Authors: Brenda Joyce
Sofie raised a brow as he took her arm to help her cross the frozen street. Above them on the hill the windmills stood as sentinels, their blades snow-encrusted and frozen. It was very cold out, and the Butte seemed deserted without its usual array of crowded tables and its heavy traffic of pedestrians. No shopkeepers stood in open doorways, no boys begged coins on the street.
“Rachelle is a model,” Paul said. “She is in high demand, but she is not paid very much. I spoke with her about you. She would be very interested in being your companion. She would like to be able to continue modeling, of course, but if not, she would give it up while you are here in Paris.”
“If you recommend her, I am sure I will like her,” Sofie said.
Paul smiled and led her towards a doorway. A faded green sign hung over it, and as they approached, Sofie saw that the name of the establishment was Zut. The sound of conversation and laughter drifted to her. When Paul opened the door, she realized they were entering a saloon. Sofie froze.
Paul looked at her. “Rachelle said she would be here. She takes
le petit déjeuner
here most mornings.”
“In a saloon?”
“We call it a bar. Many students, artists, models, and masters frequent Zut and the other bars around here, Sofie.” He smiled. “This is not New York. It is a good gathering place.”
Sofie stared past Paul, wide-eyed. The bar was a single room, wood-paneled and cozy, with a long counter on one side, behind which the saloonkeeper dispensed drinks. It
was not crowded now, but Sofie saw that several tables were full. And that the patrons, most but not all of whom were men, were not all drinking coffee. Some were drinking wine, beer, or liquor. She glanced at Paul for reassurance. It was only eleven-thirty in the morning. She could not quite believe she stood in such a place, but as Paul had said, this was not New York. This was Montmartre.
“Rachelle is sitting by herself. Come, Sofie.”
Her pulse racing, Sofie looked past a table where three young men sat, all looking bleary and tired, to a table where a lone woman sipped coffee and picked at a small baguette. No longer as reluctant as she was curious, Sofie trailed after Paul.
Rachelle stood up, smiling. She was tall and very beautiful despite the fact that she wore a nondescript black wool dress and boots very similar to Paul’s. But she had wrapped a crimson scarf around her shoulders and she wore her long, curly auburn hair free. Her smile reached her eyes, which were so blue, they were almost turquoise.
“Bonjour,
Paul.
Bonjour,
mademoiselle. You must be Sofie.
Je suis enchantée.”
Sofie liked her instantly. Her smile was genuine. One had only to look into her eyes to see a woman who was kind and good-natured and at ease with both herself and the world at large. Sofie looked again at her mannish boots. How could a woman be so lovely in such attire? “I am pleased to meet you, too,” Sofie said.
“Please,
asseyez-vous.
” Rachelle gestured at the empty chairs.
Sofie sat. Paul ordered more coffee for the table. He and Rachelle began to discuss a recent canvas for which she had posed. They both agreed that the artist who had portrayed her, a man named Picasso, was quite brilliant but was holding something back. Sofie listened closely, studying the beautiful model. She had already decided that Rachelle would make a wonderful companion. For the first time in a long time, she began to feel a little bit excited about her life.
New York City—December 1901
H
e was drunk, but didn’t really care. It was only noon, but it was also Christmas eve.
Edward told himself that was the reason he was sitting in his new motorcar, a long, black Daimler, on Fifth Avenue just across from the Ralston residence. It was Christmas eve, and everyone knew that Christmas was not a season to be jolly, but a season to be lonely and sad.
At least, Edward could not remember ever experiencing a joyful Christmas. He had only been eleven or twelve when his brother Slade. whom he had worshiped, had run away. Every Christmas thereafter had been a somber affair.
Edward gripped the steering wheel, feeling very much like that little, guilty boy of twelve who had felt responsible for his brother’s running away. But he wasn’t twelve anymore, he was a grown man, and now his guilt was festering from a different cause, and her name was Sofie.
Edward was usually successful in avoiding any and all thoughts of Sofie O’Neil. In the past four months since he had seduced her, he had become an expert at mental evasion. But it was Christmas eve. Today Edward did not want to be with some nameless woman with a painted face, his stomach rebelled at the thought of another drink, and he was broke, which ruled out gambling. He didn’t think he could stand the conversation of his cronies at the moment, anyway. On second thought, they all had families to be with today. Only the loneliest wretch would be playing poker at La Boîte on Christmas eve.
Edward felt like he was a lonely wretch, too.
Edward stared at the Ralston mansion, wondering what she was doing at that very moment, if she ever thought of him, if she regretted what had happened—if she hated him as much as he hated himself when he happened to be lucid.
It was suddenly important that he know for sure.
Edward slid out of the Daimler. It was snowing lightly, and fat flakes melted on his nose. Edward had forgotten his overcoat, but he welcomed the bite of cold. If he was really going to see Sofie today, he needed to appear far more sober than he was.
But as he skidded across the deserted, frozen stretch of Fifth Avenue, he grew afraid. What in hell was he doing? Did he really need to confront Sofie to know that she despised him? Christ, she had refused his offer of marriage. It was still unbelievable. It still made him so angry that he wanted to put his fist through a wall. It still made him feel, inexplicably, as if she had used him.
The worst part was that he wouldn’t have minded marrying her very much. If he had to marry a woman, then Sofie was his choice. It really was not an unpleasant prospect. Except—it was not a two-way street. Sofie was far more radical than he had dreamed. She preferred to live alone, forever, than to marry him.
He had thought her to be in love with him. How wrong he had been. How arrogant the assumption, how vain. “I cannot marry without love,” she had said. Today her words were haunting. She had not loved him then. She did not love him now.
Edward passed the two sitting stone lions that guarded the entrance to the property and trod up the graveled driveway, past the huge evergreen in the middle of the lawn, which was draped with tinsel and crystal and crowned with a glittering star. He paused on the front steps of the house. He banged loudly on the brass knocker. It occurred to him that everyone was having dinner—he would be interrupting. He didn’t care. He wanted to know if she was happy—if she had forgotten that single, incredible night.
Jenson opened the door. His eyes widened briefly before he resumed a butler’s well-worn expression of implacability. “Sir?”
“Is Sofie in?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I don’t believe you,” Edward said, smiling unpleasantly. “Please tell her I am waiting to speak with her.” His pulse had begun to race.
Jenson nodded and began to close the door. Afraid he would be locked out, Edward stuck his foot inside, blocking the door with his leg.
“Sir,” Jenson protested.
Edward smiled again, as unpleasantly as before.
Jenson gave up, turning to go. But he had not quit the room when Suzanne called, “Jenson, who is it?”, her heels clicking on the marble floors as she entered the foyer.
Edward tensed for the inevitable confrontation.
Suzanne halted, spotting him. Anger washed over her features, making her ugly. She rushed forward. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Edward had stepped completely inside the door, and now he closed it behind him. “I want to see Sofie.”
Suzanne stared. “She’s not here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“She’s not here!” Suzanne was triumphant.
Edward’s heart seemed to drop through the floor. “Where is she?” he asked sharply.
Suzanne hesitated.
“Where is she?”
“She is in Paris. Studying an—as she has always dreamed of doing.”
Edward was stunned. Sofie had gone—gone to Paris. But hadn’t she told him many times that it was her dream to study there with the great French artists? Something twisted inside him, like a knife. He was transported effortlessly into the past.
Sofie was rigid, unsmiling. “I did not become your lover to force you to marry me.”
And Edward had a horrible inkling of what was about to occur. His heart seemed to stop. “You were a virgin.”
“That is not a good reason to get married.”
He could not believe what he was hearing. He had begun to argue with her. Sofie was unmoved by the facts, by what
had occurred; it was like arguing with a sensible, composed stranger. “I have no desire to get married, Edward. Have you forgotten? Next May I turn twenty-one and I am going to Paris to continue my studies of art. I am sorry … I cannot marry without love.”
“She is happy,” Suzanne said, breaking into his thoughts. “She has written me recently. She has a lovely companion, she has her old friend Paul Verault, and she has been warmly welcomed by the Parisian art community. Stay away from her. She is happy despite all that you have done.”
Edward blinked and faced Sofie’s angry mother. “I am sure she is happy,” he said, unable to disguise his bitterness. “Of course she is happy, in Paris with her art and artist friends. But you delude yourself if you think I would chase her down in Paris.” He squared his shoulders, suddenly furious. “I merely stopped by to wish her a merry Christmas.”
Suzanne watched him warily.
Edward bowed and strode to the door. He slammed it shut behind him, so hard that the festive fir and pinecone wreath almost fell off, and raced down the front steps. As if he would chase
her.
Christ! He was Edward Delanza, and he
never
chased women—women chased him. He especially didn’t chase skinny, eccentric women who preferred studying art and pursuing a career to a lifetime shared with him. Oh no.
Edward decided to go back to La Boîte, where he would find a pretty woman to pass the afternoon and night with. Let Sofie share her bed with her art. Hah! What kind of bedfellow was that?
But as he climbed into his Daimler, he wondered if she had chosen her art because it was a far better mate than a man whose only genuine claim to fame was selfish hedonism and the destruction of innocence.
Sofie had never been more lonely. Paul had convinced her that she would be welcome for Christmas dinner at his son’s home, so she had gone, but she was the outsider and acutely conscious of it. His son, Simon, seemed genuinely
fond of Paul, despite the fact that Paul had lived apart from Michelle and abroad for so many years. Simon’s wife was sweet and motherly to everyone, and their two small daughters were delightful. Sofie watched the affectionate and happy interchanges, unable to participate. She had never been more lonely, more miserable, more sad.
She wished she were in New York with her family. She missed her mother and Lisa terribly. She even missed Benjamin, whom she had never really been close to. But she would not think about Edward.
They had already eaten and left the dinner table. The girls were playing with their new toys. The diminutive Christmas tree took up a good portion of the small room. The girls had decorated it with popcorn and candy. Paul and Simon were drinking brandy and smoking cigars. Annette did not seem to mind. She was watching the children, slumped in a chair, smiling but obviously tired from having prepared and served a huge feast with only the aid of a single servant. Sofie had not been allowed to help, because she was a guest. Because she was an outsider. Because this was not her family, and no amount of kindness would make it so.
Oh. Edward.
She could no longer resist him or her painful thoughts.
Will I be alone forever?
Sofie was perilously close to losing control of herself, to succumbing to abject despair, when she reminded herself that she was not going to be alone forever, because in another five months or so she would have a beautiful baby. By the summer she would have her own family. And they
would
be a family, even though it was just the two of them. Sofie was resolved that her child would not even notice the lack of a father. Somehow she would be both mother and father to her child, even while pursuing her professional calling.
It seemed like a herculean task, but Sofie dared not contemplate the pitfalls that awaited an unwed mother bent on maintaining both a family and a profession.
A few hours later, she and Paul said
au revoir
and
merci beaucoup
and left. Simon lent them his horse and buggy. Sofie thought about going back to the pension. She dreaded the idea. It had been eerily deserted this past week as everyone had left to join their families for the holiday. Rachelle,
who had become Sofie’s companion several weeks ago and who had taken up residence with her at the pension, had gone home as well, to the small village where she had been bom and raised in Bretagne. Sofie decided to go to her atelier instead. For the first time in months, she felt the creeping urge to draw. She wondered if it was genuine. If she put charcoal or ink to paper, could she once again create a work of art?
Paul had halted the buggy in front of the three-story brownstone where Sofie’s studio was, and he swiveled to face her. “It is difficult to be alone right now. I remember too well how it was myself.”
“I hope my behavior was discreet.”
Paul smiled. “Sofie, one day you will learn to be less discreet—and you will be better off.”
She did not smile, for Edward had said the exact same thing to her, only in different words. “Am I such a piece of deadwood?”
“No,
petite.
But life can be fun.
La vie, c’est belie.
Sofie—is there anything you wish to share with me?”