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We even got more work done on the book. Vega read some parts out loud so I could hear how they sounded to someone else. Being a writer felt a little similar to being a deaf composer. I could write the words. Condense the feelings. Present the world as I saw it, but never with any idea about how it was being experienced. If what the reader saw was anything like what I had.
The closest I used to get was during signings, when a reader would enthuse about a particular theme or another, showing they’d largely gotten what I intended but not if our views agreed. Listening to Vega read my words back to me, was like having a window opened into her mind. Giving new insight in to the work at the same time. Gently adjusting how I saw things.
But after a while, her eyes had started to droop and I’d carried her to bed with me, letting her drift off to sleep on my chest.
Stealth was required. Using my free hand to gently lift Vega from below, I managed to slip my trapped arm out from under her. Leaving the sleeping beauty none the wiser.
Freshly liberated I reached, without looking, to the top drawer of the nightstand. Where I’d stashed some of my art supplies. Touch finding a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil, I reassumed my previous position. Greeted by Vega’s gently slumbering face.
Touching point to the high-fiber page, my hand moved as though by powers invisible. The dark gray lines turning black on the off-white paper. Coming together to create an increasingly identifiable form.
My chest was full with a love my mind didn’t know what to do with. The sort that left me feeling dazed like nothing had before. Vega had really spooked me by saying what she had. Not because I disagreed, or was even worried I might.
I just didn’t know what to do with what I was feeling, love never coming into it before. I’d done the project with a chosen employee for the past three years. Initially to actually get specialized help on a particular project, but also to provide myself with a distraction. At the same time giving them what they might want. Be it the physical attention or the money. One usually being the cherry on top of the other. My criteria for choosing the candidate was based both on their fitness for the project, and my potential ability to engage with them, both socially and sexually.
The pencil moved like the needle on a polygraph. Conjuring a photo-realistic replica of the scene in front of me. The first time I’d been able to draw anyone but Delphine.
***
My little sister was so excited to be in the big city. My parents had relocated to Burgundy when housing costs in the capital got too high. About the same time I’d graduated from college, in one of those universal coincidences. A picture of provincial pastoral, the new homestead served well as a writing place. The rent was so cheap I wasn’t expected to contribute, though I did when I could. Giving me ample time to hone my skills. The click of my keyboard a near-permanent presence.
I hadn’t been back in a while, my move stateside coming soon after the success of my first book. The domestic sales had been strong. The American translation was a minor phenomenon. I needed something to do between writing projects, so I started Boucher Books as a sort of hobby.
“Can’t she go by herself? She is 20 now.”
“More the worry,” Dad had said, practicing his English, “Remember what you were like?”
I knew he was right. Exploring Paris alone was sure to get my younger sister into trouble, and I had to admit, I liked the idea of showing it to her.
“I’ll be on the next flight out.”
It was like watching time elapse right before my eyes. Little Delphine had grown a shocking amount since I saw her last. To be fair she had been 15 at the time.
But now she’d been accepted to college in the big scary city she couldn’t really remember, and my parents wanted me to show her around. Particularly in terms of the places to avoid. Clearly they were under the impression that anything I said could alter her course on the way to adulthood. A road often marked with broken hearts and broken bones, at least in my experience.
Cafe Bonne Biere had been my idea. While she was still French, Delphine Marie Boucher was no longer a Parisian. If, in fact, she had ever been. She was 11 when we’d made the move to wine country, and our parents had been very strict about her movements before that. Leaving it mostly to me to be the enforcer and protector, while they both worked full-time jobs. Going so far as to find schools walking distance from each other.
