All of It (12 page)

“Nothing. The movie’s over and I was just running up to my room to grab my iPod so we can listen to some music. Sorry to interrupt.” The wicked smile on his face contradicts his words and betrays the pleasure he’s taking in irritating his brother. “Resume.” Then he’s gone.

I look up at Dimitri who is shaking his head and wearing that beautiful smile. My eyes are beginning to adjust to the faint light seeping in from the stairway, and I can see that we’re standing next to the entrance to a long, narrow room. The room looks to be at least two stories tall, with upholstered benches in the center running parallel to the longer walls. I squint, looking from one massive wall to the next.

Dimitri takes my hand, clearly trying to coax me away. “Come on, Ronnie. Let’s go up to my room. I’m on my best behavior now. We can watch a movie or listen to some music.”

I ignore him, drop his hand and walk into the room. “What is this?” My voice is full of wonder and curiosity. The bright white walls almost glow, even in the dark, but dark shapes on them randomly break up the glow of the walls. I step closer to the nearest wall for a closer inspection and realize the dark shapes are paintings.

At that same moment, I hear Dimitri inhale and exhale deeply before he says, softly, “This is the gallery.” He turns on the lights, and I’m momentarily blinded.

But then, I look up and down each wall and turn slowly in a circle. The paintings are hung both high and low on all of the walls. There are dozens of them, most of them large, but some small. I walk to the far end of the room and back down the other side looking at each painting intently. Though all of the paintings are different, they all appear—at least to an untrained eye—to be painted by the same artist. When I complete the loop and recognize I’m looking at the first painting again I turn to look for Dimitri. He’s sitting on one of the benches eating our popcorn.

He lazily extends the bucket toward me. “Do you want some before it’s all gone?”

I walk over and sit down next to him and grab a few kernels, chewing as I talk. “I can see why Sunny wanted me to see her gallery. She should be very proud of it.”

“You have no idea,” Dimitri mumbles under his breath as he rolls his eyes and shoves another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Did the same artist paint all of them?”

He’s still chewing very deliberately, but nods a confirmation.

“You’ll have to excuse me; I don’t know that much about art. I just know what I like or what I think is pretty.”

“Do you like them?”

“Like them? They’re fantastic! This is such an impressive collection. I guess she really likes the artist to have collected so many of his pieces.”

His cheeks turn rosy and there’s an impish grin on his face. He looks embarrassed. “You could say that. Which one is your favorite?”

“That’s a hard question. I like them all, but I think my favorite is the small one of the Eiffel Tower. I’m kind of fascinated with Paris anyway, but that one, the way it’s painted as if twilight has descended upon it … it’s gorgeous. The dark background lends an eerie quality, but the Tower, bathed in moonlight, stands out in subtle contrast against it. The imagery is romantic, like a dark, beautiful fairy tale.”

His smile widens and his gray eyes shine. “I was hoping you’d say that. I want you to have it. It’s yours.”

I involuntarily gasp, “What? No!” I catch my breath. “You can’t give your mom’s painting away.”

He’s still smiling, but the embarrassment has vanished and he speaks slowly, “These aren’t
Sunny’s
paintings, Ronnie.”

“Then whose are they?”

He’s silent. The smile fades and his eyebrows rise as if to answer my question and acknowledge guilt in the same humble instant.

“They’re
yours
?” It comes out as a whisper and the pieces all start to fall into place. I stand up and walk to the nearest painting to check out the artist’s signature in the lower right hand corner. Though the script is small, it’s legible. D. GLENN. My jaw drops and I turn around slowly to face him again. “You
painted
all of these?”

“Yes.” He sits solemnly, looking at me. I’m suddenly staring at a much older man, someone with years of life experience, someone who has unmatched confidence and the accomplishments and talent to substantiate it. I see a flash of the man Dimitri’s destined to be.

“Holy shit.” Dazed, I walk back over and sit down next to him. I grab the last handful of popcorn from the bucket, chew it slowly, thoroughly, and swallow it. I pick up the Dr. Pepper and take several big gulps before I look at him again. “Is there anything you can’t do? I don’t know if we should hang out. I may not be qualified.”

He laughs quietly, pauses, and thoughtfully says, “I can’t cook anything but grilled cheese sandwiches, I don’t know how to swim, and I can’t spell to save my life. You’re much smarter than I am. I could go on …”

I smile. “Seriously, Dimitri, this is
really
impressive.”

He takes my hand and stands up. “It is what it is. I enjoy painting and it puts a little money in my pocket. It works out well for me.”

I nod mechanically, still bewildered. “It works out well for you? That’s a
colossal
understatement my talented friend.”

He leads me to the Eiffel Tower painting and gently removes it from the wall and holds it pressed up against his torso, facing me. “I was going to save it for your birthday, but I guess now that you’ve already seen it, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.”

“I can’t take it, Dimitri.”

His eyes blaze through me, but his voice is soft. “Ronnie, I painted it for
you
. See?” He points to the upper left corner of the painting.

The writing is small. I couldn’t have read it while it was hanging up on the wall, but I can see now that it reads, “
To my darling Ronnie. Je t’aime. XOXO.”

My eyes fill up with tears that quickly spill over. I lightly trace my finger over the words and then look up at him. “Merci …”

He crouches to set the painting against the wall, then stands up and wipes my tears away with the gentle swipe of his thumb. “De rien,” he says. He pauses and smiles. “You’re welcome.”

“You speak French?”

He winks and shrugs. “Oui … a little.”

“A ‘little,’ huh? I’ve heard that one before.” I glace at my watch just then, realizing that the concept of time has completely escaped me. I gasp in shock and disappointment. “It’s two-thirty in the morning?”

Dimitri looks at his watch and nods, “I guess it is. Time flies …”

“I probably should go before Mom and Dad start to worry. I really don’t want this night to end though; I didn’t even get to see your room.”

He runs his fingers absently through my hair and the corner of his mouth turns up in that mischievous grin that makes my heart skip a beat. “Let’s save that for another time. I have a feeling I may not be able to keep my hands off you if I get you up there right now.” He winks devilishly. “I don’t want to tempt you into compromising your spotless reputation.”

How does everyone seem to know I’m a virgin? My face reddens and I avert my eyes. My gaze lands on my feet, which I notice are still bare. “Oh. Where are my shoes?”

The smile still in place, I sense he’s waiting for me to look at him so that he can taunt me some more. “I think they’re on the floor in the other room. You may have dropped them when you became otherwise engaged.”

My cheeks grow impossibly warmer. I whisper, “Oh yeah … I forgot.”

• • •

Dimitri pulls his Porsche up into my driveway and puts it in park. Leaving it running, he quickly gets out to come around and open my door. I pry myself from the passenger seat; I don’t want to say goodnight, even though by now it’s early morning. He pulls me into the most comforting hug. His arms don’t encircle me. They engulf me. I’m completely surrounded by his warmth, his smell, his kindness, and his love. I stand there in silence with my eyes closed and my head resting against his chest listening to the beat of his heart for several minutes. He squeezes me tightly, kisses the top of my head, and releases me. The cool morning air creeps in all around me and I shiver violently.

“You’d better get inside and get to bed.”

While I unlock the backdoor of my house, he retrieves my early birthday present from his car. I turn and reach out to take the painting with both hands. I’m scared to touch it, afraid I might drop it. “Thank you so much … for everything. I’ll never forget this night for as long as I live.”

He rubs my back and his mouth turns up in a slight smile. “I’m counting on that, Ronnie.” He leans in over the painting and presses his lips against mine and holds them there for several seconds before pulling away. “I’ll call you after we get home from church later this morning. Sweet dreams.”

He holds the door for me to get inside, walks to his car, and waves back at me before ducking inside and backing down the drive.

I walk gingerly down the stairs to my bedroom, being careful not to bump the painting against the walls. I set it on the floor of my room, propped up against the wall next to my bed. I slip my shoes off and lay down on my bed, staring at the painting.

I think about Dimitri. My mind begins to drift and my eyes grow heavy. Before I know it, I’m dreaming …

We are staring at each other across the dance floor of a large ballroom. Dimitri is dressed in a tailored suit. The room is crowded with woman in elegant, floor-length ball gowns. Couples glide around the dance floor to the music of a string quartet tucked away near the far end of the room. Dimitri makes his way slowly across the floor, gracefully dodging the dancers spinning and twirling around him, never taking his eyes off me. In a short time he’s standing before me, bowing deeply. He gently raises my hand and kisses the back of it. “Good evening, Miss Smith.”

I attempt to contain my smile, but it stretches from ear to ear. “Good evening, Dimitri.”

In my dream, we are speaking in French, but I hear every word in English.

He gestures toward the dance floor. “Would you like to dance, Veronica? Or can I interest you in a walk this evening? The air is still warm and twilight draws near. The moon will be full tonight with plenty of light to walk by.”

“A walk sounds lovely.”

He turns and offers his elbow, which I promptly take and hold tightly. His touch, even through layers of clothing, is heavenly. I’ve not known him long and being near him is intoxicating.

We walk out into the warm evening air and dodge horse-drawn carriages as we cross the road.

“Where are we going?” I ask curiously.

“I want to show you something. I take this walk every night, but always alone. I thought it would be nice to share it …”

I finish his thought, “With someone.”

He smiles briefly and the ghost left behind coaxes a blush to my cheeks. He corrects, “With you.”

The blush deepens and my arm that’s touching his warms considerably. I walk as if on a cloud, barely seeing what’s ahead, my world fuzzy with anticipation. His words bring me back and alert me to the fact that we’ve reached the river.

“I love a walk along the Seine at this time of day. At twilight, the water looks like a black mirror, ominous and beautiful. There’s something very passionate and sensual about it. It’s inspiring.”

“Inspiring? How so?” I’m intrigued. Gentleman do not talk this way in the company of ladies. It’s intimate, and though I know it’s inappropriate, I want to hear more.

“I am a painter. The river’s dark allure inspires me. I do my best work after returning home from a walk beside her.” His smile turns mischievous, “I perform brilliantly when I’m fully stimulated—my imagination aroused by beauty. Especially late at night.” He adds with a wink.

Heavens. Did it just get hot? Now my entire body is warm. I clear my throat. “I didn’t know you painted? I mean, I guess I don’t know anything about you really, since I’ve only just made your acquaintance a few weeks ago.” I smile coyly. “Apart from the fact that you are partial to pistachio macaroons.”

Dimitri began patronizing my parents’ patisserie a month ago. He only ever buys pistachio macaroons. He stops in every Tuesday and Friday afternoon at four-fifteen. He didn’t introduce himself until the second week, and by the third we engaged in friendly conversation. I learned he lives with his brother in the Latin Quarter, but visits this quartier twice a week for “personal reasons.” This past week he asked me to meet him at the midsummer ball in the dance hall near Montparnasse. And I couldn’t say no.

His knowing smile holds many secrets. “You know me better than you might think.”

We walk with arms linked for quite a distance along the river. Soon, I began to look at it through a different set of eyes. It arouses something intense inside me, something that’s new, yet familiar at the same time. It
is
beautiful at this time of day, I think.

Night has fallen completely and in the near distance I see the Eiffel Tower aglow in the light of the full moon. I love the Eiffel Tower. I stop and sigh, “I never grow tired of admiring it.”

He follows my gaze to the Tower. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It is. I remember watching it being constructed as a little girl. We’ve always lived in the 7
^th
arrondissement, so I’d make my mother or father walk me here to the site every day. They took me to the fair when it was finally finished. It still takes my breath away, even after looking at it finished every day for more than ten years now.”

“Have you ever been to the top? The view is spectacular.”

“Only once. A couple of years ago, on my fourteenth birthday, my mother and father took me. I’ll never forget it. I could see Notre Dame, Arc de Triomphe, Jardin du Luxembourg, I think I could even see Sorbonne.” I sigh again.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“For me?

We begin walking toward the Tower, and excitement slowly builds inside me.