Page 7 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“Hello.” The voice comes through the buzzer. “Come in, come in.”
I push open the heavy green gate etched with curling ironwork panels and hold it for Adaline, then let the door fall behind us. A stone path funnels us into a courtyard ringed with yellow tulips. A young man comes from the other direction to meet us. He looks to be between Adaline and me in years—that’s a big spread, but if I had to guess, I’d say late twenties. His hair is super short, and his wardrobe is straight out of GQ—tailored trousers that I bet cost a month’s tuition, and a crisp maroon shirt that looks like it belongs on a runway.
“Remy Bonheur,” he says, and holds out his hand to shake.
“Such a pleasure to see you again,” Adaline says. “This is my brother, Julien.”
I shake Remy’s offered hand. “Good to meet you.”
He grins. “Enchanté.” He has a firm grip, and he doesn’t let go right away. Still smiling, he looks me over, as if comparing me to his expectations. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I’m not sure what my sister would have said. But this doesn’t seem the time to push.
“Thanks for the calf.” My gratitude is genuine, despite the strangeness of the gift. “I’ll definitely be the only person I know who has one.”
I say it with straight-faced earnestness, and Remy laughs. “That is undoubtedly true. But do come inside.” We enter by an orange door at the end of the courtyard. The home is massive by Montmartre standards, and except for an elaborate security control screen on the wall in the foyer, the interior is like a trip back in time. Framed posters from the Moulin Rouge and a kaleidoscope of popular stage shows from the last century fill the walls. Old-fashioned carnival music plays on a phonograph in the living room, and in one corner is a two-animal vintage carousel with a tiger and a zebra to ride.
It’s an astounding mélange of bohemian and beaux arts, and when Adaline catches my wide-eyed look, she grins at my reaction and mouths, Eccentric. See?
Another male voice calls from the kitchen. “Ms. Garnier, I’ve just finished up the most divine clafoutis to share with you.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Clemenceau. And please, I hope you’ll call me Adaline.”
“In that case, you can hardly call me Monsieur Clemenceau.” The owner of the voice pops in from around the door, smiling in a playful way. “Won’t you join me in the kitchen?”
“I would be delighted, but first, let me introduce Julien,” she says.
“Raphael sometimes forgets there is a world beyond the kitchen,” says Remy, then gestures from me to his partner and vice versa. “Julien, my more domestic half. Rafe, Julien Garnier.”
His partner grins. “Yes, Remy and Rafe. Nauseatingly precious, isn’t it?” He rolls his eyes. “So matchy-matchy, I can hardly stand us sometimes.”
I look again from one to the other, at the way they don’t touch, aren’t even on the same side of the room, but are tangibly connected on some level. “I don’t know,” I venture. “The names fit together, but I think maybe you both do too.”
Remy gives a sharp burst of laughter, and Rafe and Adaline follow, though mostly Rafe. “I like this one.” To Adaline, he says, “Your brother has permanent entrée into Chez Clemenceau-Bonheur whenever he wishes to visit.”
The tips of my ears burn with embarrassment, and I worry I’ve been too personal. I don’t look at Adaline but try to mitigate any damage I might have done. “That wasn’t meant to flatter you. I spoke without thinking.”
“I know,” Remy says, still grinning widely. “That’s why I like you—both honest and extremely insightful.” Humor glints in his eyes at that last bit, and I exhale my tension.
Adaline goes with Rafe into the kitchen, and as I look around again—the place is too big and amazing to take it all in at once—I notice a large oak table that’s home to dozens of miniature ceramic calves. Moving closer, I see that, like the one Remy gave me, each of these calves has a fifth leg. A brown calf has a meaty extra back leg jutting out of its shoulder. On a black-and-white calf, a skinny front leg hangs from its rear haunches. A trio of black calves have fifth legs that descend from their bellies. “You work in ceramics?”
“I do.” Remy gives a “What can I say?” shrug. “I’ve never been terribly good with a paintbrush, but I do what I can.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. I like them.” I don’t touch without invitation, but bend for a closer look. “I dig the irony.”
“How else would one make a five-legged calf but with irony?” Remy says, and I chuckle.
“Good point.”
He reaches across the table for a black calf with pink polka dots and a fifth leg where its tail should be. “This is my prize calf.” He glances toward the kitchen and lowers his voice to confide, “I’m giving it away at my surprise birthday party Thursday night.”
