I tuck the pages back into the cabinet and then sit back down on my stool. “I didn’t exactly run away.”
She lifts an eyebrow.
“Okay, I ran away,” I admit.
“I’ve seen how you are with your kindred,” she says. “How close you are. You’re practically family.” She pauses, and then asks, “Vincent loved her first, right?”
I nod and rub my forehead with my fingertips.
“It was the noble thing to do,” she says quietly. She strolls over to me and inspects the image of Faust. Her own portrait is faintly visible through the paper, and I’m supremely glad in this moment that X-ray vision is not a revenant superpower. She smiles fondly. “Good old Faust. You really captured his spirit here. I don’t think I know a nicer guy in all of New York.”
“Yeah, well, that good old guy’s lying dormant in the east wing right now,” I say. “Useless as our third man for Brittany.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about. When do you think we can leave?” she asks, and chews anxiously on a fingernail. Ava’s nervous. She sees me notice and drops her hand and squares her shoulders, slipping back into her armor.
“We can leave at daybreak if you want,” I suggest. “That way you get to see some of the French countryside. I’m not a half-bad tour guide, I suppose. I’ve been pretty much everywhere.”
She shakes her head and says, “Now.”
My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” she says, and her leg is jiggling. “I’m just feeling impatient. I have so much to talk to Bran about, and it would be nice to get going. Like, really soon. Now, if possible.”
I shrug. “Now works for me. Let me just grab some clothes, and I’ll meet you down in the kitchen. We can pack some stuff from the fridge so we don’t have to eat fast food on the autoroute.”
“I’ll take care of that,” she says, and in a flash she’s halfway out my door. “Meet you in ten?”
Americans—always in a rush, I think, while saying, “Ten it is.”
She closes the door, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I lift up the sketch of Faust to look at my drawing of her, comparing it to the woman who was just standing inches away from me. It is spot on. And there’s something about it. Something a little too true. Sometimes the muse does that when you create . . . drawing, painting, writing . . . she gives you insight into the soul of a near stranger or a clear picture of a situation you couldn’t have known existed. And then when you find out it is true, you know you’ve been used. You’re just a tool of the muse.
The muse gave me a view into Ava. And something inside me is glad she didn’t see it. With one last look at my portrait of New York, I leave my easel and begin packing my bag.
ELEVEN
WE DRIVE FOR THE FIRST HOUR IN SILENCE, AVA flipping through the radio stations until we get too far from Paris to get anything but static and then changing to the iPod Ambrose gave us. His playlists are full of jazz: Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald scat and sing and croon while we drive with the windows down. Ava’s head is tilted back, eyes closed, as she breathes in the fresh morning air of the countryside.
But after a while, the noncommunication gets old, and I feel like talking. Ava hasn’t said a word since we left. Finally I turn the music down. “So where are you from?” I ask.
“Are you making conversation?” Ava responds, amusement twinkling in her eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” I reply. “In fact, I’m the driver and you’re the drivee, which means you’re responsible for keeping me entertained.”
“There’s the music,” she says.
“An hour of jazz is quite enough for me, thank you. So, back to the question. Where are you from?”
She was hoping to brush me off, and my insistence bothers her. She raises her eyebrows defiantly. “I don’t see why I have to tell you my life story.”
“And I don’t see why you’ve been acting like I’m your own personal public enemy number one since the moment you laid eyes on me.” Wow. I didn’t mean to say that.
Ava squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the top of her nose. She breathes in and out, and then says, “I’m from Long Island.”
“I mean your family,” I prod. “Where are they from?”
She stares at me. “You mean you want to know what race I am?”
Now I’m afraid. I know about this political correctness thing in the States, and never know which terms are currently acceptable and which will get you slapped. What I wanted to know was the origin of the glowing copper skin, the thick, black, flowing hair that frames her face, the almond-shaped eyes that are . . . I pull my gaze from the road to her face for a second . . . an extraordinary tone between brown and dark green. I wanted to know what factors merged to give her such an original beauty. But something tells me not to compliment her, so I play it safe. “Well, that wasn’t exactly the way I was thinking about it, but sure . . . race . . . ,” I respond carefully. “Why not?”
She gapes at me for a count, and then bursts out laughing. “Okay, then. One grandma is African American, one grandpa Cherokee.”
“He must be the Whitefoot,” I say, and she nods.
“And my mom’s side is Dutch, Scottish, Irish, I think there’s even a French Huguenot in there. I am the American melting pot,” she says, with not a little bit of pride.
“You’re New York,” I murmur.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
We ride in silence for a moment while I savor the information she’s given me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a one-on-one conversation with a woman that didn’t consist of logistics in rescuing a human, and I’ve forgotten how the give-and-take feeds me. Every tidbit she offers is like honey . . . a piece of herself. Especially from this woman who gives nothing away. At least to me. Which reminds me . . .
“So why do you hate me?” I ask.
Her lightheartedness disappears, only to be replaced by the habitual coldness. Not quite as glacial as before, I note. But it would still qualify as refrigerated.
“I don’t hate you,” she says, sighing. “I just hate your type.”
“My type,” I huff. “And just what would that be?”
She lifts an eyebrow.
“Okay, I ran away,” I admit.
“I’ve seen how you are with your kindred,” she says. “How close you are. You’re practically family.” She pauses, and then asks, “Vincent loved her first, right?”
I nod and rub my forehead with my fingertips.
“It was the noble thing to do,” she says quietly. She strolls over to me and inspects the image of Faust. Her own portrait is faintly visible through the paper, and I’m supremely glad in this moment that X-ray vision is not a revenant superpower. She smiles fondly. “Good old Faust. You really captured his spirit here. I don’t think I know a nicer guy in all of New York.”
“Yeah, well, that good old guy’s lying dormant in the east wing right now,” I say. “Useless as our third man for Brittany.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about. When do you think we can leave?” she asks, and chews anxiously on a fingernail. Ava’s nervous. She sees me notice and drops her hand and squares her shoulders, slipping back into her armor.
“We can leave at daybreak if you want,” I suggest. “That way you get to see some of the French countryside. I’m not a half-bad tour guide, I suppose. I’ve been pretty much everywhere.”
She shakes her head and says, “Now.”
My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” she says, and her leg is jiggling. “I’m just feeling impatient. I have so much to talk to Bran about, and it would be nice to get going. Like, really soon. Now, if possible.”
I shrug. “Now works for me. Let me just grab some clothes, and I’ll meet you down in the kitchen. We can pack some stuff from the fridge so we don’t have to eat fast food on the autoroute.”
“I’ll take care of that,” she says, and in a flash she’s halfway out my door. “Meet you in ten?”
Americans—always in a rush, I think, while saying, “Ten it is.”
She closes the door, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I lift up the sketch of Faust to look at my drawing of her, comparing it to the woman who was just standing inches away from me. It is spot on. And there’s something about it. Something a little too true. Sometimes the muse does that when you create . . . drawing, painting, writing . . . she gives you insight into the soul of a near stranger or a clear picture of a situation you couldn’t have known existed. And then when you find out it is true, you know you’ve been used. You’re just a tool of the muse.
The muse gave me a view into Ava. And something inside me is glad she didn’t see it. With one last look at my portrait of New York, I leave my easel and begin packing my bag.
ELEVEN
WE DRIVE FOR THE FIRST HOUR IN SILENCE, AVA flipping through the radio stations until we get too far from Paris to get anything but static and then changing to the iPod Ambrose gave us. His playlists are full of jazz: Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald scat and sing and croon while we drive with the windows down. Ava’s head is tilted back, eyes closed, as she breathes in the fresh morning air of the countryside.
But after a while, the noncommunication gets old, and I feel like talking. Ava hasn’t said a word since we left. Finally I turn the music down. “So where are you from?” I ask.
“Are you making conversation?” Ava responds, amusement twinkling in her eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” I reply. “In fact, I’m the driver and you’re the drivee, which means you’re responsible for keeping me entertained.”
“There’s the music,” she says.
“An hour of jazz is quite enough for me, thank you. So, back to the question. Where are you from?”
She was hoping to brush me off, and my insistence bothers her. She raises her eyebrows defiantly. “I don’t see why I have to tell you my life story.”
“And I don’t see why you’ve been acting like I’m your own personal public enemy number one since the moment you laid eyes on me.” Wow. I didn’t mean to say that.
Ava squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the top of her nose. She breathes in and out, and then says, “I’m from Long Island.”
“I mean your family,” I prod. “Where are they from?”
She stares at me. “You mean you want to know what race I am?”
Now I’m afraid. I know about this political correctness thing in the States, and never know which terms are currently acceptable and which will get you slapped. What I wanted to know was the origin of the glowing copper skin, the thick, black, flowing hair that frames her face, the almond-shaped eyes that are . . . I pull my gaze from the road to her face for a second . . . an extraordinary tone between brown and dark green. I wanted to know what factors merged to give her such an original beauty. But something tells me not to compliment her, so I play it safe. “Well, that wasn’t exactly the way I was thinking about it, but sure . . . race . . . ,” I respond carefully. “Why not?”
She gapes at me for a count, and then bursts out laughing. “Okay, then. One grandma is African American, one grandpa Cherokee.”
“He must be the Whitefoot,” I say, and she nods.
“And my mom’s side is Dutch, Scottish, Irish, I think there’s even a French Huguenot in there. I am the American melting pot,” she says, with not a little bit of pride.
“You’re New York,” I murmur.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
We ride in silence for a moment while I savor the information she’s given me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a one-on-one conversation with a woman that didn’t consist of logistics in rescuing a human, and I’ve forgotten how the give-and-take feeds me. Every tidbit she offers is like honey . . . a piece of herself. Especially from this woman who gives nothing away. At least to me. Which reminds me . . .
“So why do you hate me?” I ask.
Her lightheartedness disappears, only to be replaced by the habitual coldness. Not quite as glacial as before, I note. But it would still qualify as refrigerated.
“I don’t hate you,” she says, sighing. “I just hate your type.”
“My type,” I huff. “And just what would that be?”
