Beautiful Bitch
Page 29
Christ, Max, this seems a little excessive. I knew his house in the Provence region was large, but I didn’t realize there were so many f**king rooms. Just from the front door, I could see at least a dozen doorways connecting off the main hall, and doubtless there were countless other rooms upstairs and out of sight.
I paused in the entryway, staring at the enormous urn that looked like the larger cousin to a small vase my mother had in her dining room hutch; the cerulean blue base glaze was identical, and the same beautiful yellow lines bled down its curved sides. I remembered the gift from when Max brought it for my mother the first time he’d come home with me, over the winter holidays. I hadn’t realized at the time how personal the hostess gift had been to him, but now, looking around his vacation home, I could see the same artist’s work everywhere: in plates mounted above the mantel, in a handmade teapot and a set of simple cups on a tray in the parlor.
I smiled, reaching out to touch the urn. Chloe would completely lose it when she saw it; it was her favorite thing in my mother’s house. A feeling overcame me that we were almost fated to have come here.
After her birthday dinner in January, Chloe hesitated in the dining room, glancing at Mom’s impressive art collection in the hutch. But instead of going for the obvious gleam of the Tiffany vases or the intricate detail of the carved wooden bowls, she went straight for a tiny blue vase in the corner.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this color before,” she said, awestruck. “I didn’t think this color existed outside of the imagination.”
Mom walked over, pulled it from the shelf. Under the soft light of the chandelier, the color seemed to almost wink and change even as Chloe held it still in her hand. I’d never noticed before how pretty the piece was.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Mom admitted, smiling. “I’ve never seen anything this color anywhere else either.”
But that wasn’t entirely true, I thought, as I stepped away from the urn and walked to the mantel. The ocean here was that color, when the sun was high over the horizon and the sky was clear. Only then did it hit that exact same blue, like the heart of the deepest sapphire. An artist who lived here would know that.
On the shelf were three handmade santons, the small nativity figurines traditionally made by artists in Provence. All were obviously made by the same artist who made Mom’s vase, the giant urn, and the rest of the art here. He or she must have been local, whether still alive or not, but perhaps Chloe would have the opportunity to see some other pieces while visiting. The coincidence, the perfection of it, felt almost surreal.
The blues and greens of the platter mounted over the mantel caught the late afternoon sun and redirected the light, casting the wall behind it in a soft blue glow. With the wind blowing through the trees outside and the sunlight winking in and out of shadows, the effect was a bit like watching the surface of the ocean move in the wind. Combined with the crisp white furniture and otherwise simple decorating in the sitting room, it immediately made me feel calmer. The world of RMG and Papadakis, of work and stress and the constant buzzing of my phone, felt a million miles away.
Unfortunately, so did Chloe.
As if she could hear my thoughts from where she sat on a plane headed over the Atlantic, my phone buzzed in my pocket and her unique text chime rang out in the silent room.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I glanced down and read the message: Mechanic strike. All flights canceled. I’m stuck in New York.
Seven
“What do you mean grounded?” I said, gaping at the woman on the other side of the counter. She was about my age, with freckled cheeks and strawberry-blond hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She also looked like she was two seconds from strangling me and every other person in the international terminal at LaGuardia.
“Unfortunately we’ve just been informed of a mechanic union strike,” she said flatly. “All Provence Airlines flights in and out of the airport have been canceled. We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”
Well, she didn’t sound very sorry. I continued to stare, blinking rapidly as her words sunk in. “Excuse me, what?”
She arranged her features into a tight, practiced smile. “All flights have been canceled due to the strike.” I glanced over her shoulder to the Provence Airlines departure and arrival screens. Sure enough, CANCELED was emblazoned across each line.
“You’re telling me I’m stuck here? Why didn’t anyone tell me this in Chicago?”
“We’d be happy to help you make accommodations for the night—”
I paused in the entryway, staring at the enormous urn that looked like the larger cousin to a small vase my mother had in her dining room hutch; the cerulean blue base glaze was identical, and the same beautiful yellow lines bled down its curved sides. I remembered the gift from when Max brought it for my mother the first time he’d come home with me, over the winter holidays. I hadn’t realized at the time how personal the hostess gift had been to him, but now, looking around his vacation home, I could see the same artist’s work everywhere: in plates mounted above the mantel, in a handmade teapot and a set of simple cups on a tray in the parlor.
I smiled, reaching out to touch the urn. Chloe would completely lose it when she saw it; it was her favorite thing in my mother’s house. A feeling overcame me that we were almost fated to have come here.
After her birthday dinner in January, Chloe hesitated in the dining room, glancing at Mom’s impressive art collection in the hutch. But instead of going for the obvious gleam of the Tiffany vases or the intricate detail of the carved wooden bowls, she went straight for a tiny blue vase in the corner.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this color before,” she said, awestruck. “I didn’t think this color existed outside of the imagination.”
Mom walked over, pulled it from the shelf. Under the soft light of the chandelier, the color seemed to almost wink and change even as Chloe held it still in her hand. I’d never noticed before how pretty the piece was.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Mom admitted, smiling. “I’ve never seen anything this color anywhere else either.”
But that wasn’t entirely true, I thought, as I stepped away from the urn and walked to the mantel. The ocean here was that color, when the sun was high over the horizon and the sky was clear. Only then did it hit that exact same blue, like the heart of the deepest sapphire. An artist who lived here would know that.
On the shelf were three handmade santons, the small nativity figurines traditionally made by artists in Provence. All were obviously made by the same artist who made Mom’s vase, the giant urn, and the rest of the art here. He or she must have been local, whether still alive or not, but perhaps Chloe would have the opportunity to see some other pieces while visiting. The coincidence, the perfection of it, felt almost surreal.
The blues and greens of the platter mounted over the mantel caught the late afternoon sun and redirected the light, casting the wall behind it in a soft blue glow. With the wind blowing through the trees outside and the sunlight winking in and out of shadows, the effect was a bit like watching the surface of the ocean move in the wind. Combined with the crisp white furniture and otherwise simple decorating in the sitting room, it immediately made me feel calmer. The world of RMG and Papadakis, of work and stress and the constant buzzing of my phone, felt a million miles away.
Unfortunately, so did Chloe.
As if she could hear my thoughts from where she sat on a plane headed over the Atlantic, my phone buzzed in my pocket and her unique text chime rang out in the silent room.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I glanced down and read the message: Mechanic strike. All flights canceled. I’m stuck in New York.
Seven
“What do you mean grounded?” I said, gaping at the woman on the other side of the counter. She was about my age, with freckled cheeks and strawberry-blond hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She also looked like she was two seconds from strangling me and every other person in the international terminal at LaGuardia.
“Unfortunately we’ve just been informed of a mechanic union strike,” she said flatly. “All Provence Airlines flights in and out of the airport have been canceled. We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”
Well, she didn’t sound very sorry. I continued to stare, blinking rapidly as her words sunk in. “Excuse me, what?”
She arranged her features into a tight, practiced smile. “All flights have been canceled due to the strike.” I glanced over her shoulder to the Provence Airlines departure and arrival screens. Sure enough, CANCELED was emblazoned across each line.
“You’re telling me I’m stuck here? Why didn’t anyone tell me this in Chicago?”
“We’d be happy to help you make accommodations for the night—”
