Genna relented. Saying no to Marsha would be like stomping on a puppy. “Right,” she said. “Let’s pay and get going. We can walk from here.”
“Wonderful! Here, I’ll get this.” Marsha scooped up the bill before Genna had a chance to protest. “I’m enjoying a financial boon right now and I’m determined to enjoy it.”
“I thought you weren’t working.”
“I sold my apartment in New York before coming to Paris. Colin helped me find the buyer. He said I’d be a fool to pass on the offer, and I made a bundle on it. Colin wants me to put the money into an apartment here.”
“Colin wants you to buy an apartment in Paris?” Genna couldn’t help thinking about how Drew had convinced her to sink most of their savings into an overpriced home that she’d ended up living in for only two months.
“He’s right, of course,” Marsha said as she led the way out of the restaurant and turned left toward the Tuileries. “Colin is good at business. He says the market in Paris is red-hot and that we need to get into it as soon as possible.”
Genna was itching to ask if Colin would also be contributing to the cost of the apartment.
“Colin says it’s silly to keep all the money in the bank if we’re going to settle in Paris.”
“What if you change your mind?”
“I love Paris! I can’t see going back to New York once I get a job.”
Genna bit back the impulse to ask what Marsha planned to do if she didn’t get a job in Paris. “I‘m sure everything will work out fine,” she said instead, then wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering in the sudden stiff breeze. April in Paris, so beloved by poets, romantics, and songwriters, could so quickly turn chilly. Genna thought back to her long, hot trudge to the Eiffel Tower two weeks earlier. Where had that weather gone?
The walk down the Champs-Élysées, across the Place de la Concorde to the Orangerie took a good twenty minutes, during which Marsha kept up a steady stream of conversation, confirming Genna’s fears for the afternoon. No way would she be finding a recipe for Eat Like a Parisian, which meant she’d need to return another day, stretching her already-thin sightseeing budget.
The two women approached the neoclassical Musée de l’Orangerie separated by a wide, tree-lined walkway from the Jeu de Paume opposite.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been here,” Genna said.
“Nope. And when you meet Colin, which I hope you will soon, promise me you won’t tell him about today? He’d be mad.”
“I promise.” Genna bit back what she really wanted to say, which was that Colin sounded like a jerk and that Marsha deserved better. On the other hand, who was she to talk?
After buying tickets, Genna and Marsha skirted the water-lily–infested gift shop and walked through the spare white vestibule into Salle 1, the first of the two rooms displaying the eight canvases of Les Nymphéas. Marsha walked a few steps into the room, stopped dead, and swayed. Genna rushed forward to catch her.
“Oh my God!” Marsha gasped, her limbs barely able to support her as she let Genna settle her onto the single oval-shaped bench in the middle of the room. “It’s unbelievable. I think I’m going to cry.”
Genna patted Marsha’s shoulder and then turned to examine the paintings. In her experience, extreme art appreciation required privacy. She began walking around the room, inviting the paintings to envelop her with their calm blues and greens. Each of the four massive works molded to the curved walls. She imagined a hot, hot summer day, the sun flooding the waters of the pond, deep shadows and blazing expanses, lilies of pink, white, and creamy yellow.
The promise of coolness in the midst of heat.
“Vichyssoise,” she murmured. Next to her, a young man contemplating the brushwork scowled at her. What business did she have talking about food in this most sacred of art palaces?
But to Genna, food and art were equally necessary. Without food, life was not possible, and without art, life was not possible to live well. But the young man looked undernourished and cross, so Genna turned away and entered Salle 2.
Whereas in Salle 1, one of the four paintings glowed with golds, reds, and pinks, an anomaly in the blue world, all four paintings in Salle 2 pulsed with infinite shades of blue lightened here and there with touches of light pink and white and the looming shadows of several black tree trunks. Genna was walking into a fairy world of vast subterranean lakes illuminated by crystal-studded walls. She had an overwhelming urge to spread her arms wide and twirl around the room, enfolded in a calm oasis unattainable in the real world. But, of course, her arms stayed at her sides as she backed into the metal bench, sat down, and pulled out her notebook.
Made with tender young leeks, pale yellow potatoes, heavy cream, and black pepper, a bowl of chilled vichyssoise on a hot summer day will transport you to Monet’s world, where your soul receives the solace that only nature can supply.
That would do for a start. Including oranges as a nod to the Orangerie was another option, but vichyssoise felt more suitable for the Monets. Genna leaned back on her elbows and gave herself over to contemplating the paintings and the people looking at them. She wondered if Marsha had recovered enough from the Stendahl effect induced by Salle 1 to venture into Salle 2. Genna had always liked the notion of the Stendahl effect and had felt it on her one trip to Italy, where Stendahl had experienced it.
According to legend, Florence’s astounding art treasures had so entranced the great French novelist that he’d swooned in ecstasy, suffered palpitations, and been in danger of collapsing in a heap of fried brain cells onto the marble floor of the Uffizi. One line from Stendahl’s memoirs stuck with Genna.
I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations.
She liked the sound of celestial sensations. Great art could take her to new heights and wouldn’t let her down.
Not like people could.
Marsha wandered into Salle 2, glanced vaguely at Genna, and then began slowly examining the paintings. Her body was all compact curves that in later years would likely tend to chubbiness. She looked as ready to go for a brisk hike in the mountains as she did to sip champagne in a candlelit bistro.
Genna liked her very much. Marsha had an appealing enthusiasm and, when she wasn’t talking about Colin, was smart and fun. She hoped Colin appreciated her.
With a start, Genna realized that her only friend was an ocean and a continent away. How had she let her stock of female friends get so low?
Chapter Five
Red Wine Macarons
A splash of Merlot swirled through buttercream filling
Cooking always relaxed Genna. She put on music, donned an apron, and pulled her hair into a rough ponytail. The blank counter was her canvas. She paused, savoring the emptiness before arranging her knives, the heavy new cutting board, several platters, and a small container for scraps. Everything was clean and neat, the calm before the storm. Methodically, she began gathering her ingredients from the fridge and cupboards.
She worked with careful precision, wasting little energy as she chopped garlic and onions, beef, and thyme. Building the mise en place was her favorite part of cooking. She loved to see the platters fill with shiny red peppers ready for roasting, garlic chopped into translucence, solid chunks of red steak marbled with creamy fat.