Page 31 of Forgiving Paris
The gallery was quiet most of the day. Ashley was so bored she began to long for her family and Landon and even her junior college classes back in Bloomington. But as evening approached there was a spark of excitement. “You are comfortable in your job, yes?” Marguerite approached her just after six. “What is it you Americans say… Trained? You are trained, yes?”
A day on the gallery floor wasn’t much training, still Ashley felt she had no choice but to agree. “Is something happening tonight?”
“Not just anything.” Marguerite literally looked down her nose at Ashley. “Jean-Claude Pierre has a show tonight. He is the most popular artist in Paris.” She pointedto the young men moving paintings from the gallery floor and setting up new ones. “The place will be very crowded tonight.” She paused. “I will need you to stay till the end.”
The end? Ashley had been on her feet since ten that morning. “What time will I be done?”
Marguerite looked surprised that Ashley had asked. “When Isayyou’re done.”
That was all Ashley could take. Tomorrow Ashley was going to look for a new gallery, a place where they liked Americans. Maybe another gallery owner would take a look at her work and love it. But for now, she couldn’t leave. Ms. Martin would hear about Ashley’s hasty exit, and everything would spiral out of control from there.
She had to stay, and though she was still jet-lagged from just arriving in Paris the day before, Ashley found herself looking forward to the show. Jean-Claude Pierre was a new name to her, but based on the crowd already gathering outside, clearly the man was popular.
Marguerite allowed the earlier customers to finish their shopping and leave the gallery. Then she locked the doors for thirty minutes while Ashley set up a table of hors d’oeuvres and wine. At 6:30, the doors opened and dozens of people filed inside the gallery.
Jean-Claude’s work was abstract, but some pieces tended toward realism. Especially a few of the nudes. Ashley wasn’t impressed. She thought her art was prettier than the art of this popular painter.
Not until Jean-Claude Pierre walked through the back door did Ashley’s opinion of him change.
Instantly.
Jean-Claude had an aura about him, a physical presence that was evident the moment he entered. He had short blond hair and a chiseled face, and his eyes were steel blue. The muscles in his arms and legs showed through his thin Italian button-down and dress pants.
Ashley couldn’t take her eyes off him.
The artist had to be in his late thirties, much older than Ashley. But she had never felt more drawn to a man in all her life.
A few minutes later, a small woman with hair even blonder than Jean-Claude’s walked in through the back door and found her place next to the artist.His wife,Ashley told herself. Of course. Ashley positioned herself so she could see Jean-Claude’s left hand. Indeed, he wore a ring. So that was that.
He was a married man.
Even still, Ashley caught herself watching him. Once when she was in middle school, her family had gone to Destin Beach on the Florida Panhandle. The wind had picked up on the third day, and Ashley had gotten sucked into a riptide. Her dad was right there, and in a display of strength the whole Baxter family remembered, he snatched her from the current and helped her back to the beach.
Ashley never forgot the intensity of the pull that day. Which was what she felt now, standing in the same room as Jean-Claude Pierre. At first the artist didn’t seem to notice her. He was obviously caught up in the questions andpraise from the many patrons. With Marguerite on one side of the man and his wife on the other, Ashley hardly expected him to notice her.
She was wrong.
Half an hour into the show, Jean-Claude excused himself from the other women and made his way to the desk. “Chérie. I cannot take my eyes off you. What is your name?”
Her knees shook and her palms felt suddenly sweaty. She struggled to find her voice. “Ashley. Ashley Baxter.”
“My paintings pale in comparison to your beauty, Ashley.” He moved closer and she could smell his cologne.
Her heartbeat quickened. “Thank you.”
“You are my American beauty, oui?”
Ashley didn’t hesitate, didn’t think for a single moment about what she was saying or what it would mean to a man like Jean-Claude. “Oui, monsieur.”
“Very well. Forgive me, belle, if you catch me looking. You are by far the most beautiful thing here tonight.”
Ashley couldn’t draw a breath, and she couldn’t exhale. What had he just told her? An older female patron approached her not long later. “Jean-Claude has many girls,” the woman said. She kept her voice quiet. “Stay away from him.”
But Ashley couldn’t.
Later she would wonder who that older patron was, and whether God had sent the woman to warn Ashley, to keep her from making a tremendous mistake. Ashley would never know.
That night when Jean-Claude’s paintings had all been sold and after his wife had left with their driver, the artist approached Ashley. “I will be waiting for you out back, ma chérie. Don’t be long.”
