“Mia!” Louis says as soon as he removes his helmet. I don’t know if we’re going for la bise or if we’re kind of past that now, so I give him a hug, the American way.
“I’m sure no one has ever said this before,” he tells me as we make our way to the table I reserved in the lush garden at the back, with vines climbing up the walls, “but you danced so beautifully yesterday. We should celebrate your triumph!”
I laugh, but he seems determined as the waitress comes over.
“Deux coupes de champagne,” he orders. “My treat!” he says to me.
My eyes open wide. “Did you just order champagne?”
Louis shrugs. “You drank wine at your aunt’s place.”
While he has a good point, this feels different. It’s one thing to take a few sips at a family dinner. It’s quite another to be out on a date on a gorgeous terrace on a hot summer night, surrounded by Parisians, and drinking expensive sparkling wine. It seems a little too grown-up for me, like I’m playing the role of an older Mia Jenrow.
But then again, I feel like I’ve aged five years since I’ve been here. Until now, I had no idea how natural it would feel to take care of myself in a foreign city, but I’ve done okay so far. Better than okay, even.
The waitress comes back with two flutes that she fills with great ceremony after she places them in front of each of us.
“à toi!” Louis says, raising his.
I clink mine with it. “And to you,” I say.
“Okay, then, to us,” he adds, emphasizing the “us” and giving me a pointed look.
I hold his gaze, and he winks at me. I mentally pat myself on the back for not blushing. I think. After a small sip that tickles my tongue, I retrieve the photographs from my bag and slide them across the table. “I have something to tell you,” I start, a little giddy.
“Let me guess,” Louis replies. “Vivienne found pictures of your ancestor in her attic, and she gave them to you at the showcase so you could find the Degas painting.”
Giddiness gone.
“Désolé,” he says, laughing. “I couldn’t help it.”
That’s when I put two and two together. “You had something to do with this, didn’t you?”
Louis shrugs with innocence. “What can I say? Grandmas love me.”
Not just grandmas, I think. And now I’m totally blushing.
The waitress comes back to take our order, but I’m not ready to look at the menu yet, so she leaves us to it.
I take a deep breath. “I have something to ask you. I don’t have much spare time until I leave, but I’m prepared to go around Paris, rummage through every museum, interrogate every art collector, and maybe even break into a few attics if I have to. I want to find proof that Degas painted my ancestor. It would make me so happy if I could figure this out before I go home. Do you want to do this with me?”
Louis smiles. “Yes, Mia. I would love to make you happy.”
This is a total code red on the blushing scale, but I don’t care.
“I told my mom about you,” he says, before taking another gulp of his champagne.
My eyes open wide. “You did?”
He nods. “I told her about a beautiful, talented ballerina with a legendary history.” He pauses. “And then I mentioned you, too.”
His tone is so flat that it takes me a second to get it. I roll my eyes. “And what did your mom have to say about this beautiful, talented ballerina?”
“She loved the story. She also knows tons of people in the arts in Paris. Some she’s worked with, friends of friends…She gave me the details of a curator at the Musée d’Orsay.”
I hold my breath, excited for what’s to come. “And?”
“She has a PhD in Impressionist art, or something like that. Her name is Charlotte Ravier but I’ve been thinking of her as Dr. Pastels.”
I giggle and pull out my phone to write her details, but Louis retrieves a notebook and a pencil from his satchel instead. He opens it to a blank page and scribbles her name, phone number, and email address. Then, in a few quick strokes, he doodles a twirling ballerina with her arms straight up in the air. I smile, impressed, as he rips off the page and hands it to me, but he just shrugs in response. We make plans to call Dr. Pastels the next day, and then we don’t take our eyes off each other for the whole dinner. We order food, but I can’t remember what. It may have been pasta. Or fish. Or even a cactus plant, for all the attention I paid. None of it is as important as the way Louis looks at me. We laugh and eat, share stories, and take more sips of our champagne.