CH 11

By the time I finished speaking with Stefan, Jean was out the door and off to his next destination. I considered walking out to see if I could spot him, but didn't want to chase him down the street.

What would Valgarde say, I wondered? It was Saturday and he would be at Sterois, playing piano for a crowd of people who used his musical talent as background noise. That, however, was at least eight hours away.

My Monday class would be thrilled with my news. They would have a hundred questions about where the gallery was located, when the show started, and what paintings I had on exhibit. Out of politeness I knew all of them would make modest offers for one of my paintings. They had done it for the show currently on display, knowing full well their offers would be outbid, but still wishing to show their support.

Informing them of my upcoming show was still a day and a half away.

I stood in front of the painting sold to an unknown buyer, pleased by the exceptional news while at the same time feeling a sense of loss.

Willow on the Shore was deeply personal to me, a painting I had created, destroyed, and created again at least half a dozen times in three years.

Originally there had been a woman in a blue dress with a matching bonnet beneath the tree with a book in her lap. I had painted over her and decided it would be a little boy with a fishing pole and a terrier, but I didn't like the way he looked.

Eventually I settled on simply the tree and the lake behind it, then added a bridge.

The bridge stayed. The woman by the tree returned and the bridge gained a boy and a dog.

On the other side of the water, I painted myself blending into the brown and yellow background, and beside myself…

I inhaled sharply, thinking of the calendar on my apartment wall.

Not yet.

My heart was heavy with grief despite the triumph of two paintings sold and more on exhibit. Despite the good news, I had no one around to share it with at that moment.

I looked around, still searching for the potential buyer, when Guin appeared across the room without Jean by her side. Our eyes met before she sauntered toward me, champagne flute half-empty.

"You painted a tree," she said as she stood beside me.

"I did."

Guin took a step closer to the painting and turned her head to the side. "Why?"

"Pardon me?"

"Why a tree?"

"Did you know osier withies can be harvested from the same willow tree for up to twenty years?" I asked without looking at Guin. "It can give and give, year after year, while still growing back each spring."

I wondered if the trees sensed the farmers with their curved cutting knives and ladders approaching, if their roots quivered when their long, leafless ropes were severed late into the fall and set out to dry. Did they know that they served a purpose for others, that their dead limbs created baskets and rugs? Perhaps they did and had no qualms of being sliced apart.

"What happens after the twentieth year?" she asked. "Do they retire?"

"I'm not certain. Perhaps if the ropes are hacked off again and again, the willow simply dies from being overused," I said.

She stood closer to me, her arm against mine. Neither of us spoke, our gazes fixed on the painting before us. I focused on the child version of myself, hand reaching out to the figure trailing behind.

The children in the background were too far apart. The older one was not paying attention, allowing the little one–the one he should have been looking after–to fall behind.

One mistake. One moment where I had not put my brother first. That was all it had taken to lose him.

It was the worst mistake of my life, one that haunted me still.

And for eight thousand francs, someone, some anonymous buyer, would forever own that terrible part of me.

"I apologize, but I need a bit of air," I mumbled before I turned and walked out of the gallery and onto the street.

oOo

Clearly I was incapable of managing an entire fifteen days without thinking of Erik. Hell, I hadn't made it five days before I plummeted into the all-consuming memory of his disappearance.

I walked outside, my heart racing, and then down the street, and then another until I was halfway home without realizing that I couldn't return to the gallery in such a dismal state.

Eight thousand francs was a decent amount of money, more than I'd ever made painting, but in terms of what they purchased from me, it didn't seem like nearly enough.

I wondered if I could speak with Stefan and request that the buyer allow me to make a slight modification to the painting. If they agreed, I would remove myself and my brother from the painting. Hell, if they so desired, they could have it for no charge as long as they agreed to the terms.

Rather than return home, I stopped at the park, which was filled with painters capturing a beautiful spring day, and searched for Hugo. If I could share my news of two paintings sold and three more on display with anyone, it would be him. I assumed he would also understand why I wished to modify the Willow on the Shore.

The thought settled me at last. Being a fellow painter, Hugo would understand me better than anyone else. He would know how much the invite for the following week meant to me, how the struggle to improve and continue painting had finally produced the desired results, even if I had slipped up several times.

Hugo would be proud of me. My mentor, my long-time friend, and the only male who had cared for me like a son, would be proud of me. Earning his praise felt more like success than receiving a check from the gallery owner once the sales were finalized.

Hugo and I didn't keep in constant contact, but that was the beauty of our relationship. Our lives went on when we didn't see one another while the reunions were always pleasant and we started where we left off.

"Kimmer!" Guin shouted.

I whipped around, surprised to see her hurrying to catch up to me, her silk skirts making every step difficult.

"I didn't realize you were behind me," I said.

"Yes, I see that," she panted. She dropped her skirts once she was a few steps away.

I allowed her a moment to catch her breath before she nodded and we walked together, side by side in silence, until we reached the door to my building.

She stared at me as I stood with my keys still in my trouser pocket.

"I apologize, but for the time being–"

"Tea?" she suggested when I didn't invite her to follow me up. "There's a Japanese place over there," she said, pointing further down the street.

I inhaled. From where we stood, I could hear Elvira whistling, content as could be taunting the city below.

"Unless you would prefer your bird's company," Guin said.

I wanted to sit at my easel and stare at a blank canvas until the images formed in my mind and I could see the next painting breathe in its own life, but I doubted I would find the inspiration needed, not until I cleared the rubble from my quaking thoughts of the Willow on the Shore.

Besides, I was well aware of the date on the calendar and how difficult those thoughts proved to be. Time alone would make it more agonizing.

"I don't believe I've previously had Japanese tea," I said.

"Are you accepting my offer, Kimmer?" she asked.

"I suppose I am."

oOo

The conversation on the walk to the tea house was no different than the words exchanged while undressing: meaningless filler about the weather. It wasn't particularly uncomfortable, but it served no purpose other than the passing of time.

Once the tea house came into view, I regretted accepting the invitation, concerned that for the duration of our visit, we would be seated in silence until she asked if I desired more intimate company at my apartment or hers.

"How long has this place been here?" I asked.

"Since last summer?" Guin guessed.

"I must never walk this way," I commented, certain I'd never seen the free-standing structure before with its opaque screen and mats outside the door reserved for shoes. There was a sign on the door written in Japanese and no translation into French.

"Do you speak Japanese?" I asked.

Guin shook her head. "And the owner doesn't speak French."

"How do you order?"

Guin gave me a sideways look. "It's tea. I take a seat at the table and Ayame brings me everything I need."

I slid the door open and we removed our shoes before stepping inside. There were a handful of tables inside, two of which were unoccupied, and we took our seats on the floor in the same fashion as the other guests.

"The art show was lovely," Guin said.

Coming from someone who admitted she was not well-versed in art, I simply nodded.

A young Japanese woman walked up, bowed, and asked us something in her native tongue.

"Two, please," Guin said. She pointed at me and then nodded, indicating on her right hand that we wanted two servings.

The young woman bowed again and walked away, then returned a moment later and delivered an ornately decorated tray to our floor table.

There was a jade green tea pot in the middle, the contents of which steamed from the spout. Matching tea cups and an ornate hexagon-shaped white bowl with a gold rim held loose leaf tea with two strainers placed beside it.

"How long have you been an artist?" Guin asked.

I watched her delicately sprinkle the tea leaves into the strainer that fit into her cup.

"For as long as I can recall," I answered.

She gazed across the table at me, adding enough water to reach the strainer. "I suppose with your looks, you needn't be one for conversation."

"It is a blessing, isn't it?" I dryly asked.

Guin raised a brow. She allowed the leaves to seep for a while while she studied me. "Are you blessed?" she asked at last.

"Some days," I answered.

"And others?"

"Cursed."

My attempt at humor fell flat. Wordlessly she removed the strainer and swirled her cup in a slow, rhythmic motion, as if she had done it hundreds of times before. It was fascinating to see how gently she rolled her wrist, how the liquid whirled to the edge of the cup without spilling over at her command.

"Why do you call Joshua 'Valgarde'?" she asked.

I began making my own cup of tea. "Because that was how I knew him."

"When you were children?"

I nodded. "When we were children."

"He doesn't like it," Guin said. She took the tea pot by the handle and examined the intricate details painted around the body of white camellias on both sides, thumb tracing the images.

"You also called him Valgarde," I pointed out.

"Yes, I did, because I heard you call him by that name first. Why does that name offend him so?"

I realized once I added the tea leaves to the strainer that I'd filled my cup with too much water.

"Because he enjoys being temperamental," I answered.

Guin eyed me, long black lashes fluttered with each blink, as if she didn't believe that was the real reason, but didn't feel the need or desire to argue. She was truly hypnotizing at the most mundane moment, a woman simply holding a cup of tea in both hands.

"How did you know Val's aunt?" I questioned.

Guin looked up at me again, her dark eyes creased at the edges. "Quadrille. Madame Nettie was always the eldest hand. She played with her sister and my aunts every Tuesday night for years until her health declined."

"You attended as well?"

"Of course. My aunts hosted the gathering at their estate. It was easier to invite Nettie and Berthe to our home than drag three little demon children along with them halfway across the city. Plus it's much easier to lock three children in your own home rather than someone else's."

"Hmm."

"Hmm?" Guin questioned.

I took a sip from my cup, having added far too many leaves to the strainer and water nearly up to the brim. The tea was disastrously strong, but I forced myself to gulp down half of the contents in order to swirl it around, which I hoped would somehow better distribute the taste.

"Nothing," I answered at last.

Guin straightened her spine. "Why did you agree to come here if you wanted to sit in silence?" she asked.

"Because as I said, I've never had Japanese tea."

She appeared less than amused, perhaps even insulted by my words. I sat back and absently placed the strainer into the cup, adding additional leaves, which more than likely rendered the tea completely undrinkable. I placed the cup on the table and clutched it between my hands.

I took a breath before speaking. "I started carving images on rocks and into wood when I was quite young. Far too young, really, but…"

The adults in my life weren't concerned with a child cutting off a finger. I decided not to speak of such personal details.

I didn't look up, but I sensed Guin staring at me. I released my teacup and momentarily studied the backs of my hands. Vaguely I recalled a handful of instances where I had jabbed my knuckle or sliced a finger. No one had ever bandaged the wounds or tended to me, and I struggled to remember the moment when I had been noticed at all at that age.

"Eventually I moved on to paper and pencils, and then better paper and pencils and finally paints, canvas, cardboard, and now that I can afford it, marble."

"Do you paint people that you know?"

"Are you asking for a portrait?"

She offered a close-lipped smile. "No."

I waited for her to continue, sensing she had an additional question.

"Is the Woman at Cafe a former lover?"

"No."

"A current lover?"

I chuckled and turned my cup around in a circle. "She's no one."

"I have a feeling you tell a lot of women that."

"Who do you want her to be?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps your wife," Guin answered.

"My wife?"

"Yes, whom you wed far too young, well before you were ready to settle down, and although you regretted it at first, you grew to love her more than you thought was possible. Slowly you found yourself purchasing gifts every time you left work. Flowers, chocolates, little books with gold embossing on the spines, and combs for her hair. She never expected them, but you delighted in her reaction and before you knew it, you looked forward to her lighting up each time you returned home."

It was a wonderful life. Not mine, but nonetheless wonderful.

"And then one day, after she nagged you for months and months, you finally took her down to the river for a walk on a summer day. The two of you went down to the water to watch the boats and you asked if perhaps the next time she would like to rent a row boat. And while you stood hand in hand, a gust of wind blew her bonnet clear off her head. She released your hand and frantically reached for it, but to no avail. Consequently she fell off the bridge and was swept down the river to her death."

I snorted. "Well, then."

"You find it amusing?"

"I find it both entertaining and absurd. I do have a question though."

"What is your question?"

"Did my deceased young wife recover her bonnet?"

Guin chuckled as well. "No, and she still haunts the bridge, searching for the hat that ultimately led to her unfortunate demise."

"You have quite the imagination."

She shrugged her elegant shoulders. "I suppose I have always had time on my hands to make up fanciful lives for other people."

"Are you a writer?"

"A fantasizer who doesn't typically commit daydreams to paper."

"Why is that?"

She sat forward and gave a devious look, her voice dropping lower. "Because when I neglect to commit these stories to paper, they belong to only me."

"So you invited me for tea in order to assign me some tragic backstory, one that you were kind enough to share?"

She swirled her tea again, then lifted her gaze and smiled at me. "Tragic? I wouldn't say it was tragic."

"A husband losing his beloved wife is not a tragedy to you?"

Guin shook her head. "At the end, I suppose, but we would be fools to believe love is everlasting and eternal when our bodies are mortal and age is unkind," she said. "But there is much more to a life than an ending of heartache, which we will all suffer."

"Very pragmatic."

"I do enjoy being realistic. All things are fleeting, aren't they?"

"Heartache, unfortunately, isn't a fleeting moment for those who have experienced loss," I responded, my voice revealing bitterness to my own ears.

I felt her studying me again, perhaps picking apart my honest words that I regretted sharing. I took another sip of abhorrent tea, attempting to drown out thoughts of a blazing sunset, a ripped sheet of paper, and a narrow trail through the trees leading toward the beach.

"Do you think I've never experienced loss?" she questioned.

"I–" I sighed, having never considered her question. "I suppose it's unfair of me to assume as much."

"You're right, it would be unfair."

The conversation came to an abrupt end. I studied Guin while she sat with her attention on the teacup, her finger gently caressing the rim.

It had been so long that I had truly spoken to anyone about anything that mattered that the silence magnified my growing anxiety. I considered telling her about my brother and how he had become lost, how not a day had gone by in thirty years where I didn't think of him, that the weight of the loss became harder to carry instead of easier.

The second my lips parted, Guin sat forward and moved her teacup aside, rendering me silent. She studied me for a long moment, her eyes appearing almost black as the sunlight outside moved behind the clouds, dimming the interior of the tea house.

"My mother died birthing my little sister," she said. "I was nine, Maudeline was six, and Tillie was barely two months old when our father decided he could no longer bear the sight of us. He left his three daughters with his two sisters, both of whom had never been married, and promised to return in a year, once his heart healed.

"Aunt Manon and Aunt Lili argued with our father for hours, claiming they didn't have the means or desire to care for three children, at least for an entire year, but Father begged and at last they agreed. Twelve short months and he would claim his beloved daughters. He wrote them a check to compensate for their troubles and promised another one would arrive every thirty days. One year and then they would have their lives back. That was his promise.

"One check arrived, and everything was as it should have been, but there were no others. They inquired at the post office to make sure their letters weren't held up or being misdirected, but that was not the case. They were not happy, but assumed that Father would send a larger sum in six months.

"My aunts received word four months later that the inspector thought Father's body washed up on the Seine, but he couldn't tell for sure. The body was bloated and almost unrecognizable due to a gunshot wound to his head, and to make matters worse, he was pinned to a drainage grate, which they assumed is where his body had lingered through the winter. Once they pulled him from the ice I was able to identify him with the aid of his pocket watch and the engraving from our mother to him when they were married. I would have known that timepiece anywhere."

"You identified the body?"

She gave a single nod, her gaze never leaving mine.

My lips parted and I briefly looked away. "I apologize, I didn't–"

She smiled warmly at me, her expression masking the emotion in her voice. "Why would you apologize? You didn't shoot him; he shot himself."

I lowered my gaze. "Still…that is a heavy burden for a child to bear."

"I loved my mother and father very much," she said. "For the people they were before the end of their stories. When I think of them, I think of the times we spent together, not their deaths. It would be unfair of me to dismiss nine years together with blood and bloating bodies, wouldn't it?"

"That is courageous," I said.

"Is it?"

"I believe it is."

Without another word, she climbed to her feet and left several banknotes on the low table between her empty cup and the teapot. She smoothed her skirts as I stood and looked around at the opaque windows and woven mats where people enjoyed their tea.

"Kimmer," she said without looking at me. We exited the tea house and she took my arm. "Whoever it is that you lost, I sincerely hope they know how much you loved them in life and continue to do so in death."

oOo

I offered to walk Guin back to her apartment, but she shook her head. Once we reached my building, the clouds had fully rolled in and the air smelled like rain.

After I unlocked the door, she followed me up to my apartment, jumping when Elvira released her usual screech of delight when she saw me.

"I love you, sweetheart," Elvira vocalized in her sing-song voice as she danced back and forth on her perch by the window. Once the head bobbing began, I unhooked her tether and allowed her to hop onto my shoulder where she proceeded to nibble on my beard while imitating kissing sounds.

"You clearly do have another woman," Guin said. "She just happens to be covered in feathers."

I grunted, allowing Elvira to remain perched on my shoulder as I walked into the kitchen and filled her bowl with a sliced apple, grapes, and a chopped up sweet potato. She hopped onto her porch once her bowl was on the stand, whistling as she picked through the contents to see if I had added anything as a special treat.

"You messy little chicken," I scolded as she continued to toss out everything I placed in her dish. Once she had gone through everything, I threw the fruit and potato back into her dish and stroked her head. "Eat your food."

"What is she searching for?" Guin asked.

"Snails," I answered.

Guin wrinkled her nose. "I had no idea birds eat snails."

"Shells and all. Not quite escargot, but Elvira finds it to be an exotic delicacy."

"Do you purchase snails at restaurants?"

I shook my head. "Mostly I find them in the park, wrap them in a handkerchief, and carry them home for her."

Guin made a face. "I suppose that's the truest form of love."

Elvira settled at last, nibbling on the apple while looking out the window, her wings spread as though she considered taking flight.

When I turned, Guin was longer in the main living area. I glanced at the door leading into the hall, but doubted she had been able to walk out without me hearing her as the door was still shut.

"Gu–"

I caught sight of her sitting on the end of my bed, fingers combing through her long, black hair. She looked at me from the corner of her eye and tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"What do you see right now, at this moment?" she asked, tilting her chin up.

Beautiful women were accustomed to being told that they were exquisite, and I considered telling her as much. It would have been the truth; she was stunning, as always, and if I had walked to her, placed my hand at the back of her neck and commanded her to inclined her head, I could have kissed her full on the mouth in one moment and out of her dress and between the sheets in the next.

I leaned on the door jamb and ignored her perfectly shaped face and eyes that matched her silky hair, attempting to see her in a different way.

Pensive, I thought. Perhaps troubled, but with an aura of hope that I didn't think most people carried or that I had stopped bothering to look for as I was certain it didn't exist within me.

The clouds outside parted momentarily, highlighting her cheekbones and the way the tip of her nose curved slightly up. Seconds later, thunder rumbled and the sun took cover behind the clouds.

She was still stunning, whether the sun was shining or the clouds dimmed her features. But she was more than that. She was heartache and a bountiful imagination, beauty veiling tragic complication. There was more to her than I'd bothered to see. There was more to her than I assumed she wanted to show me.

"I see imperfection," I answered at last. Rain splattered on the window outside, gentle taps at first that quickly turned into a deluge. Overhead thunder rumbled like a growl over the city.

She smiled, genuinely. "Good," she said. "At last someone else sees it."