Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 28
Sofi
What started out as an ugly, regrettable morning morphs into a beautiful, memorable day.
Mariposa with all her childhood innocence and spontaneity brings new energy into the studio. She is a ray of sunshine. A free spirit. Unencumbered by judgment or adversity. A little butterfly that Madame DuBois and the Romanoffs fawn all over. She’s also their little helper and mine, helping me paint butterflies while Madame DuBois takes time from her busy schedule to make a gown for her Bratz doll. Diligently stitching away.
I remember when those dolls first came out. I was about six or seven, and I recall being bombarded by commercials for them on Nickelodeon. The girls with a passion for fashion. Knocking big-boobed Barbie off her pedestal, they were all the rage. My mom even bought me one for Christmas. I think her name was Chloe, the blond-haired one. To be honest, I was never really into dolls. I was more of a tomboy who’d rather collect bugs, and already a budding artist, who wanted to paint. Yet, Mari’s girly behavior delights me to no end.
But what I derive the most joy from is watching Roman interact with this delightful child. He totally metamorphosizes, emerging from his oppressive dark cocoon.
He’s . . .
Instructive.
Inspirational.
Patient.
Loving.
He carries her piggyback on his shoulders, singing the Disney “Yo-Ho” pirate song, his hearty baritone voice pitch perfect. Mariposa squeals with delight and sings along as all the Romanoffs merrily join in. I’m shocked Roman knows the lyrics and once again think his black eye patch is a closed door to a different Roman, a past life where light and happiness reigned. Today, the door has cracked open, giving me a peek of the man he used to be. And can be.
We break for lunch. Chinese takeout. After consuming containers of lo mein, kung pao chicken, and fried rice, we crack open our fortune cookies. Mariposa asks me to read hers.
“You will find fame and fortune.”
She cocks her head at me. “What does that mean?”
“It means your dreams will come true.”
“Yay! That means I’m going to be a supermodel like Gigi Hadid when I grow up!”
Not following fashion, I have no idea who she’s talking about. Of course, Roman does. For all I know, she’s probably walked his shows.
While Madame DuBois cleans up, I watch as Roman effortlessly lifts the little girl and sets her down on top of a drafting table.
“It’s all about the walk, kiddo,” he tells her. “Watch.”
My eyes stay on him as he grabs a pair of stilettos from one of the built-in shelves. Kicking off his leather loafers, he rolls up his pants, revealing his manly and oh so sexy muscular calves. Holding on to the edge of the shelf for balance, he squeezes his massive feet into the spiky heels and vamps across the studio like a drag queen, his hips sashaying to the beat of “A Fifth of Beethoven,” the disco adaptation of the classic piece. I burst into laughter, but have to admit he knows how to do the walk. Even the flourish of a turn at the end. I marvel at how uninhibited he is. How upbeat he is. I adore this other Roman. This Roman who laughs and plays. The one who has fun.
He returns to our little ward and sets her back on her feet. “Mari, my girl, one foot over the other and don’t look down. Head up. Now stand on your tippy-toes and try it.”
Puckering her face, Mari folds her arms across her chest. “Can’t I wear high heels like you?”
Having returned from the kitchen, Madame DuBois chimes in. “I think, my petite chérie, we may have one small pair that will almost fit you.” She scurries to the shoe shelf while Mari wastes no time taking off her Sketchers and socks.
Roman’s chief of staff returns with a teensy pair of sparkly black heels and Mari’s eyes light up. “Ooh, they’re so pretty! Like princess shoes!” Gripping the side of the table, she slides her bare feet into them. They do almost fit her!
Eagerly, Mari does as Roman’s instructed. Strutting across the atelier, she’s got the walk down! With my phone, I film her, planning to send the video to her mother.
“Okay, now do your turn and put some attitude into it,” Roman calls out as she reaches the end. Splaying her little hands on her narrow hips, she juts them out, flings her head back, and purses her mouth to blow a kiss. Then strides back to Roman all excited amidst boisterous applause and cheers from all of us.
“How did I do?” she asks as Roman lifts her into his arms. She curls her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He meets her inquisitive gaze.
“My little butterfly, you’re a natural.”
A puzzled expression sweeps over her. “What does that mean?”
He affectionately tugs at one of her long braids. “It means you are meant to be a runway model . . . like Gigi.”
“Yay!” She shoots me a beaming smile and I give her a thumbs-up.
At a little past six, her mother, as promised, comes by to pick her up. Roman and I open the door, Mari beside us with her pink bag. I tell her mother she was a joy to have.
“Mamá,I had the bestest time. I did modeling! And look what Madame DuBois made Yasmin!” She holds up her Bratz doll in her new black gown—an exact replica of the one I wore last night.
“It’s beautiful, mí chiquita!”
The little girl looks up at us with her big chocolate-brown eyes. “Uncle Roman, Aunt Sofi, can I come again? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Por favor?”
“Of course,” says Roman with a wistful smile. “Any time.”
Truthfully, I’m going to miss her. I think Roman will too.
At the end of this fun-filled day—a much needed break from the daily grind of readying Roman’s collection—I lie in bed, smiling, thinking about the new side of Roman I’ve witnessed. What a wonderful father he’ll be!
My own fortune cookie prediction slips into mind: You will be blessed with many children. Pushing it out of my head, I let sleep claim me. I dream of two white butterflies, the kind you see everywhere, dancing together in the air, fluttering their wings in perfect harmony. They both have faces. One is mine, the other Roman’s.
It’s the dance of procreation.
They’re mating.
Roman’s fortune: You will marry the girl of your dreams.