grandeur [hs au]

chapter 4

I was so frazzled by the events at Cafe Positano, I spent the rest of that day reliving every true word I'd uttered to this near-stranger just because he'd been the only one to ask. Now it was too late to take them back.

I suppose it hadn't scared him away, since I received a text shortly after his sudden disappearance. Well, three to be specific.

3:21pm - Harry
Sorry again for leaving early x

3:22pm - Harry

Come by this Friday when you're done at la grandeur, I have a painting I want to show you x

The final text came in the form of his address, a spot in the West End. I sent back one response.

4:03pm - Me

I'll plan on it. -Caroline

Geez, the signature I felt the need to add was really the last nail in the coffin. I don't think I've been this absurdly nervous to text a guy ever. Not when I asked my sophomore year boyfriend out on our first date, not when I rejected guys in college when they wanted to get too serious, and definitely not when responding to late night messages from clandestine Wanderlust encounters.

Still, here I've found myself, checking my phone every once in a while to see if there's a new message, even though it's been nothing but radio silence in the past four days since then.

At the very least, thinking about Harry has been a break in the monotony. The thought of him and decoding the secrets he's holding back have been a spot of color in the corner of my mind.

When I was greeting clients, my thoughts wandered back to his confident entrance into the gallery, clad in that sleek, all-black suit. When I entered numbers into our accounting books, my thoughts were spotted with images of his digits which had a new home in my phone. When I shook hands, I thought of his ring-covered fingers resting atop the desk.

It's not like I'm waiting to hear back from him to set up a romantic date. I don't expect that he's secretly crushing on me and thinking of all the ways to woo me on Friday. The butterflies in my stomach don't fly and flutter; they're made of lead. They sit deep and heavy in my belly and won't move until I know what he truly wants from me, and why.

It's as if my ear is pressed up against cool metal, trying to crack the safe of secrets I can feel he's hiding. Waiting for his text is just waiting for the right click in the combination, getting me one step closer to cracking it wide open. I want to reach in and gingerly lift out all the answers, filtering them through my hands and taking all the information in.

The curiosity is an itch I can't reach to scratch. And it is slowly driving me crazy.

I finally resign to lean my head against the shower wall as the warm water cascades over my shoulders. Showers are my time to let my mind run wild and tumble down rabbit holes. Sometimes I try to drown it out with music, but today I'm letting my thoughts chase after that curly headed man.

Here's what I do know: he's a photographer, he's a people-observer, he's English, he's likely around my age, he likes his coffee sweet.

It didn't slip past me that he knows my father somehow, telling him it was "nice to see him again" when he came into the gallery. His past experiences with my father might potentially explain why he knows I used to paint reproductions. Maybe Harry's parents had purchased a recreated painting of mine and that's how he knew. It wasn't exactly something the Archambault family advertised in the museum flyers or gallery signs.

There's nothing unethical about creating a reproduction as long as the buyer is aware it's not the original.

My mother and I had creative ways of making them; it's really an art of its own. Sometimes we'd track down old paintings from similar eras as the original piece and use those canvases to create our copies. We'd even use the same kinds of paints that the artist would have used. It was a great practice in getting into the mind of some of the greatest painters - what they were feeling when they chose the subject and colors and strokes, and what the piece meant to them. I really used to love the work, the deep attention to detail and careful artistry.