned the happy couple would be splitting time between Greenpoint and Eagle Rock. I felt sorry for Marissa and the twins.
I had run into Amy at the post office, pushing a double stroller and sucking on an iced latte, after reading the wedding announcement. When I asked if she had been invited to the ceremony, she explained, “No. It was very small. Mainly Brooklyn people.” So even loyal Amy and Dave had been dumped for trendier friends. I didn’t feel sorry for them.
“More proof that you did the right thing, locking him out of your house. Now, do I need to know anything about this rebound guy?”
“Nah.” There was no need to tell him about Nate or Paris or any of that right now. He didn’t need to know about the five days in Copenhagen that had been one long perfect dream of laughter and letting go, wandering the streets during the day and soft sheets at night. Nate decided that he should live his whole life in Danish modern, and I vowed to start a food truck featuring open-faced sandwiches on dark rye bread with smoked fish and dill. The beer was cold and delicious, as were the oysters. We took in a few galleries and design studios, learned everything we needed to know about Viking culture, and ordered room service a few nights because why not. Nate worked here and there, early mornings, late afternoons, because that was a part of him. I walked and wandered and brought him coffee every day.