Girl in the Afternoon by Serena Burdick Page B

what good will come of my sitting for him,” she said.
    â€œYou can see what he’s like, tell me about him. I just need more time.”
    Something felt amiss to Leonie, but she agreed.
    Aimée took her friend’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you,” she said.
    Leonie shrugged, and together they stepped back into the wind.

 
    Chapter 10
    While Leonie modeled for Henri, Aimée spent her days at the Académie Julian, and in the garden of a rich client of Édouard’s who hired her to do a portrait of his wife. Édouard had arranged it before he went to Argenteuil, and Aimée was grateful for the distraction, even if her mind was always in that café.
    At dusk on an evening in June, Aimée left Monsieur Chevalier’s verdant summer garden, where she’d spent all afternoon failing to please the man. Somehow he thought it was possible for his hideous wife to look pretty in pastel, which it was not. Agitated, Aimée sent her supplies home in the carriage and left on foot.
    It was a warm, clear evening. All day she had felt an aching restlessness. She walked toward the rue de Clichy, and this time, when she came to the Café Gravois, she did not duck into a doorway. She stood right in front of the café window feeling impulsive, as if she might do, or say, anything. The stone necklace felt weighty against her skin. She knew it was superstitious, but she hadn’t taken it off since she found Henri’s painting.
    It only took a minute to spot him. He wore the same collarless waistcoat he’d worn years ago, and she’d recognize the stoop of his shoulders anywhere.
    Everything fell away then, sounds, smells, even the pitiful moan of a drunk slumped over in a nearby doorway. Through the streaked window, Aimée could see Henri’s hands. They were unusually small, especially compared to her papa’s, but that place that flared out between his wrist and thumb, wide and strong, had always gotten to her. One of his hands rested on the table, while the other gripped the spoon he dipped into his soup. His head was bent over his bowl so she couldn’t see his face, but his hair was the same pale brown, although longer and curlier than she remembered.
    She stood in full view, conscious of the tavern maid clearing empty dishes and the filthy cigar ends that littered the tables, but she looked only at Henri.
    Then he looked up, right at her, and she quickly backed away, not sure if he’d seen her, and if he had, not sure he recognized her. She was halfway down the block when she heard her name, low and questioning. “Aimée?”
    When she turned, he was only a few yards away. He wore no frock coat or hat, but his shirt was starched and his waistcoat buttoned up.
    â€œAimée?” he said again, as if still unsure.
    â€œHello, Henri.” A nervous, twitchy smile spread across her face. This simple greeting seemed, somehow, ridiculous.
    â€œI was wondering when you’d come,” he said, his voice smooth, its seriousness achingly familiar.
    â€œOh?” Aimée dug her nails into her palms.
    â€œYes, ever since I first met Leonie.”
    Aimée dropped her eyes to the cobblestones between them.
    â€œDo your parents know?” he asked, and she looked up, hurt that he’d question her loyalty.
    â€œNo.”
    They stood in silence, each wondering what to say as the sun slipped away and the sky became a blanket of purple, smooth as velvet, one bright star appearing in its depths.
    All those years together during their childhoods, all those hours painting in each other’s silence, didn’t make this any easier.
    Finally, Aimée turned, slightly, as if she meant to leave, then turned back. “How did you know, when you met Leonie?” she asked.
    Henri smiled, and it reminded her of that first time she’d seen his smile, how it transformed his face into something dear and lovable.
    â€œI saw your painting.”