“What nationality was your husband?”
“Italian,” she said, grinning at him. She liked Theo, and he seemed like a nice guy, but she wasn’t going to fall for another artist, particularly a handsome one.
“That explains it, then,” Theo said, relieved. “Italian artists are all crazy and love drama.” He thought of his father as he said it, and could understand her attitude. “French artists are totally normal and really great guys.”
“Not from what I’ve seen,” she said breezily. She was not about to be swayed by his arguments or his charm, which he seemed to have a lot of. “No artists. Maybe we can be friends sometime, but no dinner dates. I’d rather be a nun.”
“How depressing,” he said, looking insulted, as Gabriel laughed at him. “I’ll call you sometime,” he said as he followed Gabriel out and back to the car.
“Nice try,” Gabriel teased him. “She sounded like she meant it.”
“She’s got a great figure and terrific legs,” Theo said, looking playful. Emma had put him in good spirits after two days of wild sex and lots of laughter.
“I should tell your mother to stop worrying. She worries about your being alone.”
“I wasn’t alone in London. I met a crazy British girl who owns a gallery in New York. She’s a wild woman.” Gabriel laughed at what he said as they both got back in the car, and Gabriel drove them home to St. Paul de Vence. He dropped Theo off at his house, and Theo waved as he walked in and lay down on the couch for a few minutes, thinking about Emma, the girl he had just met at the gallery—the name on her card was Inez—and Natasha. They were three such different women, and in an odd way, he couldn’t have any of them. Emma refused to be tied down and wanted no attachments, Inez was allergic to artists, and Natasha belonged to someone else. He was beginning to wonder what was wrong with him and if he was becoming attracted to unattainable women. But the most elusive of all was Natasha, who had stolen his heart without even knowing it, and was kept in an ivory tower by another man. Life was just too strange. And as he came to that conclusion, he fell asleep.
Chapter 6
The summer in St. Paul de Vence was easy and peaceful. Gabriel spent two months there instead of one, and enjoyed being at the restaurant at night. They met such interesting people there. And he loved being with her. He sat at a corner table, and she joined him whenever she had time. And despite her devotion to Lorenzo, Gabriel knew she loved him. And they got along better than she ever had with Lorenzo. She didn’t need to admit it to him. Gabriel had seen it, and loved what they shared, although Lorenzo was the ghost between them.
Gabriel liked visiting Theo at his studio from time to time, just to see what he was doing. He took a fatherly pride in his work, even though he was just a friend, but he had always been a father-figure to him. In July, Theo finished the portrait of Natasha, and stopped at just the right point. If he had done more, he would have spoiled it; less, it would have seemed unfinished. He had that instinctive sense of great artists to know when a work was complete and move on. He kept the painting in the studio, and looked at it and smiled from time to time. It was like having her with him.
They had a busy summer at the restaurant. And Vladimir and Natasha did not come in again. He had asked his mother, and she said they hadn’t.
“Are you still thinking about that girl?” she asked, frowning at him.
“Not really.” He wasn’t lying. He was slowly getting over her. Oddly, doing the painting had helped exorcise his demons. He was working on another subject, and Gabriel had convinced him to contact at least one of the galleries he had recommended.
“You need a show in Paris, to be taken seriously,” Gabriel said sternly, and Theo believed him and felt almost ready. He was planning to go to Paris and meet with one or several of them and see what they had to offer. His two sales at the London art fair had given him more confidence in his work.
And he had tried calling Inez at the gallery in Cannes again. She was always charming on the phone, but refused to have dinner with him. He finally walked into the gallery one day, right before lunchtime, and invited her to have lunch with him. She was so startled, she accepted.
They had a great conversation over lunch, about her job at the gallery, her little girl, and the years she had lived in Rome with her husband. She said he was a sculptor and seldom visited his daughter. Inez was the child’s sole support, which was a big responsibility for her. And her ex had just had twins with his new girlfriend, both boys, so his daughter in the South of France was no longer of interest to him.
“We just don’t need another crazy artist breaking our hearts. We’re doing fine as it is,” she said seriously.
“Do I look crazy to you?” Theo asked her honestly, trying to look sane and wholesome, but he was anyway, other than his brief moment of insanity over Natasha, but that was over. He was ready to date real women, and wanted to go out with Inez, if she would.
“They never look crazy at first,” Inez said knowledgeably. “They always seem sane in the beginning. And then, as soon as you settle down and figure you’ve got a good one, they start the drama, other women, past loves who return from the grave and need their help and come to stay with you, women they had babies with and forgot to mention.”
“I have no babies that I know of, no past loves to come back to haunt me, no ex-girlfriends in need that I would allow to stay with me. I have some old girlfriends I’ve stayed friends with,” except for Chloe, who had sent him several vicious, bitter emails, which he didn’t mention. “My life has been fairly sane. My father, on the other hand, was pretty crazy, and very talented. He was Italian, and in his seventies when I was born, and he married my mother ten years later, when his wife died.”
“That’s what I mean,” Inez said, grinning at him, as they ordered coffee after lunch. She was a very pretty young woman.
“He was incredibly talented, and my mother adored him. He was a fairly cranky old guy by the time I came along, but I know he loved me, and he taught me how to be an artist. He died when he was ninety-one, so I was lucky to have him till I was eighteen.”
“Was he well known?” she asked innocently, and he hesitated before he answered, but she looked as though he could trust her. He could tell she was a nice woman, and not some gold digger after money.
“Lorenzo Luca.” Her eyes widened as he said it.