“Finally! Someone other than Guy who wants to discuss Chevreul’s treatise on the law of simultaneous color contrast.”
“Mom did teach me a few things,” he said with a smile. “And would you go so far as to say that Seurat wasthemaster of illusion?”
“Different, but equally as masterful as Caravaggio! Seurat proves thateverythingis an illusion. Very few recognize that it always comes down to pigment, light, and shadow,” she effused.
William grinned. “Ah, a metaphor of life. Like in pointillism, only at a distance can we see the true picture instead of thousands of disconnected colorful dots on a canvas.”
“Absolutely! It’s like taking a thirty-thousand-foot view above any situation.”
“So true. It took some time for me to see things clearly, but unfortunately, by the time I stepped back, it was too late. I’m learning to pay more attention toeverythingthese days.”
William wasn’t talking about the painting any longer, but was he talking about them?
Looking out the window, he craned his head upward. “It sure is pretty,” he said of the Eiffel Tower, then texted someone. “Though not as beautiful as Manhattan in the fall,” he added, shoving his phone into the pocket inside his suit jacket.
Smiling, she recalled the many hours she’d spent sketching the iconic structure through all the seasons, only wishing he were there with her to do the same. There had been so much she wanted to share and learn with him during the time she’d spent here. Instead, her only connection to him was following Pemberley Capital’s financial conquests on FacePage and the unabating pain in her heart for breaking up with him.
The car stopped at the entrance to the Champ de Mars, and he announced, “We’re here.”
“Dinner atLa Dame de Fer’srestaurant?”
“Nope.”
“Another type of bird’s eye view?” she teased.
“Maybe, yeah. I’ll let you know if I have greater clarity by the end of the night.” Offering his hand, he helped her out of the back seat, then said, “Dinner with the best view in town.”
Leading her through the crowd of picnickers to the left of the swath of green space beside the landmark, they stopped at a red and white checkered blanket. Two men in black suits and T-shirts flanked a tree, acting as sentries to the picnic spread. She’d seen one of the men surreptitiously walking behind William toward Bar Vendôme and again at the gallery.
“Are they ... your bodyguards?” she asked.
“Pete, Sean, this is Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth, these are my guys,” William introduced. “They’re two of a team. The others are back in New York.”
“Hi guys,” she said. They smiled before disappearing into the crowd.
At their feet, William had spared no expense: an open picnic hamper spilling linens and tableware, baguettes and wine, chilled champagne, and a couple of hearty charcuterie boards and small dish l’apéro.
Surrounded by onlookers and the few vendor carts flanking the grassy field, the setting sun triggered the Eiffel’s dazzling lights. They were so close, it felt like she could reach out and touch them.
“This is so lovely! You have all my favorites,” she said, gaze switching from the bowl of escargot to the bottle of Chambertin Grand Cru Pinot Noir and a board loaded with Jambon Ham and Roquefort blue cheese.
“It’s nothing but a small gesture to thank you for a well-executed job,” he said.
They settled opposite each other, and she quickly removed her shoes, pleased to see him at least loosen his tie.
“It won’t kill you to remove your jacket and shoes, William. Loosen up a bit.”
“I’m good,” he said.
“They’re just shoes, unless, of course, you have smelly feet. Then by all means, leave them on,” she teased. Removing her suit jacket, she stretched out her legs on the blanket and closed her eyes for a minute, mind traveling in the ensuing uncomfortable silence between them.Where do we go from here?
“Do you remember …?” they blurted at the same time.
“You go first,” he politely offered.
“I was just remembering the first night we went to WB’s and the argument we had over your kickers.”
“It wasn’t an argument, more like a difference of opinion when faced with your obstinacy.”
