Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 16
Sofi
The locator app wasn’t necessary. From the get-go, I haven’t had time to leave Roman’s atelier. My days are filled, sitting at one of the drafting tables and hand-painting butterflies on yards and yards of sumptuous black fabric. Silk. Satin. Moiré. Taffeta. It took a little bit of work to get the art of painting on fabric down. It’s harder than painting on a canvas, and the consistency of the liquid paints is different than acrylics or oils. Using a circular loom, I have to stretch the fabric tightly and wait for each color to dry before I can move on to the next. Once I nailed a few, it got easier, but each one is so time consuming because of their intricacy. Painting a small butterfly on fabric is much more challenging than painting a large one on a canvas. At most, I can complete three in a single day. At this rate and for what Roman has in mind—based on the extravagant gowns he’s sketched and pinned to a huge bulletin board (his inspiration board)—I may have to create hundreds. It’ll take months! I may be working here longer than the three months I agreed to. But to be honest, I’m happy. So happy! For the first time since I graduated Parsons, I love what I’m doing. I feel creative, inspired, and fulfilled.
I rarely see Roman—which I suppose is a blessing because his presence would be a major distraction. The last thing I need, next to the sensations he arouses in me, is to have him breathing down my neck. Watching my every move, every stroke, every breath. Thankfully or not, he spends most of his time upstairs in his quarters while I paint, and Madame DuBois and her lovely, hard-working team, which she calls the Romanoffs, make patterns and cut them out. When not supervising her staff, Roman’s talented chief of staff embellishes the wings of my butterflies with brilliant gem-colored crystals and hand-stitches their antennae with real silver and gold thread. Since my arrival, there’s been a sparkle in her eyes that wasn’t there before.
The butterflies look dazzling. One afternoon, Roman makes a surprise visit downstairs and watches while I touch up a shimmering butterfly. Hovering over me, I feel his warm breath, smell his scent. That crazy feeling I get inside distracts me, and it takes all I have to concentrate on the butterfly.
“What kind of butterfly is this?” he asks.
“A Peacock butterfly,” I reply, my voice shaky. “It’s very popular in England.” I finish working on the butterfly, adding a little bronze paint to its lacy wings. When I’m done, Roman calls over his chief of staff.
“Madame DuBois, I’d like you to cut out this butterfly.”
“D’accord.”She walks briskly over to the table where several Romanoffs are cutting out a pattern and returns with a pair of large, sharp, shiny scissors. My eyes stay riveted on her as does Roman’s gaze. She cuts slowly and with precision, freeing the butterfly. Roman carefully picks it up between his thumb and forefinger, much like the way one might pluck a real butterfly from a leaf. He studies it with his good eye, then sets it back on the black fabric so it looks like it’s flying off it. He smiles.
“Madame, I’d like to create butterfly appliqués and randomly scatter them on the gowns. To give them some whimsy. To give them flight.”
My imagination goes wild. I can already picture the magnificent hand-painted gowns. He’s so brilliant!
“That will look amazing!”
Without acknowledging my compliment, he gently lifts the butterfly from the fabric and asks if Madame DuBois has a hairpin. Wordlessly, she removes one from her tight chignon and hands it to him. He clips the butterfly in my hair and studies me. My cheeks heat under his intense gaze.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. I’m not sure if he’s referring to the butterfly or to me. “And we’ll use some for headpieces and ornaments.” His gaze stays on me.
“Sofi, I want you to keep this butterfly and wear it. It becomes you.” He pauses, his eye flitting to another butterfly I’ve completed. It’s mostly orange with pale brown accents and touches of white.
“Ah! An Australian Painted Lady.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Wow! I’m blown away by how knowledgeable he’s become about butterflies in such a short time. But I don’t let him know it. Mr. Full of Himself doesn’t need to have his head swell further.
“Very well. Continue on.”
With that he disappears, taking the elevator back up to his quarters.
I feel all hot and bothered. Breathless and bereft. Be still my rebel heart. Except my heart is deaf.
Over the next few weeks, I get into a routine. I wake up at seven, shower, come downstairs for breakfast with Madame DuBois, who’s always in the kitchen adjacent to the atelier before me and ready with aromatic French press coffee, some delectable French pastries, and assorted fresh fruit. Then I get to work before the Romanoffs arrive at eight, breaking for a half-hour lunch that Madame DuBois always orders in. Then, it’s back to work until six and sometimes later as we’re behind and all working overtime to get the collection done in time for New York Fashion Week. I rarely leave the studio. I don’t have the time during the day, and by night, I’m just too tired. Pooped! Harper, who nags me constantly to have dinner with her, is not too pleased. Especially with her wedding around the corner.
I grow close with Madame DuBois. She’s warm and lovely though rather reticent about herself and her relationship with Roman. I do, however, learn she’s been with Roman from the beginning and find out how he started his business. Self-taught, he had a big stroke of luck when he bought a lottery ticket and won three million dollars. With the money, he bought this building, an old abandoned but still majestic bank, which he got in a fire sale during the recession. He gutted the bottom floor to create an atelier and converted the upstairs former offices of the bank’s directors into his living quarters. There’s also a third floor that houses a home gym and a climate-controlled basement where he stores fabrics and samples from previous collections.
One morning over breakfast, I work up the courage to ask her a personal question.
“Why is Roman so arrogant? So closed off?”
“It’s a defense mechanism. To cover up his sorrow.”
I recall one of my father’s favorite quotes. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not. And often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
Sitting across from me at the table, Madame DuBois cups my hands, her eyes growing forlorn. “You should know that a man who has so much sorrow is capable of great love. Different sides of the same coin. To grieve someone is to love them.”
There is beauty in sadness, Roman told me. I ponder her words, but she doesn’t give me the chance to ask more questions.
Hastily, the French seamstress rises and cleans up, then excuses herself to let the Romanoffs inside the atelier. I don’t learn much more. There’s something she is hiding about herself and about the brooding, mysterious, complex, and brilliant man she works for and worships. Maybe in time, I’ll find out.
The only distraction in my life, other than Roman when he makes a rare appearance, is Harper. She texts and calls me constantly. Always blabbing on about her upcoming wedding. I’ve heard about it for a year. Every detail right down to every single ingredient in her wedding cake. Yada. Yada. Yada. In one ear and out the other. She’s so annoying that I think about blocking her. Or turning my phone off during the day, but my parents need to have 24/7 access to me. I’ve told them about my new job and assured them everything’s great. God forbid something happened to one or both of them and they couldn’t reach me.
As the weeks pass by and I get busier and busier, I don’t return most of Harper’s calls or texts. So involved in my work, I’ve lost track of time, so much so that on a Friday night at seven o’clock, I get a rude awakening after conking out on my bed from exhaustion. My phone rings. And rings. And rings. Could it be demanding Roman? Or my parents?
In a fog, I fumble for my phone and glance down at the screen. It’s Harper. I press answer.
“Where on earth are you?” Her voice is sharp as a tack.
“I’m at work,” I say groggily.
“My wedding rehearsal is about to start!”
I bolt upright. Oh, shit! It’s already Memorial Day weekend. And I’m her maid of honor.
“Oh God, Harper. I totally spazzed it. I’m so, so sorry!”
“Well, you better not blow it tomorrow night. You need to be at Derek’s family estate by four o’clock for hair and makeup. And for some photo ops if there’s time. The wedding procession starts promptly at six. Don’t forget to bring your dress.”
And with that, she ends the call.
Oh, geez! My bestie may be self-centered and high maintenance, but I totally screwed up. I feel terrible. Then, an equally horrible realization hits me.
I don’t have the dress! It was destroyed in the fire with all my other possessions.
Oh God! It was custom-made! And what’s worse, I don’t own anything that would be appropriate to wear to Harper and Derek’s over-the-top black-tie extravaganza.
Every nerve in my body buzzes. Huffing out a breath, I palm my forehead. What am I going to do?
Needless to say, sleep eludes me. But the answer comes to me.
Tomorrow is Saturday.
I’m going to blow my salary and go shopping. Maybe Bergdorf’s will have something similar.