“And I have my sketchbook right here.” She patted her backpack. “I can’t wait.”
She’d decided on a theme to paint on the ballroom walls — water lilies in the style of Monet. Everyone loved the idea, so we weren’t just visiting the museum to enjoy the paintings. We were researching too.
Gen grinned and slid her arm around my waist. “For the record, this is already the best date ever. Brunch was delicious too.”
We’d detoured to my favorite place in the Latin Quarter on the way over, but that was just a warm-up to what I had planned.
“Not the best date yet, but it will be,” I promised. “We’re nearly there.”
I’d tried to create a little suspense about our next destination, and while it had to be obvious, Gen clapped and cheered when we arrived.
“The Musée d’Orsay!”
I nodded. “For pleasure, not work. And not just the cheap ticket. We have all day.” I patted her backpack, then my pockets. “We have your sketchbook, drinks, and a reservation for the Café Campana at three.”
Her eyes went wide. “The one that looks out through the face of the clock?”
I nodded, fairly proud of myself. “I got us the best table for two, with the best view.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Marius knows a guy who knows a guy… I didn’t ask too many questions, though.”
She tsked. “Monsieur Anand, are you letting your principles slip?”
I shook my head. “Principles are for big things. Other things, you can let slide.”
She laughed. “I’m corrupting you.”
I kissed her hand. “Just a little.”
I’d prebooked tickets — full price for the first time in my life, but it was worth every penny — so there was no waiting in line. We started with the sculptures on the lower levels, formerly platforms in the converted train station. Gen already had her sketchbook open, ready to choose a subject.
“How about Rodin?” I asked, pointing toThe Gates of Hell.
Gen whisked right by it. “Are you kidding? Total mood-killer.”
She spent a minute contemplating the dynamic lines of Bourdelle’sHercules Slaying the Stymphalian Bird, depicting the demigod as an archer, then moved on.
Avoiding the crowd at Degas’sLa Petite Danseuse, we continued our search, eventually working our way up one level.
“If only he did tigers,” I murmured when we reached François Pompon’sOurs blanc, a smooth, minimalist polar bear in marble.
Gen chuckled, and I thought she might sketch it. But she walked straight on to Bugatti’sWalking Panther.
“This one,” she said firmly.
I scratched my chin. “Not a tiger, but close.”
“I’ll make him into a tiger for you,” she declared and proceeded to do just that from a nearby bench.
I sat beside her, my arm propped behind her, my thigh touching hers.
Heaven,my tiger hummed.
A day in one of my favorite places with the woman I loved? Yes — the best. I focused on Gen as much as the artworks around us, mesmerized by her quick, confident pencil strokes. When she paused to smooth back a stray lock of hair, my soul sighed. That small, simple movement held so much grace and serenity, it swept me away.
Truly heaven. And I could look forward to weeks of the same, because we’d soon be painting the ballroom, among other jobs at the château.
