Free I Am Having So Much Fun Without You by Courtney Maum Page B

flow of traffic on the normally gridlocked A13 made the atmosphere in the Peugeot register at “cordial” instead of its default “tense.”
    Anne had on her “special night” perfume, a heady mix ofbergamot and neroli, along with a silk rose blouse and wide-legged, wool pants with heels. Nervous about sharing the news that now, not only had I sold The Blue Bear , but as further penance, I also had to deliver it to London, I opted for a warm-up topic that was safe and flattering. I said I liked her shoes.
    â€œHumph,” she scoffed. “They’re old.” She pushed into fifth gear.
    The unexpected lack of traffic wasn’t leaving me much time. I stared at the passing high-rises out the window, television satellites clinging perilously to the grids of narrow balconies.
    â€œSo I’ve got news,” I said, my jaw tense. “Aboutthe Bear .”
    â€œOh?” she said, downshifting. I thought I detected a note of hopefulness in her voice.
    â€œI went to see Julien the other day, and it turns out . . . it’s really strange, actually.” I fiddled with my seat belt. “They want me to deliver it. The buyers. They want me to bring it to London myself.”
    I watched Anne’s face take on an expression of incredulity I’d seen her use when she was presented with evidence that wouldn’t hold up in court.
    â€œJulien said it has something to do with the way they go about art collecting. I don’t know, it’s spiritual or some such.”
    In reply, she sighed. “This doesn’t sound right to me. In fact, it sounds absurd. Has he ever had a request like this before?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I said, staring at my hands. “I didn’t ask.”
    â€œWell, what did you tell him?”
    â€œWell, I told him—I told him . . . they’re going to pay me, so I told him yes.”
    She turned to look at me. “How much?”
    I stalled. “A thousand.”
    She laughed out loud. “That’s ludicrous.”
    â€œPlus expenses.”
    â€œYou can’t be serious, Richard. Put things in perspective. You don’t know these people, Julien doesn’t either, you’re going to have to trek across the Channel—”
    â€œThey’ve put a deposit down, I’m sure of it,” I said, not actually sure of that at all. “I just feel like . . . I mean, it’s pretty fascinating, right? The request itself? Maybe I could document the trip or something.”
    She rolled her eyes. “And when is this supposed to happen?”
    â€œThat’s the thing, actually,” I said, with a little cough. “Over the Toussaint?”
    â€œOh, perfect!” she cried. “Do these people even exist? Or is this some kind of elaborate plan to get out of seeing my family?”
    â€œJulien’s thinking was that I’d be just a ferry ride away.”
    â€œ Julien thought this,” she said. “Right.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said, slumping deeper into the car seat. “I kind of feel like I don’t have a choice. I wouldn’t go for long—take the ferry over, stay with my parents, drop the painting off, come back. I mean, you could always come with?”
    â€œOh, God, no,” she replied. “I want a real vacation. I don’t want to spend sixteen hours on a boat .” She shook her head. “This is what happens when . . .”
    She didn’t need to finish her sentence. I knew that what she meant to say was that I never should have sold it.
    â€œDo what you have to,” she said, switching lanes.
    As we drove, I pictured what would happen if the buyer was Lisa. What it would mean if she had actually bought the painting—the position it would put me in, a pawn wedged in the bosom of flattery and despair. But as much as a large part of me wanted to see her again, to test whether or not