How Sweet It Is (14 page)

Her grandmother stared at her steadily. “Have you told your mother that you were accepted in the writing program?”

She shrugged. “Mum’s too busy to care.”

“That’s utter nonsense, Chloe.”

Was it? She shrugged again.

Her grandmother reached across the table and took her hand. “Your mother is going through a hard time.”

“I know,” she said defensively. As if she wasn’t, too?

“I’m not excusing her for anything, Chloe,” her grandmother said, “but we’re human. Despite the fact that we’re parents, we make mistakes. But we can’t fix them if we don’t know that there’s something wrong.”

But she used to know without Chloe saying anything. She gazed at her grandmother’s hand on hers, frowning. “She used to be different.”

“And she used to be unhappy,” Jacqueline pointed out. She leaned forward. “I’m going to speak to you as a woman instead of your grandmother for a moment. I was in the same place Viola is now, and I did nothing about it. I wasted years being unhappy. I don’t want that for your mother, and I don’t want it for you.”

“I didn’t think of it that way,” she admitted.

“Of course you didn’t. You aren’t supposed to.” Her grandmother squeezed her hand. “Perhaps you can just remember that she can’t be interested in your life if you don’t share it with her.”

Maybe. She bit her lip. What if her mum
didn’t
listen?

As if reading her mind, her grandmother smiled. “Give her a chance. She’d be sad if she knew you thought she was neglecting you, don’t you think?”

She pictured the look on her mother’s face if she told her and kind of nodded in acknowledgment.

“Your life is a story you control.” Jacqueline placed a finger under Chloe’s chin and lifted her head to look her in the eyes. “You don’t always control the circumstances that are presented to you, but you control how you react to them and what you make of them. If you aren’t happy, change them. If you miss your mother, talk to her. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, though she had doubts. Because what good was talking when her mother didn’t want to listen?

Chapter Fifteen

Vi checked out of her hotel at the northern point of the Marais and walked to Rue du Pont de Lodi one last time before she went home.

It started to rain along the way. Reaching into her bag, she cursed under her breath. Of course she’d forgotten an umbrella. But the cold rain helped—it made her see things clearly.

Things
. She chuckled without humor. It was Finn she saw clearly, particularly her feelings for him.

Not that she’d needed a rainy stroll to figure that out. She knew herself, and she’d never be able to have an affair without some sort of affection for the person she was shagging.

With Finn, it was more than just sex, she realized. She slowed down, frowning at the Seine. She liked him—a lot. So much, that his happiness was more important than her own.

Her main focus right now had to be launching her gallery. She had too much invested to treat it as a hobby. It had to be the center of her world, next to Chloe. Finn didn’t want to be part of that world, and she couldn’t afford to divide her attention.

Turning onto Finn’s street, she checked the time and then called her daughter to reinforce her priorities.

The line picked up. “Mum?” Chloe said. “Where are you?”

“On my way home, darling.” She smiled, denying the sadness that wanted to stab at her heart. “Do you want to come home tonight, or would you prefer to stay at your father’s?”

“I’m at Grandmother’s, actually. Charles couldn’t pick me up from school so I came here.”

She tried to gauge Chloe’s state of mind by her tone, but her daughter seemed happy enough.

“I’m fine, Mum,” she said, beleaguered, as though she could read Vi’s mind.

“Is your grandmother there?”

“Hold on.” There was a muffled exchange on the other end, and then Jacqueline’s voice came on the line. “How is Paris, darling?”

Vi had married Charles when she was eighteen. She’d had Chloe when she was nineteen. She was an adult in every way, but hearing her mother’s voice made her tear up and want a hug. “Paris is lovely,” she said miserably.

There was a pause where Vi heard the efficient clack of heels. Then Jacqueline said, “I’m alone now. You can tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” she lied. She looked up at the window of Finn’s residence and felt her heart crack. “I’m just slow to learn.”

“Nonsense,” her mother said. “You’re every bit as smart as your sisters, perhaps even more so.”

“I’m not very smart when it comes to men.”

“You know how I see it? You have a hopeful heart and see the best in people.”

Vi chuckled without humor. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s a lovely trait, darling. Some people aren’t able to love the way you do. It’s a gift. You just need to temper it.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she said bitterly.

“I have faith in you.” Her mother paused. “You deserve happiness, my love.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I know what happiness feels like.”

“If that’s how you really feel, you’re selling yourself short. But I don’t think you really mean that,” her mother said in her no-nonsense voice. “Trust yourself, Vi. You know what you need.”

She wasn’t sure, because standing outside Finn’s door, a minute away from saying goodbye to him, she felt like she really needed him.

No, her mother was right. Happiness was her family and her new career. She straightened her spine and sniffed back her sadness. “Mother, is Sebastian in?”

“Shall I fetch him for you?”

“Yes, please.” She listened to her mother walking through the halls of the South Street house and then a murmured conversation before Sebastian took the phone.

Before he could even utter a hello, she said, “Is your offer still open?”

“To help you out? Definitely.”

“Okay, good.” She wrinkled her nose. “That was easy. I thought I’d have to grovel more.”

“I’ll let you grovel if you need, but I’m just happy to try to help you. I have a good feeling about this. I think you’ll be a great gallery owner.”

That made one of them, because this past week and spending so much effort on an artist who was only interested in sex didn’t show the best business sense. But she just murmured, “Perhaps we can meet tomorrow to go over what I have so far.”

“Looking forward to it.” Someone said something in the background, and then Sebastian added, “Hold on. Chloe wants to talk to you.”

“Mum?” her daughter said.

“Yes, darling?”

She paused, but then she said softly, “I’m happy you’re coming home.”

Vi smiled. “I am, too.”

Hanging up, she composed herself and pressed Finn’s buzzer. It was time.

The door opened, but instead of Finn an older man stood in the threshold. His face was lined with weariness, but his eyes held a glitter, as though he still had hope that there were good things left to see.

He stared at her without a word, squinting as though he were trying to see inside her soul. It was so intense, she considered running to hide.

But then he grinned slowly and said something in French.

She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I don’t understand.”

“That is okay,” he said in a thick accent. “My English is very good. You’re here for Finn,
non
?”

“Yes.” She smiled, wondering who he was. “Is he in?”

“He is always in.” The man waved his hand. “He works and works, but never on what is important.”

“You mean his artwork?”

“
Oui, bien sûr
.” He narrowed his eyes. “You have seen his paintings?”

Nodding, she put a hand to her heart. “They change something inside you when you see them, don’t they?”

The man didn’t reply, instead studying her with a focus that made her unsure of how to act or what to say.

Then he smiled, and it was as though the sun came out. “Do you stay in Paris?”

“I’m returning to London,” she said, fighting the urge to apologize—or cry. “I came to say goodbye to Finn.”

He reared back. “You cannot go.”

“I have to.” She tried to smile. “It’s really best.”

“But you care about Finn?”

More than anything. She swallowed her regret and said the truth. “I only want what’s best for him.”

“Anne-Marie was wrong. You are more than a goddess.” He touched her cheek. Then he turned and yelled something in French over his shoulder. Smiling at her, he went around to another door and let himself in, leaving her in the open threshold of Finn’s workshop.

She wasn’t alone for long before Finn came to meet her. His face fell into resignation when he saw her expression, as if he could sense why she was there.

She smiled sadly. “I came to say goodbye.”

“Why are you leaving?” he asked, pulling her into his workshop.

“I have to get back to life. Unless you give me a reason to stay a little longer.” Please, she thought, willing him to give her the vaguest promise.

“I’m not going to sell my artwork, Viola.” It sounded like it pained him to say it.

“And there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

He shook his head, arms crossed. “I can’t.”

Of course he couldn’t—not given how he felt about what happened to his uncle. Finn sounded so tortured that her heart broke for him. She couldn’t compromise him for her show. She exhaled—she would
not
think that if he cared about her he’d change his mind for her the way she was for him.

For him, it’d never been about caring. They had an attraction. That’s where she went wrong, thinking that sex equaled feelings.

So she simply nodded. “Okay.”

“Viola?” Finn reached for her.

She retreated, afraid she’d crumble if he touched her. “It’s okay. I understand. I’ll find another artist to fill the void in my show. Life goes on.”

“Life goes on,” he repeated, though he didn’t sound sure of it.

She ducked her head and searched in her purse, because the look in his gaze was killing her. “I wanted to give you this,” she said, holding out her card. “In case you change your mind.”

“I won’t change my mind.” But he took the card regardless, making a point of looking at the fine script of her name.

She wanted to tell him not to lose it. She wanted to tell him to give her his mobile so she could program her number in it. The thought of being out of touch with him twisted her stomach.

“I have something for you, too,” he said, his voice hoarse. He disappeared into his workshop.

She stayed where she was. There was no need to go inside. She had no desire to taunt herself with what she couldn’t have.

He returned, his hand held out. In it, there was a small piece of wood.

She took it. It was a carved mermaid. She turned it in her hand, gasping when she saw that it resembled her. Her souvenir of Paris, she realized with a sinking heart.

She swallowed, knowing their affair was definitely over now. She cleared the sorrow from her throat. “You made this?”

He nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, studying it. The mermaid even had the unruly wave her hair had.

She tried to smile again, but the sadness in her chest eclipsed the effort. Lifting her chin, she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. She tried to press acceptance and love and well wishes into him. “I have to get going. Take care of yourself, Finn.”

Tucking her consolation prize in her purse, Vi walked away before he could say anything. The mourning cry of a horn followed her down the street, trilling in the damp air.

Chapter Sixteen

Marcel frowned at his espresso cup. “
Mon café n’est plus chaud
.”

Hunched over, Finn paced back and forth in the open space of the attic. “She just left without any ado. Who does that?”

“You do,” Marcel pointed out. He picked up the croissant from the plate and bit into it. “At least she came back to say goodbye,” he said with his full mouth.

“Yes.” But it wasn’t enough. He hadn’t gotten enough of her. He wasn’t ready for her to leave.

Marcel shrugged like the Frenchman he was. “Well, that says something, no?”

“What does it say?”

“Does it really matter? You would have sent her away yourself, at some point. It’s how you do.”

He glared at his friend. “You’re no help.”

“I would be more help if I had proper coffee.” Marcel finished the croissant and, brushing off his fingers on his pants, picked up the trombone. He lifted it to his mouth and blew out one plaintive note before launching into a slow bluesy song that Finn didn’t recognize.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket. Hope and eagerness made his fingers fumble when he saw it was a British number. Striding across the room, he answered it. “Hello?”

“May I speak to Phineas Buchanan?”

His heart plummeted as he recognized Abigail Potter’s voice. “I already said no.”

“If you repair the chair, I’ll make sure that your name is the only one on the lips of all curators around the world,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “I can do that. You’ll be renowned for your work and craftsmanship. You’ll never want for work.”

He cursed Philippe for telling her his weakness. “I don’t doubt it.”

“I’ll pay you whatever you’d like.” She swallowed nervously. “At least whatever’s in my power. And I’ll make sure you have deluxe accommodations and anything else you need.”

“That’s not why I don’t want to return to London.”

“I’m only asking for the length of time it takes to refinish the chair. You can leave as soon as you finish.” Hurriedly, she said, “You don’t even have to notify anyone that you’re here, if you prefer. You can work undercover.”

He ran a hand over his neck. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”

“I’m not,” she said with steely determination.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, just to get her off the phone. When he turned around, he found Marcel staring at him.

“This woman who called? She offers you a very prestigious commission?”

“Yes.” He perched on the windowsill, arms crossed.

“In London?”