Marc leaned over and whispered, “Want a hint?”
My competitive nature answered for me. “I can’t. It’s cheating unless you do it in a way that’s not a handout.”
“How about two truths and one lie?” His boyish grin was infectious. I tried not to stare at his lips.
“That works. I’ll play.”
We stood beside one another, arms touching, and fingers intertwined. Our eyes stared forward at the large canvas.
“One: I am a professional poker player,” Marc began. “Two: I waited all my life to be in this city and to work this job, but I worry the stress will kill my love for it. Three: Even after training all these years, I still don’t think I’m good enough in my field to stand out.”
The second statement was true: I had witnessed the stress. Marc being a professional gambler intrigued me: it seemed viable. His meticulousness with details tied in well with how the game is played. However, it didn’t account for the scar on his hand, nor did it match the reputation of Paris. A gambler would be in Monaco, not the City of Light.
Why Paris? What is the city known for? Art, fashion, and food. He denied he was an artist, and never mentioned anything about fashion.
It must be French cuisine: maybe bread or pastry related. An executive chef or sous chef could not have taken three days off. Working in the kitchen of a bakery or a restaurant would explain the scars on his hands and wrists. One more test would confirm my suspicion, but I couldn’t conduct it in the museum.
A swarm of first-grade schoolchildren rushed in. They clustered around our hips like overgrown tulips in a meadow in their matching uniforms. One little Asian girl with braids tugged on Marc’s sleeve. Without letting go of my hand, he leaned down. She asked him a question in French. His answer prompted an eruption of girlish giggles.
The collective, jubilant noise rippled through the gallery. Their teacher, an older woman with snowy white hair, ushered the children away. The group wandered into the next room to the sound of the educator shushing.
“What did she ask you, and what did you tell her?” I asked.
Marc smiled and pressed a finger to his lips. “It’s between me and Marjorie.”
“No, it was between you and sixteen other children.”
“She asked if we were on a date. I said yes.”
I stifled a laugh. “Nosy.”
“Honest. She said she could tell by how close we stood together.” He nudged me with his arm. “Are you ready to guess my career?”
“I need to conduct one last experiment. Then I’ll know what you do for a living.”
“And where will you conduct this experiment?” he asked.
“At a late lunch or an early dinner. Somewhere we can get something sweet.”
He thought for a moment. “There’s a patisserie I like down the street. They have the best choux à la crème, little golden cream puffs with a variety of delicious fillings.”
“Don’t tempt me into rushing through Van Gogh.”
“Why don’t we go see him now?” he asked. “I have a feeling you’ll want to stay for hours.”
Marc led me to one of the smaller rooms on the second level where the famous Dutch painter’s Starry Night over the Rhône was displayed. Unlike The Starry Night, which captured the energy of the universe as seen from Van Gogh’s asylum window, the work before us was more terrestrial—a night sky over the Rhône river, a scene one would see on a leisurely stroll.
“I’m guessing you’ve seen the other painting?” he asked.
I nodded. I had seen his other masterpiece during a visit to the Museum of Modern Art in New York over ten years ago.
“Are you disappointed?”
“No,” I said. “Why would I be?”
“Everyone I’ve seen this with always compares it to the other one. I feel like this”—he gestured to the canvas—“never got out of the other’s shadow. I can empathize.”
“The other one is dazzling, while this one is quiet, but both are powerful. Sure, the universe is beautiful, but so is life here on earth.” I squeezed his hand. “This is far more real. My feet are firmly on the ground. Family of accountants, remember?”
“I don’t see you that way. You are an artist trapped within a candy shell of numbers.”
His description was apt, contradictions meshing together into a functional person. I likened myself to a half-lit Christmas tree. Dead bulbs represented all the possibilities, paths, and relationships lost. I didn’t know whether the bulbs could be replaced or if the defect was permanent.
* * *
* * *
We left the Musée d’Orsay at closing time. As promised, Marc took me to a nearby patisserie. Pink and blue morning glories and vines covered the two-story building as if nature wanted to reclaim the brick. The balcony above the entrance carried a window box bursting with pansies and daisies along its wrought iron railing. The green doors were wedged open. Inside, the furniture was painted in different colors as landscape murals covered the walls. Marc ordered a slew of sweet treats as we sipped our lemonade.
“What do you think about the two truths one lie?” he asked, stirring his drink. While he spoke, he covered the end of the straw with his index finger, lifted the straw from the cup, and then released his finger, allowing the trapped liquid to flow back into the drink. The repetitive gesture was mesmerizing.
“I think the poker player statement is your lie. The other two fit with what I know about you so far.”
“Does this mean you have a guess?”
“I will after you answer my question: If you can serve me one dish you’ve made, which would it be? A galantine or a croquembouche?”
The galantine was pressed deboned meat encased in aspic, the other, a tower of cream puffs with strands of spun sugar as garlands. I preferred the taste of the latter. Both were notorious in their level of difficulty and considered benchmark dishes in their field.
Marc arched a dark brow and smiled. “Those are tricky to make. I’ve made both, but I’m better at the croquembouche.”
“You’re a pastry chef, aren’t you?”
He laughed and then clapped. “You’re brilliant. What gave it away, other than the last question?”
“Your hands. My aunties are amazing cooks, and I’ve seen similar marks on them. The homemade jam showed you have skill, but at the time, I wasn’t sure if it was a hobby or a vocation.”
“Let’s have a toast then to your impressive detective skills.” He raised his glass. “Well played.”
I tipped my head as a substitute for a curtsy and lifted my drink. “Thank you.”
The lemonade’s refreshing sweetness and tang rushed onto my tongue. The enchantment of Paris and the company of this charming man almost made me forget why I was here.
Almost.
In the depths of the lemonade, a vision came to me.
Sixteen
Are you all right?” Marc leaned over and moved my drink.
Before I could answer, the pressure of the prophecy built, coalescing in my mouth like a hard, round candy tasting of tart, unripe green mango. My jaw tensed as I clenched my teeth together. No matter how hard I fought, the prophecies always won. They were unstoppable.
“Your debts will be collected. You will be left with nothing but anger, regret, and ruin. Turn away from the game of chance before it claims both your ambition and your future.”
He paled before pulling back.
The look in his brown eyes was all too familiar. Each uncomfortable truth bred the same fight-or-flight response. But it was never a choice; they always chose flight, for how could one fight a truth seared in their soul?
Before he could respond, I grabbed my purse and ran.
Our time together had been magical. My last view of him was his face, his handsome, injured face. But it was not his back as he left me alone.
As I stumbled down the street, a searing headache erupted from my right temple. I battled the nausea, lost, and threw up in an open trash can. I heaved until the jackhammer throbbing stopped. The intensity of the episode left me shaken.
* * *
* * *
Marc had shown me the city, for which I was grateful. My aunt had cautioned me that my time with Marc was fleeting. Memories of these three glorious days would need to sustain me.
Leaving had hurt, but Marc had his own problems. He was a gambler and in debt. Was he also a liar? For a few days, I’d been caught up with the thrill of seeing the city with my beautiful tour guide, but what did I know about him?
The anguish brought clarity: Paris wasn’t a vacation, and had never been. Unless Aunt Evelyn could help me, I would continue to ruin lives, including my own.
I unlocked the door to the apartment and headed upstairs. Aunt Evelyn was waiting for me at the dining room table with a spread of foodie comfort: hot chocolate in dainty teacups, and an array of pastry treats: pistachio and rosewater macarons, pain au chocolat, éclairs, and four varieties of mille-feuille.
I took a seat. “I’m sure you already know what happened.”
“I do. This is why I lined up early to get these from my favorite patisserie.” She passed me a small dessert plate and a fork. “Romance isn’t meant for us, dear. Madam Fong is right. We have no red thread, no chance at finding and keeping love.”