The Consequence (The Evolution of Sin 3)

I smiled as I slipped through one of the buildings on a whim to find Madame Claremont’s studio. It was a large space lined with big square windows on three sides and currently a small class of artists-in-training was set up at easels painting a live nude model who reclined comfortably across a raised pedestal. I took a moment to appreciate how technically challenging it would be to reproduce the exaggerated curves and graceful rolls of the large woman on display before I swept the room looking for my mentor.

She stood in the corner furthest from me but her eyes were already trained my way, studying the changes in me with the highly trained eye of both an artist and a friend. I took a moment to do the same with her; noting with surprising gratitude that she was in absolutely no way changed. Odile Claremont was the daughter of a poor farmer from Alsace who looked more Germanic than French, with long blonde hair she braided across the crown of her head and blue eyes so pale that they appeared colorless. She was in her sixties but looked forty, her pale skin unblemished because she never spent anytime in the sun.

I finished my examination and nervously waited for her to do the same. She had more changes to catalogue so it took her a good few minutes. I tried not to squirm and immediately come to the conclusion that she hated what she saw. The last time I had seen her, the day before I left Paris, she had expressed her joy at seeing my natural red hair for the first time but since then, I had evolved in more than physical ways and I knew she would see those.

“Continue. I will be outside in the hall if I am needed,” she told the class in a French murmur that somehow carried across the room.

I loved the sound of her Alsatian accent so I was smiling at her, despite my anxiety, when she came my way. Without a word, she grabbed my hand and tugged me into the corridor, closing the door behind us.

“Giselle,” she said into my hair as she enfolded me in her arms. “You look so well.”

I dragged in a deep lungful of her turpentine and lily of the valley fragrance, feeling my worries evaporate.

“I missed you more than I realized,” I said as we pulled away.

She kept my hands in hers as she smiled at me. “And I, you. You promised to write and yet you did not.”

I blushed under her reprimand. “Things were… absorbing in Mexico and then New York. It would have been impossible to tell you in print how my life has changed.”

“Yes,” she said, casting another critical eye over me. “I can see it has changed fast and drastically. Tell me about the man.”

“How do you know it’s about a man?”

She made that French sound, a huff of breath exploding between her lips, a punctuation of sound. “No woman looks like this for any other reason.”

“How do I look?”

“Terrified, happy and alive.”

I laughed. “Okay, yes, there is a man. You’ll love him.”

“He’s here?” she asked, her pale eyebrows raised.

“He brought me here to get away. Our situation is a little… unorthodox,” I admitted.

“Cherie, I am French. We are the kings and queens of unorthodox relationships.”

I laughed again because that was true. The former President divorced his wife for his long time lover, a model and singer, while he was in office. Such a thing would have been unheard of in the United States.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” I promised. “And I have a show coming up at DS Galleries. It’s a bit different than anything I’ve ever done before but I think you would be proud.”

“Do you have pictures?” she asked, excitement making her bounce lightly on her toes.

“I do.”

“Excellente, I will finish with this class in half an hour and then you and I will go for wine, yes?”

I pursed my lips, desperately wanting to but worried that it would interfere with whatever Sinclair had planned for that afternoon.

Understanding inherently, Odile shook her head in mock exasperation. “Text your lover and tell him that I insist on stealing you away. I will return you drunk to your hotel and he will thank me for it.”

I laughed again, knowing she was right.

While I waited outside the building in the courtyard, I found out she was right. Sinclair texted back immediately to let me know he would reschedule our afternoon, that it was important for me to spend time with my mentor. I loved that he supported me so wholly. Not a lot of men in Sinclair’s world, one of business and money, would understand the life and business of an artist so I was grateful for his mother’s profession and for his own investment in the arts.