Jean's bad mood persisted for days. Lucien assumed it was something he did, but he wasn't quite sure what. He hadn't done anything egregious in quite some time. He was late to dinner sometimes when he and Alice were working on an autopsy. He may have missed a patient appointment once or twice due to his police investigations. But nothing to personally affront Jean. Lucien didn't like to see her so obviously unhappy, but he wasn't sure what to do for it.
"Mattie, do you know why Jean is upset?" he asked the young nurse one evening after dinner as they sat in the parlor.
"You know, you could ask her yourself. I don't know if you noticed, Lucien, but she does like talking to you," Mattie pointed out.
Lucien felt rather strange about that statement, especially since she'd barely spoken to him in weeks. They'd once enjoyed talking together, all those months ago…nearly six months since his mother had passed—had it really been that long?
Feeling Mattie's expectant gaze on him, Lucien went to the kitchen where Jean was cleaning the dinner dishes. She heard him enter and glanced over to see who it was. "Lucien, anything I can get for you?" she asked over the sound of the sink where she was scrubbing plates.
"No, I'm fine. Can I…can I help you with this?" he asked.
She nodded at the dishtowel. "You can dry, if you'd like."
He went to work, allowing the task to break up the awkwardness between them. "Jean, is everything alright? You've been rather distant lately."
"It's nothing," she insisted. How could she possibly confess her worries to him? She felt silly enough having them in her own mind.
"It isn't nothing. You've been upset. Please tell me what's wrong," he pressed.
Jean turned off the faucet and faced him, her wide eyes betraying her hurt and concern. "I don't know what to do when you leave," she admitted bluntly. It was a true statement, though not the complete explanation for her anxiety.
"Nothing, I should think. You will always have a home here, whether or not I live in this house. That was part of my motivation for having Danny and Mattie move in. If I do go, I won't leave without sorting the accounts and things for you all to continue to stay and have things paid for and such." Lucien hoped she couldn't hear his pounding heart. He didn't want to go. He had to go. Eventually. Perhaps. He had no way of knowing and no words to properly convey that to her.
Jean hadn't expected him to have an answer, let alone one that had obviously taken time and thought to plan. It was somewhat comforting. But again, not the entire solution for her. "I like that you're here," she said in a small voice, staring at the floor.
"I am here. For now."
She forced a smile that didn't reach anywhere near her eyes. "I suppose that'll have to be enough."
Jean knew this conversation was going nowhere good. She didn't want to be so vulnerable and emotional in front of him. Not about this. She had no right to it. So rather than make a fool of herself any further, Jean turned and left the kitchen, mumbling something about dusting. She left Lucien in the kitchen and wandered quickly through the house in search of some solace.
To her own surprise, Jean found herself in Madame's studio. She gazed around the room. It was exactly the way they left it on the day she died. And all of the grief and sorrow and confusion and apprehension poured out of Jean's tears. She collapsed onto the sofa in front of the fireplace.
Trying to catch her breath, she looked up and saw an unfamiliar painting on the mantle in a place of honor. The double portrait of Jean and Lucien that Madame had been working on just before her death. They had never seen the finished work. It looked like an engagement picture of two people in love, she realized. She knew she'd looked at Lucien like that in the past, unable to help herself. But she'd never noticed him look at her that way. Desire was one thing. This was quite another. Deeper, truer.
With shaky hands, Jean picked up the canvas for a closer look. A piece of paper fell from behind it. She sat back down on the sofa with the painting resting on her lap. She unfolded the page and found a note. It was Madame's handwriting. Jean's tears flowed anew, confronted by this reminder of her dearly departed friend. The note was addressed to Lucien and Jean, but it was written in French. Jean couldn't read it. But she stared at the words on the page, tracing her finger on the distinctive curve of the y and g and the specific cross on the t and f.
Lucien sat in the kitchen where Jean had left him, thinking about what she'd said. He had been missing the way they were before Maman passed. He hadn't been that happy in longer than he could recall. Jean had given him that. And when he lost his mother, he'd retreated from her. He'd behaved cruelly. He knew he needed to beg her forgiveness, even if he didn't deserve it from her. But he needed her to understand that in all his hurt and carelessness, his feelings for her, the feelings they had expressed so clearly on that fateful night, those had never gone away for him. He'd been a fool to allow the hurt to overpower him as it had. Proof that he wasn't worthy of anything good in his life. He had to explain, regardless of the response she would have.
He searched the house for her. Danny and Mattie were both mysteriously in their respective rooms, much earlier than usual. Lucien saw a light on in the studio. As he walked through the double doors, he was nearly bowled over by a powerful wave of emotion—visceral grief still so fresh, but comforted by the happy memories of the time he and Jean had spent there together with Maman.
Lucien found Jean sitting on the sofa with the portrait propped up on her knees. He wordlessly came to sit beside her to look at it.
He broke the silence after a moment. "She really did do beautiful work."
Jean smiled softly. "Yes, she did. I can't believe how perfectly she captured us. But this feels so long ago. So much has changed."
"I know. I've been terrible to you, Jean."
She turned to face him for the first time. "Yes, you have. And I keep remembering how you were, like this." She gestured to the painting, propping it up on the fireplace in front of them. "I keep wishing it could be like this again. But I know it can't," she said quickly before he could protest. "I know how you've changed. You're a different man now. And that's alright. I'll be here with you anyway."
He was touched by her words. But her beliefs were inaccurate. "I have changed. But that was the man I changed into," he explained, pointing at the portrait. "You did that, Jean. In knowing you, living with you, falling in love with you, I became a better man. And when Mother died, I reverted to my old behavior. And you deserve better. You deserve only the best in the world. And I'm so sorry I can't be better for you."
Jean swallowed hard. He said he'd fallen in love with her. She didn't have words. So instead she hoped to find some. Jean handed the note to Lucien. "Will you translate it for me?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly.
Lucien looked at the page his mother had written in her native language. He was a bit rusty, but he could manage. He read aloud, "Dear Lucien and Jean, I have completed the painting of you, and I think it is my greatest work. But the more important work I have done is not the painting but in the two of you.
"My dearest Lucien, you have found healing here. You have made it your home again. And I know it is thanks to Jean. My wonderful friend, Jean, I thank you for your years of service, for keeping the house and turning it to a place my son can call his own. Your strength and grace have been a blessing every day that I have been lucky enough to have you in my life.
"But the greatest luck seems to be watching the two of you grow closer. I saw it so clearly as I painted you, the way you each have found your missing piece in the other. I have never seen either you so happy. And I hope you will always remember that, when things become difficult. I know I do not have much time left with you. I can feel the end coming for me. But my last wish on this earth is that you will trust in the love you share, and trust that it will grow and protect you from whatever you face. I hope that you will face it together. I love you both dearly."
Lucien stared at his mother's signature for a moment before looking to Jean. Her eyes shone with tears she tried to blink away. "We still could be the people in the painting. If you want to be," she said quietly.
He knew she was offering him a life raft, extending the olive branch. He desperately wanted to grab hold, but couldn't. "Jean, I don't want to hurt you."
"If you just keep that in mind, I don't think you will. I want you anyway. I have for a long time. And I know everything will work itself out if we work at it together. Just be here, Lucien. Not just physically in this house but really be here for me and for Mattie and Danny and all your patients and the police. I don't ever want to prevent you from being with your daughter or going to find her, but…if you do, just promise you'll come back," she begged. Madame's letter had given her the courage to say exactly what she wanted, to trust that he would reciprocate.
Lucien reached out and placed his hand on her cheek. "Jean, I don't think I could leave you if I tried. I know I told you I only stayed after Mother died so I could pay for the search for Li, but I could find a job anywhere. You are why I stayed. And I do need to find Li and know that she's alright, but this is my home. You are my home. When I find my daughter, I hope you'll come with me to meet her. But until then, I am here, and I always will be."
Jean couldn't believe the words. She laughed slightly, out of catharsis more than anything else. She nuzzled into his touch and rested her hands on his chest before leaning in to kiss him. The long-buried passion between them erupted. Hands were everywhere. Jean's lips parted to accept his tongue to caress her. Lucien leaned forward, gently pushing Jean to lie down on the sofa. She pulled him on top of her, clutching at his neck and shoulders and hair, anything to bring him close to her, to keep him anchored to her.
Lucien broke the kiss to gaze at her, their foreheads touching. They were both smiling, their expressions mirroring those painted on the portrait sitting beside them.
Madame was right. Through all the pain they'd had in their lives, they had miraculously found each other, here in the old Blake house. And here was where they would remain, together.
The End