Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Until we get to the Winged Victory of Samothrace.
Though headless, the sculpture’s presence is commanding. She’s a symbol of triumph, her wings outstretched, as if embracing wind and soaring above adversity. After the brush with death, I’ve felt wounded, battling my own fears and anxieties.
I’m lost in my own thoughts as the other three chat about the art. Still I stare at the statue. Her graceful form seems to defy gravity, just as I strive to defy the weight of my own trauma.
Maybe art does have healing power. I do feel a little better.
“You feeling okay?” Brock asks me as we leave the museum.
I look over at Maddie. She, all at once, contains the grace and beauty of the Venus de Milo, the stoic and striking stature of the Winged Victory, and a touch of the mystery like the Mona Lisa.
She’s a work of art that rivals any other piece in this museum.
And just like the art in this museum has offered me some comfort, so does she.
“Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
Chapter Ten
Maddie
Bright Parisian sunlight greets us when we leave the Louvre.
My stomach lets out a growl, and I find to my surprise that I’m famished. “Can we grab a bite?” I ask.
A moment later, a cozy sidewalk café greets us. It’s a brisk day in February, so we stop to see if we can get a table inside. A host greets us and leads us to a table inside covered in a crisp white tablecloth. Surrounding each table are wrought-iron chairs with intricate patterns, and flowers adorn the windowsills, adding a splash of color to the elegant, vintage decor. Adding to the ambience is the window next to us. The view outside of the Parisian street is filled with people strolling by, some carrying baguettes or walking their dogs.
Brianna smiles as she picks up her menu. “I wish we had all day to spend at the Louvre. I could look at art for hours and hours.”
Brock peeks out from his menu. “I saw what I needed to see.”
I’m not sure what to say. I loved looking at the art, but a whole day? That might be too much for me. I look over at Dave, who’s also perusing the menu. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
He clears his throat. “I did. It made me think about some stuff.”
“About what?” I ask.
“Just about life in general.” He sticks his nose back into the menu.
I miss jovial Dave.
I mean, I get it. We’ve all been freaked out. God knows I still am. But we’re also in Paris, and I want to enjoy it.
A waiter comes by. “Bonjour! What can I get for you today?” he says in a slight accent.
Brock sets his menu down. “I’ll have the croque-monsieur, please.”
“And you, mademoiselle?” he asks Brianna.
“I’ll go for the quiche Lorraine, and a side salad.”
“Mademoiselle?” He nods to me.
“I’ll try the Niçoise salad, dressing on the side.”
“Et monsieur?” To Dave.
“I’ll have the French onion soup and a salad as well, please.”
The waiter nods and then takes our menus.
“Crap,” Brock says. “We forgot to order drinks.”
No sooner do the words come out of his mouth when another server appears. “De l’eau aujourd’hui?”
“Oui, merci,” Brianna says. Then to us, “He’s asking if we want water.”
“Gazeuse ou non gazeuse?” he asks Bree specifically.
“You guys want sparkling?” she asks.
“Plain is fine for me,” I say.
“Me too.” From Brock.
Dave simply nods.
“Non gazeuse,” Brianna tells the waiter.
He pours four glasses from a pitcher and then leaves the table.
Our food comes in the next ten minutes, and it looks fantastic. Brock’s croque-monsieur is a tantalizing combination of ham, creamy béchamel sauce, and toasted bread with a golden-brown crust oozing with melted Gruyère cheese. Brianna’s quiche has a golden pastry crust cradling a velvety filling of eggs, cream, and bacon. Meanwhile, Dave dives headfirst into his steaming bowl of French onion soup, topped with a toasted baguette and a layer of melted Gruyère that rivals Brock’s.
I look down at my Niçoise salad. Before me sits a medley of colors and textures. A bed of crisp lettuce with cherry tomatoes, olives, hard-boiled eggs, and seared tuna, drizzled with a zesty vinaigrette. I bring a forkful to my mouth.
“It’s delicious!” I say. “It tastes like I’m swimming in the Mediterranean.”
Brock chuckles as he wipes some of the béchamel from his chin.
I get no reaction from Dave. Maybe he didn’t hear me.
We don’t talk much as we finish our meal. Once we’re done and have paid up, we head back to the hotel for some much-needed rest.
I don’t invite Dave to my room.
He doesn’t ask, either. I think we both need a little sleep.
But once I’m inside, someone knocks. I check the peephole. It’s Dave.
I sigh as I open the door. “What is it?”
“I was wondering…”
I cross my arms. “No, Dave. Just no. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t be your escape every time something is bugging you. I thought I could. But I can’t.”