No matter how many times Charlie comes back to see the Winged Victory of Samothrace, a gorgeous eight-foot marble sculpture of a winged goddess, he still has that same awed reverence in his eyes as the first time I saw him here. It’s a gift not to become jaded by beauty.
“Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt was the architect,” Charlie tells me as we stop in an area under a ceiling mural, chandeliers, and gold molding. Five windows have breathtaking views of the gardens. Charlie’s eyes trace the painted ceiling.
His words ring my head. It’s one of our family’s favorite Shakespeare quotes, and in French, it’s become one of our many mottos.
Boldness be my friend.
“You implied it somewhere along the way, Charlie. They believe you’re going to be around. That it’s going to be like the good old high school days.”
“How is it my fault that they have the wrong expectations?”
Charlie is on his way out the door when he says, “If you didn’t dump all your cash into the mysterious land of Oz, maybe you could’ve taken your girlfriend on an actual date.”
“Can someone just tell me what the fuck she means to you then?”
“Nothing. She means nothing.” Charlie stands at this, wincing. I think at his leg. He rubs at his thigh.
“Sit back down, Charlie,” Beckett says softly. “Please.”
The crystal snaps off and plops with a clink into Charlie’s wine. He looks like he wants to self-eject from the room, but he puts the goblet to his lips like he means to take a sip.