he said, sounding hesitant, and somewhat awkward. He had always liked her and Arthur, and like Sasha, he hadn't dated anyone in years. He sounded nervous and unsure.
“I'd have loved it,” she said easily. She knew she was leaving, so it was not an issue for her, and wouldn't have been anyway. As far as she was concerned, they were nothing more than old friends, nor would they be. “I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow. I'm moving back,” she said with relief. She knew she had made the right decision for her. Even her children agreed.
“I'm sorry to hear it. I was hoping I could get you to a movie sometime, or dinner.” He had been pleased to run into her again. And even Sasha would have had to admit, there was nothing wrong with him. He was a nice man. He just wasn't Arthur, and she had no interest in being involved with anyone else.
“I'll be back for a few days every month. You'll have to come to one of our openings sometime,” she said vaguely, and he promised he would.
“I'll call you if I come to Paris. I have business there once in a while.” But he was looking for someone more geographically and emotionally accessible, and she knew she'd never hear from him. She didn't really care. He wished her luck, and the next morning, she took a cab to the airport. By nine o'clock she was in the air, and half an hour later, she was sound asleep. It had been a crisp sunny day in New York when she left, and when she arrived in Paris, it was bitter cold and pouring rain. Sometimes she forgot how depressing Paris winters could be. But she was glad to be there anyway. She went to sleep that night, in her bed in Paris, to the sound of the pouring rain.
When she awoke on Sunday morning, the fog was so low it was nearly sitting on the rooftops. It was cold and gray and the house was damp. And when she slipped into her bed that night, even her sheets felt uncomfortable, and she was chilled to the bone. Just for a moment, she missed the warm, cozy apartment in New York. What she realized as she tried to sleep was that wherever she went now, her miseries came with her. It didn't matter what city she lived in, or in which bed she slept. Wherever she was, in whatever country, or city, her bed was always empty, and she was alone.
Chapter 3
Sasha's life was busy in Paris in December. The gallery was doing a booming business. She met with many of their most important clients, who seemed to want to make important purchases, or sell part of their collections, before the end of the year. And she spoke to Xavier in London nearly every day. She had arranged a skiing trip for herself and both her children. They were leaving the day after Christmas for St. Moritz. She also had several important clients there.
Her social life in Paris was far more formal than it normally was in New York. Her clients in New York were successful but often more informal, and many of them had become friends over the years. The people she liked there were interesting and varied in their origins and lines of work. In Paris, there were certain social lines drawn that were more typical of Europe. Her major clients came from aristocratic, often titled, backgrounds, or fortunes that had been established for generations, like the Rothschilds, and others who entertained lavishly, many of whom had been her father's friends as well. The parties she was invited to were infinitely dressier and more elaborate than those she went to in New York, or did when Arthur was alive. And here the invitations were harder to turn down, since many of the people who invited her had bought important pieces of work from her. She felt obliged to go. She complained about it to Xavier, and he insisted it would do her good. But even at her age, she was often by far the youngest person in the room, and more often than not, she was bored. For business reasons, if no other, she went anyway. And was always happy to go home.
In mid-December, working in her office on yet another gray foggy day, her
“I'd have loved it,” she said easily. She knew she was leaving, so it was not an issue for her, and wouldn't have been anyway. As far as she was concerned, they were nothing more than old friends, nor would they be. “I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow. I'm moving back,” she said with relief. She knew she had made the right decision for her. Even her children agreed.
“I'm sorry to hear it. I was hoping I could get you to a movie sometime, or dinner.” He had been pleased to run into her again. And even Sasha would have had to admit, there was nothing wrong with him. He was a nice man. He just wasn't Arthur, and she had no interest in being involved with anyone else.
“I'll be back for a few days every month. You'll have to come to one of our openings sometime,” she said vaguely, and he promised he would.
“I'll call you if I come to Paris. I have business there once in a while.” But he was looking for someone more geographically and emotionally accessible, and she knew she'd never hear from him. She didn't really care. He wished her luck, and the next morning, she took a cab to the airport. By nine o'clock she was in the air, and half an hour later, she was sound asleep. It had been a crisp sunny day in New York when she left, and when she arrived in Paris, it was bitter cold and pouring rain. Sometimes she forgot how depressing Paris winters could be. But she was glad to be there anyway. She went to sleep that night, in her bed in Paris, to the sound of the pouring rain.
When she awoke on Sunday morning, the fog was so low it was nearly sitting on the rooftops. It was cold and gray and the house was damp. And when she slipped into her bed that night, even her sheets felt uncomfortable, and she was chilled to the bone. Just for a moment, she missed the warm, cozy apartment in New York. What she realized as she tried to sleep was that wherever she went now, her miseries came with her. It didn't matter what city she lived in, or in which bed she slept. Wherever she was, in whatever country, or city, her bed was always empty, and she was alone.
Chapter 3
Sasha's life was busy in Paris in December. The gallery was doing a booming business. She met with many of their most important clients, who seemed to want to make important purchases, or sell part of their collections, before the end of the year. And she spoke to Xavier in London nearly every day. She had arranged a skiing trip for herself and both her children. They were leaving the day after Christmas for St. Moritz. She also had several important clients there.
Her social life in Paris was far more formal than it normally was in New York. Her clients in New York were successful but often more informal, and many of them had become friends over the years. The people she liked there were interesting and varied in their origins and lines of work. In Paris, there were certain social lines drawn that were more typical of Europe. Her major clients came from aristocratic, often titled, backgrounds, or fortunes that had been established for generations, like the Rothschilds, and others who entertained lavishly, many of whom had been her father's friends as well. The parties she was invited to were infinitely dressier and more elaborate than those she went to in New York, or did when Arthur was alive. And here the invitations were harder to turn down, since many of the people who invited her had bought important pieces of work from her. She felt obliged to go. She complained about it to Xavier, and he insisted it would do her good. But even at her age, she was often by far the youngest person in the room, and more often than not, she was bored. For business reasons, if no other, she went anyway. And was always happy to go home.
In mid-December, working in her office on yet another gray foggy day, her
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