as Philip guides a couple to a small table near a piano pushed against the back wall. “I love the way he looks right at my mouth when he talks to me.”
Lena rolls her eyes in a way that has now become habit and reminds her of Camille and even Kendrick whenever they disapproved of something she did or said.
“Join in the fun.” Cheryl pulls out a gold compact and checks her lipstick. Cheryl only wears red lipstick, preferring to draw attention to her heart-shaped lips; her skin is smooth save for a noticeable scar above her right eye—a leftover from chicken pox; her cheeks bear the slightest tinge of her natural blush that flares when she’s angry or excited.
Cheryl motions to Philip. Leaning into his side, she points to her lunch selection and smiles. “Are you open for dinner, too?”
Philip shoos away the only waiter in the restaurant. “If you like our food, you must come back for dinner. I sing and play the piano, and there’s a wonderful café around the corner that stays open very late.”
Lena shrugs and picks at her sweater and pants. “I’m not sure about the roads at night. And… we’re not really dressed for dinner.”
“But you both look fabulous, and my house specialty is on the menu tonight— a pork that will melt in your mouth,” Philip says, grinning at Cheryl. “You think about it, and let me know.”
Cheryl winks. “Perhaps you can invite a friend in honor of our first time in Vence.”
“Mais oui!” Philip holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger and closes his eyes as if those actions will help with his answer. “I think I can arrange something.”
A very blond and rather hunched-over man in the corner snaps at Philip. “Garçon,” the man calls out, confusing the soft French C with the hard American K. Philip turns toward the women and makes a face behind his stack of menus. “Duty calls.”
“He’s being friendly,” Cheryl says as Philip walks away. “Besides, if the white boy wants to treat us, what have we got to lose?”
“Nnnnnnn…” Lena’s tongue rests against the roof of her mouth so that the N for “no” buzzes in her nose. She shrugs again and tugs at her hair. Open up. Drink coffee here. “Why not?”
“That’s my girl. Remember, we’re here to have fun.”
“As long as your fun doesn’t interfere with my plan.”
“This is the plan.”
f f f
The Matisse museum in Vence is a short trek from the center of the old city. Lena and Cheryl take the orange trolley across a small bridge to the building where Matisse completed the colorful stained glass windows for the Chapelle du Rosaire and the Dominican sisters of Vence. As the trolley approaches the front of the whitewashed chapel, the last of a queue of men and women load into two large vans topped with bicycle racks and luggage. Once they’re all inside, a hand sticks out and pulls the van door shut, then the van pulls away from the curb.
“I swear those people are black.” Cheryl waves at the van frantically. “It would be great to make a connection and really have the chance to party.”
“Just ’cause they’re black doesn’t mean they want to party. Or include us. Or, that they’re American. This isn’t Oakland.” Two days in the south of France and, except for Cheryl and the backs of a couple of tall brothers Lena thought she spotted turning a corner in Vence, these are the only people of color she’s seen. Or thinks she’s seen.
“You never know.”
The inside of the tiny chapel is stark white and simple: Matisse’s stained glass windows and angled, wooden pews.
“Matisse worked on these windows from around 1948 to 1952. He wanted to convey an easing of the spirit. These windows represent the tree of life.” A priest clothed in a white, floor-length cassock holds a finger to his lips as Cheryl describes Matisse’s work. Late afternoon light shines through the windows and casts yellow, aquamarine blue, and bottle green rays onto the floor.
“You know so much!”
“Art is, after all, what I do.” Cheryl points out a lesser sketch of the windows as they walk through the hall to the small gift counter. “He’s my favorite. I love all of his work. There’s more in Nice. That museum’s larger.”
The hallway walls are lined with draft sketches of different portions of the windows: a flower here, a winding vine there, repeated from one frame to the next to show the artist’s thought process