September 1905
Paris
Gilbert applied the last brushstrokes to the painting and stepped away from the easel.
“Beautiful,” he said.
Claire stood up from the chaise longue where she had spent so many hours posing, donned the robe she had discarded earlier, and went around to look at the masterpiece. Like many of the other paintings Gilbert had done of her over the past few years, this piece used color in completely unanticipated ways. It was bold … unconventional -- almost scandalous -- and brilliant.
“The Salle des Independents will love it,” she stated.
“I hope so.” Gilbert dropped a kiss on her chestnut hair.
“Mmm …”
Claire lifted her chin for a kiss on her mouth and Gilbert was happy to oblige. He caressed her lips with his: the touch of a butterfly on a flower.
A knock at the door announced Veronique’s arrival; she let herself in without awaiting permission, the door hinges squeaking and creaking.
“Beau-Pere, we must have the concierge oil the hinges,” Veronique said, ever practical. She made a face as she saw her mother and stepfather embracing.
Veronique dropped her schoolbooks on the chaise her mother had just abandoned, draping herself across the foot of it as though all the cares of the world rode on her youthful shoulders. Many a sigh was heaved as she took off the straw hat that sat atop her long, black braids.
“Come see Beau-Pere’s painting,” Claire urged.
“Hmm,” was the response.
“Mademoiselle LeMaitre …” Claire’s tone was a trifle more stern than she intended.
“Maman, it’s just that … Oh, god. It’s not hard enough that Beau-Pere is an artist, but my mother models for him!”
Only a thirteen-year-old girl could manage to sound so indignant and put-upon, Gilbert thought, remembering his sisters at the same age.
“She can look at it when she’s ready, Claire” was all he said.
The trio walked out of Gilbert’s atelier to the parlor of their Rue Montorgueil home. The eastern exposure gave outstanding light to the workshop; being able to work from home allowed for Gilbert to experiment without enduring the criticisms of more conventional painters.
“I’ll make the tea,” Veronique said, hurrying into the kitchen.
“Thank you, Veronique,” Gilbert replied. “I can almost taste those lemon macarons that Maman bought from Laduree this morning.”
Claire and Gilbert proceeded to their bedroom, where Claire stepped behind a screen to don her skirt and shirtwaist.
“She’ll be fine soon enough. She’s at the age where everything her parents do is mortifying. And the idea that we might kiss … quelle horreur!”
Claire response was a throaty chuckle. “Indeed, mon amour …”
Gilbert took a clean shirt from the armoire and inhaled the lavender that Claire used to scent their clothing … their sheets. It was an aroma that would always remind him of the days in Avignon … and the first time that they made love.
He dropped the clean shirt across a chair and stepped behind the screen to take his wife in his arms, whispering that perhaps the tea (and her temperamental daughter) could wait for a little while longer.