The Fate of the Muse - By Derrolyn Anderson Page 0,50

museum that housed the spectacular statue, “Winged Victory”. We had the area all to ourselves for a few moments, and we stood back to contemplate it in silence. It was magnificent, standing boldly in a high ceilinged room, with oval windows set into archways that bathed the chamber with a warm golden light.

“This poor angel lost her arms and her head,” observed Shayla.

“Yeah,” I explained, “They think it was in a huge earthquake or something. It’s a statue of the goddess Nike.”

She scoffed at me, “You mean like the shoe?” she laughed.

“Exactly like the shoe,” I replied.

“Let’s go shopping,” said Shayla.

We took a cab to a popular boutique district and wandered around for a few hours. I could feel the time slipping by rapidly, each minute bringing me closer to the inevitable confrontation that I both feared and dreaded.

“Are you hungry?” I asked her when we passed a charming sidewalk bistro.

We sat down at a little metal table and watched an endless procession of sophisticated and urbane Parisians pass by. The people of Paris was dressed with a good deal more care than you’d ever see in a California beach town, and each woman seemed to have put some real effort into her hair and makeup before she ventured out into the street. Even the simplest of outfits was accessorized with a colorful scarf or piece of jewelry, and their shoes were a far cry from the flip-flops and sneakers most people in Aptos sported.

“French women are really pretty,” Shayla observed, “Do they dress up like that all the time?”

“You’ll have to ask Evie,” I replied.

We ordered as best we could with the help of a surprisingly friendly waiter, and ended up with a rustic pâté platter, served with toast and tiny sour pickles, along with enormous mounds of crispy pomme frites.

“They’re way better than at home,” Shayla said, gobbling them down, “I never knew that they’d have french fries in France!”

I laughed, “Uhm, think about it…”

She burst into sudden raucous laughter, and then stopped, whispering conspiratorally, “I don’t get it. How are you s’posed to eat them without catsup?”

Shayla remembered that it was Cruz’s birthday, and we called him, passing the phone back and forth between us. He’d already seen some reporting on the Paris shows and was excited about Shayla’s success. I heard them bantering back and forth, and she promised to appear in his debut show no matter how famous she became, thinking she was joking. Only I knew how close they both were to realizing their dreams.

After lunch I decided to shop for a birthday gift for Cruz, figuring that something from Paris might take the sting out of being left behind and missing out on fashion week. We prowled around until I finally settled on a designer messenger bag, crafted in the most beautiful chocolate brown leather.

“Ooh, let’s look in here!” Shayla cried, pulling me into a lingerie boutique. Evie had always professed a specific fondness for French lingerie, and I could see why. The quality of the construction was unquestionably fine, and the array of different styles was overwhelming. Undergarments of every shape and color were displayed on headless mannequins.

“More missing heads,” Shayla laughed, “You’d think the French have something against them!”

“You have no idea,” I said acerbically.

“Try this on,” Shayla thrust some hangers at me.

Some of the skimpier bustiers and garters made me blush, but Shayla was delighted, pulling out piles of teddies and bra sets to try on.

“We better get going,” I said nervously.

Shayla looked down at me with amusement, “Oh puh-leese! This stuff is sooo cute! You should at least pick up a nightgown or something.” She held up a lacy chemise in black, waving the hanger at me, “Ethan might like this better than a stretched out old T-shirt.”

I snorted, but she did have a point. She’d seen my sleeping attire on all the nights she’d taken refuge at Abby’s house, and it wasn’t exactly what you’d call pretty. I took her advice and started snooping around for something I could see myself in, quickly getting myself lost in a sea of silk and satin. I finally chose a beautiful slate blue peignoir set; a short nightgown trimmed in lace with a matching robe as sheer as liquid smoke.

I was giggling at some of the get-ups Shayla was unearthing, the council meeting completely off my mind, when a movement in the window caught my eye. I looked up to see the man from the Louvre, and the instant our eyes