They’d found a small flat on the rue Vavin, just off the boulevard Raspail, and after digging through Agnes’s attics and scouring every brocante market in the central arrondissements they had managed to furnish it; for decoration they’d hung its walls with paintings by Helena and her friends.
Of course Agnes had insisted on throwing a grand party for them, stuffing her home full of friends, acquaintances, and random fixtures of Parisian salon life. Of the guests, the only ones she could truly count as friends were Sara and Gerald Murphy. It had been great fun, but Helena had far preferred the much smaller gathering that Mathilde and étienne had hosted a week later.
The weeks and months since then had flown by, for Sam had been busy settling into his position at the Herald and already he had traveled twice to Germany in connection with various stories he was pursuing.
Helena had been much occupied with her first commissions as a commercial artist, for Ma?tre Czerny had kept his word and recommended her work to several art directors he knew. Already she had completed a poster for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, was working on a brochure for Thomas Cook, and was waiting to hear if she’d won the commission for a series of book jackets for the Clarendon Press in Oxford.
Just then she heard the scrape of a key in the lock, the sound of bags being deposited on the table, and before she could blink her husband was at the door of their bedroom.
“Hello there,” he said, and his grin had something of the Cheshire cat about it.
“Hello,” she replied, and hurried over to kiss him. “If you hurry, you’ve just enough time for a bath before we leave.”
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I am,” she said, stepping back so he might admire her frock. She knew he would approve, for she was wearing the golden gown he loved so much.
“Put on your coat. There’s something I need to show you.”
“Now? You have to show me now? What about étienne’s vernissage?”
“We won’t be late. I promise. Come on, now.”
He led her downstairs and outside, but rather than flag down a taxi he directed them to the Métro stop around the corner.
“But this train will take us in the wrong direction,” she protested.
“Humor me, won’t you?”
He paid their fares and led them down another set of stairs, to the westbound platform, and there, right at the bottom of the steps, he stopped.
“Close your eyes. No, don’t ask me why—just do it. I’ve got your hand. It isn’t far, I promise. We’re almost there . . . almost there. Now stop, and open your eyes. What do you see?”
“It’s my poster!”
It was the commission she’d completed last month, a simplified version of Le train bleu. It really had turned out so well, the colors crisp and bright, the design dynamic and wonderfully modern. She’d worked on it for weeks and weeks, and the fee she’d received had amounted to very little, but none of that mattered now. Her work, her art, was hanging where it would be seen by tens of thousands of people.
“I noticed it right away. It was all I could do not to rush up to the other people on the platform and tell them, ‘See that poster? My wife is the artist!’”
Sam picked her up and swung her around in a circle, and before he set her down he kissed her soundly. “Tomorrow we’ll come back, and we’ll bring my camera, and I’ll take your picture in front of it. We’ll send copies to your parents and sisters, and to my parents, too—”
“Yes, yes,” she laughed, “but first we have étienne’s vernissage, and Auntie A is bringing an entire crate of champagne, and—”
“I thought you’d sworn off champagne for good after the, ahem, incident,” he teased.
She slapped at his arm, affecting a look of deep affront. “What happened to your promise to never mention that evening again? And I only plan on having a sip.”
She would go to the party and admire her friend’s paintings and dance with her husband, and she would be as happy, in that moment, as she had ever been. And then, when the evening was done and they were walking home, she would raise her face to the silver glow of the moon. She would bathe in the moonlight falling so beautifully over Paris, and she would think of the girl who had so badly wanted to live, the girl who had simply wanted more, and she would thank her, then, for promises made and promises kept.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I would like to thank everyone who has embraced my books so enthusiastically. I am so fortunate to have such devoted readers, and I am deeply grateful to each and every one of you.