Excerpt from Chasing Paris
Hello and welcome! I am excited about releasing my first novel, Chasing Paris, and I wanted to share some of it with you.
One of my favorite scenes is when Elizabeth Hathaway first meets Billy Strath. It's Amy's introduction to the grandmother she never knew. Here it is:
Paris, July 1955
A chill hung in the morning air. Billy cupped his hands around his mouth and blew warm breath against his fingers. Then he rubbed his hands together, working some of the stiffness from them. He looked up from his easel. There she was, walking toward him with a cup of coffee. With the breeze lifting her nearly-black hair away from her face and swirling her skirt about her legs, she reminded him of someone. Those green eyes and wind burned cheeks—they were so familiar. Perhaps a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He wished the coffee she carried was for him, but she walked past him, dark hair fluttering against her arms and white skin glowing in the sun, right to the artist set up on his left.
Billy’s French was poor, but he could understand what she and his artist neighbor were talking about. He had to concentrate on their words, and unconsciously, he found himself staring at them instead of paying attention to his work.
She looked at Billy and raised an eyebrow.
“This,” he said in broken French and holding up a nub of charcoal, “is about to become your image.”
“I don’t want my portrait drawn,” she responded.
“That doesn’t matter.”
She slung her hair behind her shoulder. “Many artists have tried to create images of me before,” she said, this time in English. “Yours will be just like the rest.”
“Only if you look at it the same way you’ve looked at the others,” he responded more comfortably in English.
His fingers finally began to warm. He started to sketch, and she continued talking with Billy’s artist neighbor.
The drawing was only half-finished when she stood and touched her friend’s shoulder to say goodbye. She stepped toward Billy’s easel and examined his progress.
“You’re right,” she said, again speaking in English. “Yours is different. Unfinished.” She walked down the row of artists, her hair swishing behind her, her skirt snapping around her legs.
“Where are you going?” Billy called after her. She simply shook her head, responding with the ripple of her hair. He rubbed his blackened hands on his pants and removed the dusty drawing from the easel. “Who is that woman?” he asked his artist neighbor in French.
Jean scratched his beard, looking after her. “Elizabeth Hathaway. Her sister is a student at the Sorbonne, and she visits every summer. She likes to come out here sometimes and talk to the artists.”
“You know her well?”
“We are friendly. She likes stories.”
“Have I seen her before?”
The artist chuckled. “If you haven’t, you’ve been blind.”
Billy’s eyebrows rose. He continued gazing in her direction. “I’m blind no longer. Do you know where I can find her? If I wanted to see her again?”
His neighbor shrugged. “Go to the University. I am sure she’s staying with her sister.”
“The Sorbonne, yes?”
“Or, you could wait until she comes back here. It won’t be long.”
Billy nodded slowly. “The Sorbonne.” His mind wandered over the possibilities. Then he put Elizabeth out of his mind and began concentrating on his work.
That night, he finished the sketch by memory. With the last stroke of charcoal, he stepped back and smiled. He would see her again. Somehow, he was sure of it.
One of my favorite scenes is when Elizabeth Hathaway first meets Billy Strath. It's Amy's introduction to the grandmother she never knew. Here it is:
Paris, July 1955
A chill hung in the morning air. Billy cupped his hands around his mouth and blew warm breath against his fingers. Then he rubbed his hands together, working some of the stiffness from them. He looked up from his easel. There she was, walking toward him with a cup of coffee. With the breeze lifting her nearly-black hair away from her face and swirling her skirt about her legs, she reminded him of someone. Those green eyes and wind burned cheeks—they were so familiar. Perhaps a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He wished the coffee she carried was for him, but she walked past him, dark hair fluttering against her arms and white skin glowing in the sun, right to the artist set up on his left.
Billy’s French was poor, but he could understand what she and his artist neighbor were talking about. He had to concentrate on their words, and unconsciously, he found himself staring at them instead of paying attention to his work.
She looked at Billy and raised an eyebrow.
“This,” he said in broken French and holding up a nub of charcoal, “is about to become your image.”
“I don’t want my portrait drawn,” she responded.
“That doesn’t matter.”
She slung her hair behind her shoulder. “Many artists have tried to create images of me before,” she said, this time in English. “Yours will be just like the rest.”
“Only if you look at it the same way you’ve looked at the others,” he responded more comfortably in English.
His fingers finally began to warm. He started to sketch, and she continued talking with Billy’s artist neighbor.
The drawing was only half-finished when she stood and touched her friend’s shoulder to say goodbye. She stepped toward Billy’s easel and examined his progress.
“You’re right,” she said, again speaking in English. “Yours is different. Unfinished.” She walked down the row of artists, her hair swishing behind her, her skirt snapping around her legs.
“Where are you going?” Billy called after her. She simply shook her head, responding with the ripple of her hair. He rubbed his blackened hands on his pants and removed the dusty drawing from the easel. “Who is that woman?” he asked his artist neighbor in French.
Jean scratched his beard, looking after her. “Elizabeth Hathaway. Her sister is a student at the Sorbonne, and she visits every summer. She likes to come out here sometimes and talk to the artists.”
“You know her well?”
“We are friendly. She likes stories.”
“Have I seen her before?”
The artist chuckled. “If you haven’t, you’ve been blind.”
Billy’s eyebrows rose. He continued gazing in her direction. “I’m blind no longer. Do you know where I can find her? If I wanted to see her again?”
His neighbor shrugged. “Go to the University. I am sure she’s staying with her sister.”
“The Sorbonne, yes?”
“Or, you could wait until she comes back here. It won’t be long.”
Billy nodded slowly. “The Sorbonne.” His mind wandered over the possibilities. Then he put Elizabeth out of his mind and began concentrating on his work.
That night, he finished the sketch by memory. With the last stroke of charcoal, he stepped back and smiled. He would see her again. Somehow, he was sure of it.
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