An hour into their two-hour drive, Libitz had learned quite a bit about Jean-Christian.
All his Sirius presets were jazz, with one rogue inclusion of bluegrass. He often spoke French under his breath—as he did when they missed a thruway exit or when the car ahead of them didn’t use its signal to turn left—and she suspected, from his tone, that most of what he said was unfit for polite company. He nursed a large cup of Starbucks coffee during the ride that smelled suspiciously sweet. He told her it was a pumpkin spiced latte when she asked, and his cheeks colored for a moment, like the admission embarrassed him. He shared with her that he had studied finance at Princeton, and for a while, he and his brother had managed an investment company together, but he hadn’t enjoyed the business very much and was grateful when they were bought out and Jean-Christian could start his own gallery.
Two topics of conversation made him far more animated than any of the others—when he spoke of art or his family, his voice changed, softening with love or speeding up with excitement. And it occurred to her that it was very strange that someone so passionate about family and art would have such a difficult time with commitment. Though it didn’t escape her notice that his fond memories of family never included mentions of his parents, only his siblings. It didn’t take a human behavioral specialist to figure out that his parents had likely been unhappy, and their failed marriage the genesis of his mistrust toward relationships in general.
It had touched her deeply at Toujours when he said, You…this…us…yes. It means something to me. But the sweetness of the moment was bitter when she reflected on Kate’s face, her friend’s expression of disappointment and the sound of her tears as she ran upstairs. Like many expecting mothers, Kate was hormonal and emotional, eager to have the very best of everything for her firstborn, but she wasn’t being irrational. Her fears were sound: Jean-Christian was a wild bet at best. Still, Libitz couldn’t seem to help making the wager.
It was an awkward situation to be sure…wanting Jean-Christian as she did, feeling the differences in him since their first meeting, yet owing her loyalty to Kate. Could she have them both? Was it possible?
“You’ve gotten quiet,” he said.
She glanced over at him, at his impossibly handsome profile. “Just thinking.”
“About…?”
“Kate. Us.”
“Us,” he said softly. “Yesterday you said we weren’t together.”
“We’re not…technically.”
“Technically,” he said, his jaw tightening, “you’re still with Nice Neil.”
“I’m breaking up with him on Wednesday.”
Jean-Christian was silent for a moment before asking, “Because of me?”
“Because I can’t let him think I’m his girlfriend when I’m spending time with you. It’s not right. So yes. Because of you.”
“So essentially,” he said, “once you break up with Neil, we’ll both be single because we want to spend time with each other. Isn’t that the same as being together?”
“Maybe,” she demurred. “We’ll see on Wednesday.” She turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows in challenge. “Isn’t this the part where you go running for the hills?”
“Usually,” he said. “But I left my running shoes at home today.”
“What makes this time different?”
“You do. You make everything different, Elsa.”
“Elsa.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Haven’t I proven I’m not an ice princess?”
He laughed softly. “Yep. In spades. But the name suits you, so I’m keeping it. Any objections?”
“No,” she said, grinning at him as butterflies pooled in her tummy.
Picking up her phone, which was charging in the console between them, she checked out her new messages, gasping with delight when she found one from Galerie des Fleurs in Marseille.
“The gallery wrote me back!” she said, clicking on the message.
“In English or French? I can pull over if you want me to translate.”
“Hold on…um, English!”
“What do they say?”
Using her finger to scroll down the message, she read snippets aloud: “Pleased to tell you we still have the five Montferrats from our website in stock…the models are not the same woman, but twins…if you look closely, you will see the sign of Gemini painted into Msr. Montferrat’s signature whenever he worked with them…a personal folly. I once saw a Montferrat with a crescent moon and star in the signature…the model must have been Turkish.”
Libitz looked up at Jean-Christian. “Did you notice anything about his signature in Les Bijoux Jolis?”
He shook his head. “No. But I’m dying to take another look now.”
“Me too!”
She turned back to the message: “Should you wish to buy one or all of the portraits, please contact me at…and then it’s just his info.”
“Huh,” Jean-Christian muttered. “I’d suggest we pull over and take a look at it now, but it’s raining.”