LITMIR.BIZ

      Hugo’s studio was housed in a large Renaissance building with a beige cement façade, blessed with large windows. Inside, Alexa and Lindsey boarded an old elevator, the kind with a metal sliding gate that had to be closed manually. Alexa closed it for them. “Remember when I was a kid and I wanted to be an elevator man who took people to the correct floors?”

      “You did love pushing buttons.”

      “Was that supposed to mean something else?” Alexa asked, sounding slightly offended.

      Oh, dear. That had come out wrong. “Oh my gosh, no. Not at all. You literally loved to push buttons. When you were three, we went to Macy’s, and you pushed the button for every single floor. People were so mad.” The memory lightened her mood. “But you were so cute. We rode that thing for an hour.”

      “I was cute, wasn’t I?”

      Lindsey leaned over and gave Alexa a playful kiss on the forehead as the elevator came to a stop. “You still are. Now let’s go meet Hugo.”

      Lindsey knocked on the door and heard a voice call out from inside, “C’est ouvert!”

      Alexa looked to her mom and whispered, “He said it’s open. See, my French isn’t terrible.”

      Lindsey opened the door and Alexa followed her into Hugo’s studio, an industrial-looking space with high ceilings, flooded with sunshine from the skylights. There were canvases everywhere, some on easels, some leaning against the walls. The wood floor was covered in spattered paint. It was the place of real artists. Alexa’s mouth hung open.

      Hugo stood at an easel with his back to them. “Bonjour, Ricardo. Put the paints down, and don’t make a mess this time!”

      Lindsey chuckled. “Charming as ever.” Hugo whirled around, his mouth open with surprise.

      He looked much the same as Lindsey remembered him. He still had a full head of hair and a slight moustache and beard, although they were completely white now. As he rushed to greet them, he moved with the lightness of a much younger man. Apparently, the life of an artist continued to agree with him. “My dear Lindsey! And Alexa—my new protégé.” He opened his arms and embraced them both.

      “Protégé? Well, now I can only disappoint you,” Alexa said as they pulled apart.

      Hugo took Alexa by the shoulders like a father would and said, “You’ll only disappoint me if you stop painting, like your mother did.”

      “I took some time off, that’s all,” Lindsey protested.

      “Twenty years?” Hugo shook his head.

      “I painted my apartment. Navajo white with ecru trim.” Okay, that didn’t exactly count as artwork, but she was proud of the fact that she didn’t have to hire someone to paint her place like everyone else in New York.

      Hugo shook his head again. “White, ecru? Have I taught you nothing?”

      “It’s very livable. And neutral.” Lindsey liked the way her home looked. It was inviting and sophisticated all at once.

      “Neutral? That’s the color of canvas before you paint it,” Hugo pointed out.

      “I couldn’t agree more,” Alexa said. “Why use neutrals when you have a whole palette of color?”

      Hugo patted Alexa on the back. “A genius already. This is going to be fun working together.”

      “Thank you so much for recommending me to the program,” Alexa said. “It’s so great to finally meet you in person.”

      “I promise you will love the university. And your favorite class will be mine.” Lindsey and Alexa laughed with him. “And until you move into the dorms, I hope you like my hotel recommendation.”

      “We love it,” Lindsey said as Alexa nodded her head in agreement. “And thank you for the upgrade. Who did you bribe?”

      Hugo flashed a smile that made his silver beard twitch. “Turns out I know the manager.”

      Lindsey laughed again. “Same old Hugo. Friends with half of Paris.”

      “How else am I going to sell my art?” he exclaimed as he pointed to the various canvases around the room.

      Well, he had a point there. Lindsey walked over to one of the landscapes and inspected it more closely. The brushstrokes, the sense of color… “Is it possible you’ve gotten even better?”

      “Of course it is. I’m like a fine wine,” Hugo said. He walked them around the studio, showing them some of his favorite recent works. As they rounded a corner, Hugo stopped and pointed to an unfinished painting. It was a landscape of the Pont des Arts bridge with love locks affixed to the rail.

      “What do you think of this one?” Hugo asked Alexa.

      “The love locks!” she exclaimed. “It’s beautiful. Why isn’t it finished?”

      “Ask your mother,” Hugo said.

      Alexa looked to her mom, her eyes wide. “That’s yours? So, you do know where the locks are.”

      Lindsey nodded as she scanned her old painting. It had been a long time since she’d seen it last, yet it remained familiar. The orange sky was better than she’d remembered, but it still wasn’t that perfect blood orange she’d seen on that long-ago afternoon at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

      “I can’t believe you kept that,” Lindsey said as she turned to Hugo.

      “Why wouldn’t I? It might be your best work. If you ever finished it.”

      No way. She couldn’t finish it back then, so how would she finish it now? It was missing that element she’d lost her chance at, years ago: the presence and the experience of someone who had sealed her lock on the bridge.

      “Some things are better off left unfinished,” she said. When she’d returned to New York, she’d left the painting behind on purpose. She didn’t want the memory, yet she couldn’t bear to destroy her own work. She’d hid it in the back of Hugo’s studio, hoping that he’d find it years after she was gone and forget it was hers. Like most painters she’d known, he often re-used canvases to save money. She’d thought that maybe he’d do that with her painting, using it to create something beautiful and new, and she’d never have to see it again. But now, here it was—staring her in the face, reminding her of her time with Jack.

      “Maybe you’ll change your mind while you’re here,” Hugo said, interrupting her train of thought. “And finish it.”

      “I wouldn’t count on that.” She had no intention of picking up a paintbrush while she was in Paris. She was strictly there to ensure her daughter felt settled and ready for the semester, and she had no interest in a trip down memory lane.

      “We’ll see,” Hugo said with a smile.

      “No. Really. I’m not painting.” Lindsey placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Alexa’s here to paint.”

      “Fine. Well, at least

Скачать книгу