Falling Angel (31 page)

Cara pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re laughing at me again!”

Ben stopped smiling and cleared his throat nervously. “Actually, I have a confession to make.”

Cara swallowed down the lump in her throat. Here it comes, she thought. He’s married. Or he really is involved with Alicia. Or perhaps this move to Paris is more permanent than he’s implied. Whatever it was, she would deal with it. They had shared this magical night together, and she would forever hold it in her memory like a precious jewel.

She covered his hand with hers. “Go on.”

“I’m not poor.”

“Huh?”

“In fact, assuming you’re not looking for another Bill Gates, you could say I’m doing pretty well for myself.”

“But you told me . . . “

“I never told you anything. I may have left out a few details, that’s all. I own this place and my studio. I have a flat in Paris in the fifth arrondissement. And I sell my paintings to people and corporations across the world for what some might consider ridiculously large sums of money.”

“But why didn’t you say?”

“I don’t like to brag. And I have this crazy idea that you should love someone for who they are, not what they have. Blame the artist in me.”

“I don’t care if you’re a prince or a pauper,” Cara said. “I thought I did, but I don’t.” She took in his lean, muscular frame beside her and realized it was true. She would walk with this man through hell and high water, for richer, for poorer, if he asked her to.

“Money’s not the end all, be all, that’s for sure,” Ben said. “But it does have its uses.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “I have a proposition for you.”

Chapter Thirty One

By mid-morning the clouds had parted and the sun bathed the street in light and heat. An elderly woman, immaculately dressed in a suit, skirt and heels, walked a miniature poodle down the sidewalk. A young man on a bicycle wove erratically through the press of cars on the St. Germain de Pres, a fresh baguette securely attached to the basket in back. Shopkeepers swept debris from their storefronts and pulled out their advertising signs as the city came fully to life.

Ben sat at a bistro table under the distinctive green awning of the Deux Magots café. He sipped an espresso and paged through the English edition of
Le Monde
to the arts section. A review of the Young Americans’ group show was splashed across the front page, accompanied by a full-color photograph of a painting from Ben’s
Fallen Angel
series. “A Great Talent Comes into His Own,” he read. “A modern melding of the abstract and figurative, with bold use of color and form, reminds this reviewer of the work of the ‘wild beasts,’ the Fauvists, whose arrival on the scene in the late 19
^th
century shocked the classical French artistic sensibility.”

Ben finished the article and put down the paper. The exhibit was going even better than he had expected, and the public workshops he offered once a week at the Musee Maillol were already sold out. Bernadette was ecstatic and had begged him to stay on for a few more weeks, or an eternity, whichever he could manage.

A smile played on Ben’s lips as he considered the proposal. The arrangements he had made for people to cover his various commitments back in Seattle could, with a few phone calls or emails, be fairly easily extended for another week or two. And Paris was amazing in the summertime. With his full schedule, he still hadn’t managed to hit all his favorite haunts from years’ past.

An elegant, gray-haired waiter in the café’s trademark black uniform and long white apron approached his table. Ben ordered a ham and cheese baguette for himself in French.

The scent of Coco Chanel wafted toward him even before he felt the slender arms round his neck as Cara leaned to kiss his cheek. The waiter smiled indulgently as she took her seat, settling several shopping bags at her feet.

“
Et por mademoiselle
?” he enquired.

Cara ordered in halting French. “
Café au lait et un pain aux chocolat, s’il vous plait
.”

“Good job,” Ben said approvingly.

“One of the only phrases I know, but by far the most important,” Cara laughed.

Leaning back in her chair, she sighed with contentment. After only two weeks in Paris, her Seattle pallor had gone and she glowed like a healthy animal. Bright spots of color showed on her cheeks. Her hair was held back with a tortoiseshell barrette, and she wore a simple white sheath dress, embroidered with spring flowers. A wisp of pale-blue silk knotted around her neck brought out the color of her eyes.

She rummaged in her bags and pulled out several items for Ben to admire; a couple of silk scarves, postcards, and a touristy replica of the Eiffel Tower.

They sat for a moment, looking out at the colorful stream of elegant Parisians and camera-toting tourists passing by. “I could sit here all day,” Ben said.

“And miss our outing to the Louvre?” Cara gasped in mock horror. She leaned forward. “I love you, sweetie, but not enough to miss the opportunity of a lifetime. Who knows if I’ll ever be able to come back here?”

“Stick with me and you can come back whenever you like,” Ben said.

Cara felt tears threaten. There was nothing she wanted more than to be with Ben. The last two weeks had been like a dream, an exhilarating roller coaster of new sights and experiences.

The day Ben left, Cara had moved into his condo to house-sit while he was gone. A week later, as she lay reading in his bed one evening, the phone rang.

She knew it was Ben even before she heard the low, rich timbre of his voice across the line.

“It’s no fun here without you,” he said. “I need you to get over here.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. Tomorrow. As soon as you can. If you take the Air France flight direct from SeaTac airport to de Gaulle it takes only ten hours. You can stay with me, or I could ask Bernadette to put you up in her guest room. Please just say you’ll come.”

Cara could think of many reasons why flying to Paris to be with a man she had known only a month was a really bad idea. But none of them were compelling enough to discourage her.

She jumped out of bed, dressed only in a large T-shirt of Ben’s, and went over to her laptop computer, which was set up on a small table in the corner of the bedroom. Cradling the phone to her ear, she quickly found the Air France website. “I’m booking the next flight out as we speak,” she said. “I just hope I don’t get fired for this.”

“Ingrid’s a patron of the arts. She’ll understand.”

After her initial shock at Cara’s announcement, Ingrid had been remarkably sanguine about the temporary loss of her right-hand woman. “You must follow your heart, darling. But promise me you’ll come back!”

Cara opted to stay with Bernadette, whose flat was just a few blocks from Ben’s. She was nervous about staying with a stranger, but Bernadette’s warm welcome quickly put her at ease. For her part, Bernadette found Cara’s youthful enthusiasm rejuvenating. She had always enjoyed being around young people, and particularly relished the opportunity to educate Cara on the glories of French art and history, past and present.

Everything was perfect. Even her phone call home on the third day wasn’t as awful as Cara had anticipated.

“Where have you been?” her mother complained when she picked up the line. “Ever since you moved out of your apartment I never seem to be able to get a hold of you. And when I called Ingrid, she laughed and said I’d hear from you soon enough. What on earth is going on?”

“Well, the thing is, my friend Ben invited me to go to Paris with him.”

“Your friend Ben?”

“Yes. He’s a . . . special friend of mine. He’s one of the featured artists in a show in Paris this summer.”

“But who is he? I’ve never even heard of him.”

“Well, actually, we’ve only known each other a few weeks,” Cara confessed.

Even across the phone line Louise’s contempt was palpable. “That’s about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!

You meet some man, some so-called
artist
, and within a couple of weeks you’re chasing him half-way round the world?”

“That about sums it up,” Cara said.

“It’s unseemly, Cara, and it’s foolish. I know we don’t always see eye to eye on these things, but really! Haven’t you learnt anything about how to conduct a relationship in an appropriate manner with a suitable partner? I can’t control what you do any more, dear, but I strongly advise you not to go.”

“I appreciate your advice, mother,” Cara said. “But I’m afraid it’s too late. I’m already here.”

She looked out through the open French windows of Ben’s flat to the street below and took a deep breath, inhaling the delicious aromas from the small patisserie at the base of the building. Yes, she was in Paris. She was really here.

Ben came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “What’s going on?” he said.

Cara stifled a giggle as he started to nuzzle her neck. “My mother,” she mouthed, holding the phone at an angle so he could hear. As her mother continued her tirade, Ben eyes grew wider and wider. Finally, Louise wound down, slightly mollified after Cara told her she wasn’t staying at Ben’s flat.

“Well, still I don’t like it, dear. But you’ll do as you like, I know. Just be careful.”

“I will, mom. Goodbye.”

Cara put down the phone and rolled her eyes. “I’m glad that’s over with,” she said.

Ben gave a Gallic shrug and grimaced. “I never knew I was such a bad boy.”

Cara shook her head solemnly. “Neither did I. If only I’d talked to my mother about this before hopping on a plane to see you. Hey!” She squealed as Ben picked her up.

“Put me down! What do you think you’re doing?”

Ben grinned wickedly as he carried her in the direction of the bedroom. “Living up to my reputation.”

.     .     .

It had been blissful, every minute of it. Cara squeezed her eyes shut, afraid that when she opened them again the dream would have vanished.

True to her promise to live in the moment and trust her intuition, she hadn’t asked anything of Ben regarding a long-term commitment. She was determined to enjoy the ride for as long as it lasted.

The waiter brought their brunch to the table. A small gold-colored chocolate box nestled on the saucer by her drink.

Cara picked up her croissant and brought it to her mouth. It was soft and flaky and smelled of butter, yeast and cocoa.

“Wait. Try the bon-bon first,” said Ben, pointing at the chocolate box.

“Why?”

“Always eat dessert first. That’s my motto.”

“If you say so.” Cara placed her croissant back on the plate and pried open the little cardboard box.