“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
His quiet words gave her pause.She studied her thumbnail.“Maybe I’d be better not knowing that.Then I couldimagine that he isn’t calling because he doesn’t know where to call.”
“You’re too strong a person to delude yourself that way.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“But you are, Pam.Put that strength to work for you.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you that.You’re the only one who knows what you want in life.Or maybe you don’t yet.Maybe it’s too soon.Maybe that’s what going to college is about.”He paused.“Is the trip still set for this summer?”
“Uh-huh.Four of us hitting ten countries in nine weeks.I’m not sure Europe is ready—at least, not for the three of them.Me, I’ll be Milquetoast.”
“Heart’s not in it?”
“No.”
“It could be fun.”
She sighed.“Well, it’s the thing to do after graduation, and I committed myself to these friends over a year ago, so I couldn’t very well back out.I suppose it’s a good enough way to spend the summer.There’s not much I’d rather do.”
“Do you know how many people, grown-ups, would give their right arms to be in your shoes?”
She caught his grin, still she was duly chided.Sheepishly she said, “I know.”
“You’ll have a good time.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll learn a lot.”
“Maybe.”
“The art.The art.Think of the art.”
“Believe me,” she drawled, “that’s the only thing that’s keeping me going.”
The art was wonderful.Pam and her friends started in London, hitting the National Gallery, the British Museum, the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the Tate Gallery, not to mention Big Ben, the Tower of London, and Westminster Abbey.From London they flew to Rome, where they caught the Sistine Chapel, the Galleria Borghese, and ruin upon ruin.They went by train to Florence, where Pam instructed the others on the magnificence of Michelangelo’sDavid,as well as the treasures of the Pitti Palace and the Uffizi Gallery.By the time they reached Milan, her three friends were beginning to rebel.They met a group of local students and chose partying over spending hours beforeThe Last Supper,as Pam wanted to do.She went along, but was miserable.By the time they had worked their way through the French countryside into Paris, she was spending part of each day off on her own, seeing what she wanted to see, then turning in early, while the others availed themselves of the local nightlife.
Then, on a small side street on the Left Bank, after she had thoroughly exhausted her enthusiasm at the Louvre, L’Orangerie, and the Jeu de Paume, the Musée Picasso, and the National Museum of Modern Art, Pam’s fancy was caught.She was wandering by herself, having long since left her friends to check out Le Printemps and its kind, when she chanced across the small shop of a jewelry designer.She was first caught by samples of the woman’s work—bracelets and rings of gold and silver with stones worked intricately into the designs—on display in thewindow.The pieces inside were even more impressive, far bolder and more innovative than anything Pam had seen produced by the designers atFacets.The artist, Monique Geffe, worked at the back of the shop.She was a quiet woman, in her thirties, Pam guessed, and she was amenable to letting Pam watch while she worked.
Watch, Pam did, through the rest of that afternoon and most of the next day.She was fascinated by the way Monique worked from a drawing, the way she pounded the metal, cut it, molded it, shaped it, the way she mounted a stone, then remounted it when it wasn’t quite right.Pam asked questions.She also drew simple sketches, often replicas of ones she had in her portfolio at home.She was totally drawn into the process of forging something beautiful out of rough goods, and what Monique made was beautiful indeed.At the end of the second day, she begged Monique to let her stay for the summer.
“Kind of an apprenticeship,” she said in a voice that was soft but urgent.“No pay.I don’t want any pay.I just want to learn to do what you do.I want to watch.”
Monique spoke only broken English, yet Pam managed to make her point.“And your frienz?”she asked, rolling the r.“Zey say you do ziss?”
“My friends have each other.They can go on without me.They’ll know how to contact me if anyone from home tries to reach me.”
For a split second she allowed herself to dream that Cutter would call, that he would fly over, that they would hole up in a small Parisian pensione, madly in love with each other and with life.
When the second ended, she thought of John.HeWouldn’t try to reach her unless something happened to her mother, and she could forestall that by letting Bob Grossman know where she was.She’d tell Patricia, anyway.She was writing her long letters from each of the cities she visited.Whether they were read or not, it felt good to pretend that there was someone at home who cared.
Monique let her stay.Pam wanted to think it was because she saw promise in her sketches, but she suspected it had more to do with the respect Pam showed her.Not all Americans did.Pam was astonished by the derogatory comments made within easy hearing range of Monique.On more than one such occasion, Pam surprised the offender with a comeback in English, until Monique assured her that it was a waste of time and energy.Time and energy, she claimed, should be channeled solely into the craft.
Following that credo, Pam spent July and August by Monique’s side.She concentrated intensely and learned everything she could.Living in a small room not far from the shop, she worked six days a week.On the seventh, she either wandered through Paris on her own or went on outings with Monique and her husband.He spoke even less English than Monique.But Pam knew French.By the end of the summer she was fluent in it.By the end of the summer she was also turning out surprisingly professional pieces of jewelry.
