Page 27 of Forgiving Paris
Sleep hadn’t been easy on the flight and she was hours off her schedule. But the gallery would be open till dark, and Ashley couldn’t wait another day. She opened the big suitcase with her paintings. Each of them was a glimpse of home, her life back in Bloomington. She laid the pieces out across her bed. Her work wasn’t solely landscape style, the kind where paintings looked like a snapshot of reality. No, Ashley painted landscapes with a flare of impressionism, not unlike Ms. Martin’s work.
Pride welled up in her heart. She’d been drawing since she was a little girl. And today… today she would step into the future she had dreamed about. The gallery would display her work under a heading that read something like “Up and Coming.” And she would stay in Paris for three years or five, maybe, visiting the parks and cafés and finding a hundred different images to capture on canvas.
Yes, her life was about to begin.
The first painting in her suitcase was of Lake Monroe on a cloudy day. A little boy and his father fished at the water’s edge. They were her dad and her brother Luke, of course, side by side each of them holding a fishing pole. The way Ashley would always see them.
Another of her paintings was of her high school football field. A single player knelt in the end zone—his final moments before finishing his playing career. The third was of the creek behind the Baxter house, five children playing at the water’s edge. And the last, a depiction of downtown Bloomington, with a mother and daughter strolling the nearest street.
People in Ashley’s paintings were almost always seen from the back. There was a reason for this. Though Ashley saw her own family members, other people might see theirs. That way she didn’t have to create details of the faces or get too specific. The people could be whoever the viewer wanted them to be.
Her parents had agreed, these four represented a perfect mix of her work. She returned them to her suitcase, careful to layer the white packing paper between each piece. Twenty minutes later, Ashley pulled her suitcase through the front doors of Montmartre Gallery, the place she had dreamed about for nearly a year.
Ashley took a deep breath and looked around. An older couple was browsing a wall of modern art. At the sound of her entrance, they turned and studied her. Neither of them smiled. Suddenly Ashley was very aware of herself. Her pretty dress felt cheap and Bohemian now, clearly not the elite vibe of the gallery.
She was about to say hello when a thin woman with a tight face approached. She looked Ashley up and down—much like the couple had. “You are Ashley Baxter?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You do not know the dress code at Montmartre.” She wrinkled her nose, like she’d gotten a whiff of old milk. “You will wear a black skirt and white blouse. Black heels. And your hair…” She looked like she might say something mean. Instead she rolled her eyes. “Your hair is fine. It’s too short to wear in a bun—like the other girls.”
Ashley’s head began to spin. What was happening? Who was this woman and how had they gotten off to such a bad start? Ashley straightened herself. This was her best day ever. No one was going to ruin it. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Marguerite.” The woman looked ready to walk away. “I own the gallery. You work for me.”
Perfect. Ashley felt her heart sink. “Yes… well, thank you for hiring me.”
“You will work the front desk and help our English-speaking customers.” Her expression looked frozen. “The other girls are French only.”
So that’s why she was here. Ashley felt her shoulders slump a little. Suddenly Marguerite seemed to notice her suitcase.
“What in the world is that atrocious bag?” She stared at Ashley. “I would have thought you’d leave your belongings with Anna Martin—who was kind enough to let you live with her.”
Ashley had no idea what to do. A part of her wanted to turn and run, get back to Ms. Martin’s as fast as she could and figure out a different gallery. But she’d come this far, and since Marguerite knew Ashley’s landlord, honesty was her best option. “I brought my work.” Ashley tried to manage a smile. “Four of my best pieces.” She hesitated. “I’m… I’m an artist.”
“You are not an artist.” Marguerite folded her arms. “You aretryingto be an artist. There is a difference.”
Ashley felt the life being sucked from her. She noddedand looked over her shoulder toward the door. “Then… maybe, I should…”
“Fine.” The woman turned and motioned for Ashley to follow her. “Best to get this over with.”
Pulling the suitcase behind her and aware of the looks from the elderly couple and another patron, Ashley followed Marguerite into a smaller room at the back of the gallery. Light flooded in from the windows and easels were set up in each corner. Marguerite put her hands on her hips. “Open your… bag.”
Ashley did as she was told. Her heart pounded in her chest. One at a time she removed her paintings and set them on the floor near her suitcase. She didn’t want to look at Marguerite’s expression or see her reaction.
But she had no choice.
“This?” Her expression made the previous ones seem pleasant. “This is your work?”
For a quick moment, Ashley studied her paintings spread out on the floor. She was still proud of them, no matter what this woman thought. She lifted her eyes. “Yes. These are four of my favorites.”
Marguerite stared at the canvases and then glared at Ashley. “This is not art. This…” She waved her hand at Ashley’s paintings. “This is American trash.”
Ashley felt like she was sinking, like a hole had opened up in the gallery floor and it was swallowing everything that mattered to her. Her art and her hope of selling it and even her dream of being an artist. She couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t think of what to say.
So Marguerite said it for her. “You will put that garbage back in your bag. And you will take the pieces back to Anna Martin’s home. Then you will hide them in your room and never bring them out again.” She leveled her gaze at Ashley. “Your work is a disgrace, Ashley Baxter.” She said just one more thing before leaving Ashley alone with her paintings. “Be here tomorrow at ten a.m. We have a big show tomorrow night. I will need you all day.”
And just like that Ashley knew the truth. She should’ve listened to Landon, should’ve heeded her father’s wisdom. She never should’ve gotten onto the plane. Because she was not talented or promising—the things her teacher had said. In fact, she was not an up-and-coming artist, at all.
