CH 21

Against my better judgment, I brought the painting of Alak's home in the woods with me when I had coffee with Theo Van Gogh Friday morning.

We met at a cafe of my choosing, one that sold enormous blueberry muffins that were always piping hot as if they'd come straight from the oven. The granules of sugar looked like glistening diamond dust, and the nooks and crannies were slathered in melted butter that seeped into each morsel. Blueberries weren't in season, and yet they always seemed to be fresh.

Needless to say, I was quite fond of the cafe's bakery. It had become a monthly stop for me; frequent enough to indulge without becoming sick of the sweets they served.

"How is the project at the Opera Populaire?" Theo asked once he arrived ten minutes late.

I had no recollection of speaking with him about the assignment, but assumed that Stefan–who was as obsessed with Opera Ghost as my students–had mentioned the backdrops to Theo.

"The project is complete," I said. Thank God, I thought to myself.

Theo glanced around the cafe at the other patrons before he leaned forward and whispered, "Was there anything…unusual while you were in attendance?"

"Such as?" I asked. If he wished for gossip, he would have to work for it.

"The phantom," he said, his blue eyes practically bulging. "Surely you've heard the stories."

"Little more than rumors, it seems."

Theo stared at me, his eyes still unusually wide. "Far more than simple rumors. A woman disappeared, a stagehand died, and I've heard that the theater managers are paying the ghost fifty thousand francs. Per. Month."

I cocked a brow. "I wonder if the theater is hiring for a second ghost. I would haunt the theater for half of that."

Theo issued a look of disapproval. "I've heard some of the patrons and season ticket holders have asked for refunds before opening night."

As much as I thought the entire production seemed like a disaster, that was still news I hadn't previously heard. I wondered if there was any truth to Theo's statement. After weeks of being closed after Il Muto, I imagined the opera managers were beside themselves with worry if they had to refund their audience.

"Why is that, do you think?" I asked.

"There have been too many accidents," Theo continued, keeping his voice low. "I fear what is to come."

An indecent production that will certainly have women fainting in their seats and red-blooded men covering their laps to hide their embarrassment, I thought to myself.

"Are you attending the opening?" I asked.

Theo's complexion turned crimson, and he cleared his throat. "I've been added to a waiting list," he said. "Are you?"

"I am awaiting word from the theater." I reached for the portfolio leaning against my chair and placed it onto the empty chair between us. "Shall we?"

"Of course."

As Hugo guessed, Theo spent the longest amount of time studying the painting of the shack while I sat picking apart my muffin, blueberries in a neat pile I saved until I finished the rest. I loosely held my left hand in a fist while I pressed the tines of my fork onto the morsels of the muffin left on my plate, resisting the urge to snatch the painting from Theo.

Over and over I replayed Hugo's words in my head: allow your vision to be appreciated.

I had spoken of Erik on multiple occasions with Hugo, and I was certain he knew of my deeper attachment to the painting. He had never encouraged or discouraged me from my intention of finding my brother, preferring instead to simply lend his ear.

Throughout the evening, while Elvira flew back and forth from my chair to her perch, I mulled over what I would do with the painting if it remained in my possession and came to the conclusion it would be neglected in my studio, propped against the wall, behind three or four other pieces of art as the feelings it conjured within me were typically dark and morose.

As much as I wished to believe otherwise, whether I held onto the painting or not made no difference on the likelihood of me finding Erik. Looking at it simply reminded me of my unforgivable faults/

"There's a lot of emotion to this," Theo said at last. "As though I want to be there and yet…yet there is heaviness. It's ominous while still filling me with curiosity." He brought the painting closer to his face. "And this boy. It is a boy, correct?"

"Yes."

"Is it you?"

I shook my head.

"Then this little boy, he is off to complete chores?" Theo asked.

I nodded. "I suppose so."

In truth I had painted Erik putting his shoes on at dusk, wriggling his toes into his laced-up boots because– despite his unimaginable genius when it came to music– he struggled with the ability to tie his laces. The frustration often turned into an outburst of screaming while he drummed his fists against my shoulders in protest as I attempted to tie them on his behalf.

It was the only time in which he became so incensed that he would attempt to push me away in anger, screaming a shrill and drawn-out no that made the birds in the trees fly off.

Eventually, after his anger ran its course, he would bring his shoes to me, still hyperventilating from his tears, and hold his feet out, silently asking me to put them on for him.

He never asked for forgiveness and I never told him he would have to say he was sorry before I helped him. I simply wanted him to be happy–and with his shoes tied, he was free to explore the woods and the seashore.

The night he had disappeared, he had managed to put on his own shoes, deciding not to return inside for my assistance. I imagined he had been thrilled to complete the task himself and wander off alone, no longer needing to place his foot on my thigh while I pulled the leather strings tight and showed him how to make a bow.

"How much would you like for this?" Theo asked.

His voice startled me from my thoughts. I stared at the top edge of the board. What sum of money could possibly compensate for the hole left behind from that night? For the wound in my heart that I picked at every single day, reliving the moments when Val and Alak returned and our uncle asked, "Where is Erik?"

My brother had been right there, only a moment earlier, I told them. He had jumped on my back and my pencil ripped through the paper I had on the floor. It could have only been five minutes, at most, I told them, but the clock had advanced much further than I had first thought.

My God, Erik was constantly all over me, day and night. I woke each morning with him asleep in my bed, arms and legs wrapped around me. I ate my breakfast with him shoving my food into his mouth, ravenous when he woke as he could not stop himself from moving. I included him in every game I played, read to him aloud as he could not sit in silence. And at night, when the bedroom we shared was dark and I'd put my brother into his bed, he inevitably crawled into mine and we slept curled up together, like conjoined twins.

Lan, Lan, Lan, did you hear me? Are you listening? Lan, you didn't answer me. Lan, are you ignoring me?
Everywhere I ventured, he was at my side or on my heels, parasitic in nature, never out of my sight, his voice always in my head.

Until he was gone. And I hadn't noticed his absence. I should have noticed that night, well before he had a chance to don his shoes and walk away.

I couldn't remember if I was relieved to have a moment to myself, no questions asked one after the other, no small body atop mine, his cheek pressed to my face and arms around my neck.

For once I had been able to complete a drawing without pausing multiple times. For once I had been able to lay belly-down without him sitting on top of me, looking over my shoulder.

For all of the times Erik had suffocated me in the brief time we were together, once he was gone, it felt as though I couldn't breathe on my own. The aching in my chest became a reminder of my negligence–and for thirty years, I had spent every moment since that night acutely aware of how alone I had become without my brother, missing a part of myself.

Erik had kept me from being lonely, from focusing on the care I had been denied as a child–that I was still denied as an adult.

There was not enough money in the world that would ever fill the emptiness, but selling the painting of my brother on the step would mean that I no longer looked at the scene that had haunted me for almost three decades.

I met Theo's eye and sniffed. "What do you suggest?"

Theo thought for a moment. "A thousand?" he asked. "Sometimes the paintings on wood boards don't sell as well as the ones on canvas," he told me. "If you were a little more well-known, then I could definitely sell it for more…"

"Would you hold onto it?" I asked. My heart plummeted at the thought of asking someone to take the physical reminder of my little brother. "Until after the gallery show?"

Theo looked from the painting in his hands to me and nodded. "I could. I'll display it in the second gallery at our office, but I won't put a price on it just yet. After the show, I'll see what sort of interest we receive."

It was for the best to let it go, I knew, to put the painting out of my view and give it the opportunity to find a new home with someone who would not look at the image and see what I felt. As Theo said, perhaps the buyer would see a child reluctantly putting his shoes on to complete dreaded chores for the day.

"Keep it," I said quickly. "I trust you will be able to make the sale."

"Of course," Theo agreed.

I stabbed my fork through a blueberry and took a shuddering breath. For once, I loosened the grip I'd held onto for as long as I could recall. If I was meant to find Erik, I would.

oOo

Florine was dressed in her usual lemon yellow skirt and blouse when we met Friday afternoon at her request.

"Phelan," she said in a harsh tone I was not accustomed to hearing from her.

Every time I saw her, I still wished to see the twinkle in her eye and the warmth of her demure smile. She had always been masterful at appearing cordial toward me when I walked into her parents house with my paints and brushes, prepared to work on the commissioned portrait of her family.

Her family had no idea that I knew my way around their estate both inside and out. Once her father returned to his duties and her mother to her social club, I weaved through the garden or down the hall and sneaked my way into Florine's bedroom.

"Lovely to see you," I said.

She clasped her hands and ignored my words. "Do you have the letter?"

Immediately I patted my trouser pocket, concerned that the letter of recommendation from Hugo had somehow disappeared. I'd checked my pocket multiple times on my walk from home to the coffee shop and again once I was seated at a wobbly wooden table beside a large planter with tulips in full bloom.

"Of course, Madame Fabienne," I said, standing to greet her.

She sat across from me, back straight and chin lifted that made me aware of the social differences between us. Why I ever imagined there could be anything between us past a tryst was beyond me, but from the moment I had spotted Florine all those years ago, I found her ravishing and envisioned a lifetime spent gazing into her eyes.

"How are you?" I asked.

"I don't have a moment to spare on trivial conversation," she snapped.

I sighed. "Will you never…" my voice trailed away, the words I wished to speak not quite formed in my mind the way I desired.

Will you never forgive me? Will you never treat me with an ounce of civility? Will you never give me the opportunity to earn your respect?

"Will I ever…?" Florine asked, arching a brow.

"Think about what we had," I said quietly.

"I have raised what we had," she coldly answered.

I held her gaze for a long moment, waiting for her to look away first, which she did.

"What do you expect me to say?" she asked under her breath.

"I will not choose your words for you, Florine, but I would ask that you curb your temper and engage in conversation like we are two adults who have gone their separate ways."

Florine met my eye again, her expression softening. "My apologies. I am well. How are you, Phelan?"

Her voice lacked the sincerity I'd hoped to find, but it was far better than her previously frigid tone.

"Good. I've sold a few paintings."

She paused, and I could tell by the shadow of a smile on her lips that she was conflicted on whether she should be truly happy for me or simply shrug off my comment and ask for the letter of recommendation.

"To Jean?" she asked.

I chuckled, knowing her words were probably meant as a jab, but still finding it amusing that she was aware of how often my creations found themselves in Jean's home.

"One was to a private collector and two are brokered with Goupil and Cie," I answered.

She raised a brow, clearly impressed.

"And as you guessed, one was sold to Jean, who has been and always will be my biggest supporter."

"I heard that you have more paintings at Stefan's gallery."

"I do. The show opens tomorrow," I said. "Will you be attending?"

"If I have time."

The show ran for a total of four weeks. "I would love to see you there, Florine. I mean that sincerely."

For a brief moment I caught a glimmer of the fondness we had once shared for each other, the soft glances shared as easily from across the room or as we laid in her bed facing one another.

As quickly as she had looked at me with the hint of a smile, forgetting herself in the midst of our conversation, she cleared her throat.

"I'm happy for you," she said, her tone indicating the opposite. Briefly she looked away from me, then turned and offered as much of a sincere smile as she could muster. "You've always been very gifted when it comes to art. I am glad to see you haven't squandered your God given talent."

Unlike the rest of your life.

"I appreciate your kindness," I said, although her words were not truly spoken with affection or kindness.

The waiter came to refill my coffee and ask if Florine wanted to order a drink or meal, which she declined. While he set cream and sugar on the table, I caught Florine studying me.

I wanted our eyes to meet again and for her to look at me with renewed fondness. While I sincerely doubted the relationship we had once entertained would ever be resurrected, our abrupt ending had always felt incomplete. Florine hadn't simply been a lover; she had been a good friend, one whose company I had enjoyed.

"Do you still have the bird?" she asked.

"I do."

"In a cage or the ice box?"

"That is an awful thing to say about Elvira."

"As I have heard from various sources, she's a fairly awful pet."

"Well, she isn't a pet, for one, and she's currently perched by the window telling unsuspecting people off. To me, she's the ideal companion. No one would tolerate Elvira the way that I do and I'm certain you would not be surprised to know that a scarlet macaw finds me more tolerable than most people."

Florine genuinely chuckled. "You and that bird."

"I should have brought her with me."

"I should think not."

"She hasn't bitten anyone in quite some time," I said.

Florine narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying she is due to bite someone?"

"I would not allow her to do you harm," I vowed.

"I suppose you reserve that for yourself," Florine said under her breath.

Her words took me by surprise. I took a long sip of coffee despite the contents being steaming hot. "Are you attending the new production at The Opera Populaire?" I asked in an attempt to redirect the conversation.

"I am," she answered, looking past me. "Are you?"

"I'm waiting to hear from the theater if there shall be tickets set aside for me. Hopefully a messenger will deliver them this evening when I return home."

Florine blankly stared at me, her lips thinning into a scowl. She continued to look past me, her gaze over my left shoulder. "Why would the theater set aside tickets for you?"

Another jab on her part, this one not as friendly. I studied her for a moment, wondering what had silently transpired where our conversation went from enjoyable to cutting remarks on her part.

"That's a very good question. Why would the theater set aside tickets for someone as lowly as me?" I muttered.

Immediately her gaze snapped back to me, lips parting. For a brief moment I thought she would reply, That isn't what I meant, but instead she simply stared at me, her eyes hardened. The civility between us dissipated.

"I had asked for two tickets so that you and Marco could attend," I said. "I wanted to do something for you. For both of you since…"

Since you will not allow me to speak to my son.

"That isn't necessary. You know I have always had season tickets."

"Yes, I remember." I rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek, waiting for her to say that she at least appreciated the gesture.

"You could sell them since they aren't needed," she suggested.

"Or I could simply invite someone else," I said under my breath, irritated by her response.

"I'm certain you have a very long list of potential guests," she said. "Or do you remember their names? Perhaps you think of your conquests as the woman with perfect breasts? Blond with the green dress? The brunette that likes being taken from behind?"

Again she looked past me. My jaw clenched.

"Shall I apologize for my actions that have had no bearing on your life for the last seventeen years?" I asked.

"You have had quite the significant bearing on my life. Or have you forgotten what you left me with, Monsieur Kimmer?"

My breath hitched. "Allow me to do something for Marco," I pleaded.

"That is why I am here. Do you have the letter or are you simply wasting my afternoon?"

I reached into my pocket and handed her the envelope, which she tore open. In silence she unfolded the single page and began to read the recommendation.

"Who is Hugo Duarte?" she asked.

"The professor whose position I took when he retired," I answered.

"Did he write this or did you?"

"He did," I answered. "As a favor to me."

"And the dean will accept this?"

"I cannot guarantee–"

Florine briefly glared at me, then lowered her gaze and read through the letter before she folded the paper and returned it to the envelope, giving no indication of whether or not she found it satisfactory.

"What professors are available at the university?"

"I teach Painting and Drawing, and Art History. Monsieur Raitt teaches pottery, stained glass and weaving."

Florine appeared displeased. "There is no one else besides you?"

She made it sound as though I were the most vile choice available. I shook my head. "Unfortunately not."

Florine inhaled. "That is not ideal."

"There is nothing I can do about your ideals."

She sighed, lips pursed. Unexpectedly she slid a folded piece of paper across the table toward me.

"What is this?" I asked.

"An example of my son's work."

My heart stuttered. I stared at the folded paper for a moment, greedily desiring to unfold it at once and examine the drawing by my son.

I slid the paper further across the table and paused. "Did Marco give this to you?" I asked.

Florine eyed me. "He left it out."

"Out where?" I asked.

"In his bedroom."

I frowned, eyes fixed on the paper. "He has no idea you took it, does he?"

Florine shrugged. "Not yet."

I sighed. There were hundreds of drawings I'd sketched before bed, hunched over in a chair, my mind wandering with half-thoughts.

Most of the time, the results were nothing magnificent and quite often nothing I wished to share with others. They were simply bits and pieces of my day or my past; a man sitting across from me in a jail cell with an obviously broken nose, smoke rising in the east from a factory, and Elvira when I had first freed her from the salon, featherless and bloody.

I slid the paper back across the table without unfolding it. "As much as I appreciate the sentiment, this is not yours to give."

Florine stared at me, unblinking. "You don't want it?"

"There is nothing I would want more than to see…" My son's, our son's… "Your son's drawing. But if this was taken from his bedroom without his knowledge or permission, then it isn't for me. Or for you."

Florine scoffed. "You act like it's some deep, dark secret. It's nothing more than a silly drawing he left on his nightstand."

I didn't expect Florine to understand, but still I attempted to explain. "From one artist to another, it doesn't feel right, Florine. In the future, if there is the opportunity for me to know Marco, I would rather him be able to openly share his art as he desires. I would not want you or anyone else walking into my studio and taking sketches without my consent."

"Very well." Florine snatched up the paper and stood. "Good day, Phelan," she said. I started to stand as well, but she waved her hand and dismissed the gesture.

My lips parted, and I considered asking Florine to stay a moment more.

I longed to tell her that I missed the person she had been to me. The affection I had felt for her kept me from sitting in a jail cell for the duration of time we had spent together. I wanted to please her, to see her smile when our eyes met, the way she blushed when I touched her hand.

She was the reason I walked away from conflicts, my heart set on seeing her rather than iron bars and Val's look of perpetual disgust when he came to retrieve me.

I had cared for Florine deeply until the physically insatiable part of our relationship resulted in her womb carrying a child, my child. Her wedding date to Baptiste Fabienne was moved up significantly to hide her condition, and by the time she returned to Paris as a widower, I'd been in and out of incarceration multiple times. My knuckles were bloodied from brawls, my eyes often blackened from altercations. Rarely was I worse for wear than whatever fool had rolled up his sleeves and challenged me to do my worst.

The person Florine had made me want to be vanished in her absence, and after a while, I wasn't certain that part of me would ever return.

"Florine," I said. She had been both soft and stern, giving and demanding. She knew what she wanted from me and I had given it to her without question. "Please."

Her hardened gaze confirmed what I already knew: she was not interested in anything I had to say. With the letter of recommendation, she had everything she could want from me–and I knew damned well it was more than I had provided for Marco in all seventeen of his years.

"Why, Monsieur, you needn't get up," Florine dryly said. "It appears there's already a woman waiting to take my seat. How unexpected."