The Blind Date by Jessica Pots

Author:Jessica Pots [Pots, Jessica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, Artist
Publisher: Jessica's Book Corner
Published: 2018-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

QUATRE

Soir | Evening

Margeaux

THE RAIN HAD STOPPED...

Snatching up my glass of red wine, I take a long sip and rest it back down. I’m surrounded by laughter and conversation, but I can only focus on the way Caia’s hand is wrapped in mine beneath the table where no one can see. We sit next to each other beneath the ambient light that filters through the tiny restaurant on Rue Vieille du Temple in Le Marais district. Her fingers are intertwined with mine and tucked between her thighs. Paulina sits at the head of the table and our new friends, Camille and Vera, sit across from us.

It’s comforting to be in the company of women.

At least, I think so. I don’t think Caia feels the same right now.

Paulina spoke mostly about her writing career and about visiting Russia a year ago along with Caia. The woman is like a modern-day Gertrude Stein. She sees the world differently. She’s careful with her thoughts which is why she says she has difficulty getting them on the page. I like her sense of humor and we even shared a laugh or two about literature which no one else here seemed to understand.

We made it through a delectable dinner, skipped dessert and went straight to coffee and wine. Each time Camille, the one who had insulted Caia’s painting only a few hours ago, talks about art, Caia tenses. Caia’s been giving the gruff woman with beady brown eyes who hails from Marseille the death glare ever since we sat down.

I had hoped the wine would serve as a peace offering.

Camille is a rather large woman, maybe six feet tall, two hundred pounds. Vera—the art lover— is around my height but she’s waif thin. She stands up to Camille every few minutes, defending her position on art and culture. Each time she speaks pride wells up inside of me and Caia relaxes a fraction until Camille says something else dumb.

I’d discovered that although Paulina was from Moscow, she’d been adopted as a child and raised right here in Paris with French parents. She spoke of wanting to go back to find her birth mother but Caia was staunchly against it. Paulina’s eyes welled up with tears when she spoke about not truly knowing who she was or where she had come from. She’d said that the emptiness in her childhood reflected in her writing which was why a lot of the time she had trouble finishing it.

She runs a hand through her thick blond hair, ignoring the tittering of the other diners in the restaurant and huffs. “You don’t know what it’s like, Caia, to not know why your mother might’ve given you up—to not know who your father is. It leaves unbearable scars on your psyche for the rest of your life, knowing the very people who were supposed to love and care for you didn’t want you.”

Caia exhales and reaches a hand across the table, placing it over Paulina’s. “Do you really want to endure

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