There was a small "Easter egg" in the latest Beyond Ghosts and Shadows chapter (Ch 164). It's a line that's been repeated a few times in this story that's also used again in this chapter.

Hold onto your hats and fasten your seat belt, there's a lot going on in the next few chapters.

CH 56

"There you are. You just missed Bern and Celeste. They left not fifteen minutes ago," Abigail said when I walked into her shop for my fitting before the opera Friday evening.

"I'm seeing the two of them off to Wissant this evening," I said. "Seven thirty-seven departure, I believe."

"Pushed back to eight fifteen," Abigail said.

"Bernard was afraid of that," I said.

"Try this on, will you?"

She handed me a hanger with the emerald green suit in question and motioned me toward the fitting room.

"The shop looks nice," I commented, peeking out from behind the curtain as I hung up my shirt and folded my trousers, which I placed onto the bench.

"You mean no longer fit for swine," the unexpected voice of Howard replied.

"Good afternoon," I said, surprised by my own pleasant tone. "How are you this afternoon, Howard?"

"I cannot leave this horrid city a moment too soon," he answered.

"Home to some of the finest art, food, and culture in the world," I said as I buttoned the trousers and pulled at the cream colored shirt, adjusting the collar before I donned the waistcoat. "What is not to love about Paris, Monsieur?"

Howard offered his rebuttal in the form of a snort. "Clarence was a fool for ever stepping foot in this city. It stinks, the streets are filled with filth, and no one here ever sleeps. You apparently would not know true misery if it came up and slapped you clear across the face."

"Howard, please," Abigail groaned. "You've been complaining since the moment you arrived. Aren't you exhausted by your own misery?"

"Exhausted from lack of sleep, perhaps. The constant noise is enough to drive someone mad. Give me the beauty of Canada any day of the week, Abigail."

"I have a pass for the Louvre if you'd perhaps like to take in some art while you're visiting," I offered as I drew back the curtain and stepped out of the dressing room.

Howard appeared truly aghast, his bristle brush of a mustache twitching as he sneered. "Art," he groused. "You call nude men and women made of marble and depicted on canvas art? It's indecent, that's what it is. Crude images disguised as culture. I won't stand for it."

"My apologies for suggesting something unsavory."

Howard grumbled to himself and walked out of the shop without another coherent word spoken, arms flapping around as if he might take flight.

"That man. I cannot believe we are related," Abigail said under her breath.

"Indeed. He is far more pleasant than you," I replied.

Abigail narrowed her eyes. "Very amusing, Phelan Kimmer," she said. "Stand on the stool. Let me see what I have left to do."

"The suit you altered for Bernard to wear to the ballet looked very nice," I said as she adjusted my arm and checked the sleeve length.

"He looked very handsome," Abigail said. "The right suit makes all the difference." She glanced up at me with a twinkle in her green eyes. "I told him yesterday before he and Celeste left the shop that he looked so nice for his first ballet that if he wasn't careful, he was going to end up with a half dozen marriage proposals. Little Celeste most certainly wasn't receptive to that idea."

"No?"

Abigail lifted my left arm, carefully placing her fingers against my wrist. "She told him no girls," Abigail said with a chuckle.

"Bernard has told Celeste multiple times that boys are trouble."

"That is the absolute truth," Abigail replied. She looked up at me and smiled again. "I believe I am standing in front of quite the troublemaker right now."

"I haven't caused a bit of trouble in at least three days," I dryly retorted.

"Three entire days? Is that a record for you?"

"It very well could be," I admitted.

"Despite your penchant for starting trouble, Bern told me he had a wonderful time last night," Abigail said. "And he told me Eleanor and Celeste explained the whole ballet to him on the way back."

"Eleanor." I chuckled to myself.

"I assume he meant Elizabeth?"

"Yes, and I may start calling my niece Eleanor merely to annoy her." I answered.

Abigail swatted at me. "There goes your three day streak."

I smiled to myself. "That streak lasted longer than anyone would have guessed."

"Did you enjoy the ballet?" Abigail asked.

"I believe explaining the plot to Bernard was Celeste and Elizabeth's favorite part of the night. Mine was probably the sorbet. The ballet itself was amusing."

"Bernard said he's had a lovely time visiting after his match," Abigail commented. "I don't believe he's ever truly enjoyed himself here previously, aside from the times he and Bea visited here and she could play with Gen.."

"Seeing you again must have been an unexpected surprise for him and you must have been equally pleased to see him again after all these years."
Abigail paused, her hands at my waist as she confirmed the width. She looked up at me and made a face. "We have enjoyed seeing one another, no doubt," she admitted, "but I wasn't talking about me. Bern speaks so highly of you, like a younger brother he hasn't seen in ages."

Abigail's observation left me speechless. My first thought was to swiftly reply that I was not a younger brother; I was the eldest sibling and nothing would ever change that.

"He said that?" I asked instead.

Abigail stood behind me and tugged at the back of the overcoat, then smoothed her hands down my back. "I believe his exact words were that you weren't as bad as he first thought, like a younger, disagreeable brother."

"Disagreeable?" I groused.

"You should be quite pleased that Bern said you weren't as bad as he first thought. That's very high praise."

I made a face. "The compliments are truly overwhelming," I dryly replied.

"I'd like to take this in just a hair," Abigail said, pinching the back of the overcoat. "Hold still so I don't poke you in the spine."

"Stabbing me in the back, are we?" I questioned, feigning insult.

"Not on purpose. Now, you may get down and look in the mirror," she said, patting me on the arm. "Tell me what you think of the color."

I stepped down from the stool and rolled my shoulders back, standing upright as I approached the mirror. For the most part I had avoided green in favor of blue and occasionally gray suits as I'd never thought any shade of green was agreeable with my hair or skin tone.

"Well?" Abigail asked as she stood beside me, facing the mirror.

"I almost match your eyes," I commented.

A close-lipped smile slowly crept onto her lips. "You almost do," she agreed. "Emerald looks very lovely on you. It brings out the flecks of green in your eyes, actually."

My heart ached. Erik's eyes were green with flecks of blue that appeared gray in certain conditions while my eyes were gray with hints of green. I had almost forgotten how often he would pause in the middle of speaking, his face nearly pressed to mine, and say that green was bursting from my eyes, like there was a forest within my irises.

Of course at the age of three, he had no idea what to call it, but he would say that the forest was sticking out of my eyeballs again, little trees in the dark clouds.

And then quite often, with absolutely no intention of doing me harm, he would try to touch the trees, thus poking me in the eye.

"What are you wearing for tomorrow night?" I asked, attempting to dismiss the thought.

Her hand gently trailed down from my shoulder to my wrist before she turned and walked toward a rack of clothing. "This," she said, producing a dress in the same shade as my suit, but in a different material that shimmered in the light. The bodice was decorated with embroidered threads of copper, gray, blue and lighter green, creating a swirling pattern that reminded me of waves.

"Did you do this by hand?" I asked, running my fingers over the embellishments.

"Several years ago, yes," Abigail answered. "When Clarence put the finishing touches on the suit."

"It's beautiful," I said. "A truly magnificent piece of art."

Abigail grinned. "You would definitely be the expert on art."

"Hardly."

"The art professor whose show is very well-received?"

"It's not my art show," I replied. "I am one of seven artists who has work on display."

Abigail returned the dress to the rack and placed one hand on her hip. "And how many of those artists are going to have a drawing at the Louvre this summer?"

I looked away from her and smiled. "Bernard told you."

"Thankfully," Abigail said. "You certainly weren't about to tell me."

"It's not a done deal," I said. "I haven't spoken to the curator yet and there is a chance he won't be interested."

Abigail inhaled. "There is also a chance that he will love your artwork the moment he sees it and that by next summer you'll have sold so many paintings and drawings that you'll be the wealthiest artist in all of France."

"If Bernard continues purchasing my paintings, I'll be the wealthiest by the end of this summer."

"Bern said you refused payment on a sketch."

"No, I refused an obscene amount of money offered over a rough draft of his daughter," I said.

Abigail's lips parted. "He didn't say it was a sketch of Beatrix."

I frowned at her words. "I will not accept a single franc for the portrait," I said. "It feels wrong to ask him to pay any sum of money considering what he has lost."

Abigail smiled back at me. "As I said, he is very fond of you. I have no doubt you gifting Bern a portrait of his daughter has solidified your place as quite possibly his closest friend."

"Like an obnoxious little brother."

"There is no higher compliment. And it's worth mentioning that I am very fond of you as well, troublemaker that you are," she teased, poking me in the ribs.

I playfully caught her by the wrist. "You and your bony fingers digging into my ribs."

"Where would you have me digging my fingers?" she lightly asked.

I drew her closer and she looked up at me, her moss green eyes filled with a familiar temptation that had often led to me following her up the stairs to her bedroom.

We stood facing one another for a long moment, bodies pressed together, her breaths warm and somewhat labored in the most intriguing lifted her hand and lightly cupped my cheek, and it felt like our flesh would meld together.

If only this had been the beginning, one fleeting glance followed by a coy batting of eyelashes, one moment of feeling her pulse and me holding her tighter, desiring to feel the rush of her blood through her veins.

She looked me over, a curious look on her face. I would have had her long, slender fingers digging into my shoulders or back, her legs wrapped around my hips, full, luscious lips pressed to mine. I would have preferred knowing her bit by bit, the cadence of her breath, the warmth of her cheek to mine, the flutter of her lashes. I wanted every bit she had to offer, inside and out. Her flesh I knew well, but there were deeper and more mysterious aspects I desired.

Clearing my throat, I took a step back and released Abigail, well aware that I could not resist her much longer if we remained in close proximity.

"What time shall I be over tomorrow?" I asked, feeling terribly awkward by the sudden end of something that felt incredibly intimate without explanation.

Abigail took a deep breath and turned away from me, fixing her hair. "Six?" she guessed.

"Would you like to have dinner first?" I asked, feeling very much like an uncertain youth attempting to catch the eye of a young lady he fancied.

"If you'd like."

"I would like–" I started to say, but thought better of it.

Abigail stared wide-eyed at me, frozen like an innocent doe unsure of whether or not she treaded into danger.

"What would you like?" she hoarsely questioned, straightening her blouse.

I followed the movement of her hands along her neckline, down her breasts and to her abdomen where she spread her fingers.

"I would like to take you dinner," I said. "If you would do me the honor of a full evening out."

"That would be lovely."

Neither one of us had moved from where we stood, like two mannequins holding a conversation, neither one able to speak normally as if conversation were a foreign concept.

"I've wanted to try the Lemon Tree," I suggested.

"The Lemon Tree it is," Abigail agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. She shifted her weight, her gaze pinned to my chest. "Is there anything else, Phelan?"

"Yes," I answered, my throat unexpectedly dry.

"Please, continue then."

It felt as though a lifetime passed between us, the words on the tip of my tongue refusing to be spoken.

"Phelan–"

"I would also like to kiss you," I blurted out.

Abigail inclined her head. She stood more than an arm's length away from me, but the moment I stepped forward, she did the same, and as the space between us closed, the emptiness gave way to the most pleasant warmth that washed over me.

"I would like you to kiss me," Abigail whispered.

oOo

It was a chaste kiss and nothing more, a simple joining of her soft lips to mine. I felt the heat of her breaths and heard her sigh and then, after one wondrous moment, I pulled away, cupped the back of her head, and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.

I lingered there for a long moment, lost in the gentle bliss we shared. Abigail lifted her hand and caressed the shell of my ear and I smiled to myself, knowing it could go no further while still appreciating every sensation.

Abigail seemed surprised when it ended, but she didn't ask for me to continue or suggest we go upstairs to her bedroom. She offered the faintest of smiles, a look so serene that it reminded me of how she looked with her head against the pillow, our bodies still vibrating with mutual satisfaction.

"My…" Abigail breathlessly said. "That was certainly something memorable."

I chuckled, smiling to myself. "Would you like to view the paintings I have on display at the gallery tomorrow?" I asked. "I don't have classes on Friday. If you'd care to meet me–"

"Yes," she agreed before I finished speaking. "Yes, I would love that."

"Noon?"

"One is better only because of when I walk Clarence home from the schoolhouse."

"I'll be here at one, then," I replied.

I was certain by the look on her face that she could feel the same thrum in her bloodstream that I felt in mine. It was the type of sensation I imagined some men searched for at the bottom of a glass bottle, intoxication that dulled the aching of ordinary life. I couldn't imagine the sensation truly existed in liquid form, that anything could replicate how I felt in that moment.

"Take off the suit," Abigail said before I turned to walk out the door.

I froze, taken aback by her words. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said take off the suit. I still need to finish the alterations before tomorrow."

"Oh. Yes, of course," I said.

When I looked at her again, her face was a deeper shade of crimson than I thought possible, but she grinned back at me. "I suppose I could have worded that more appropriately."

"As you said, we cannot continue the way that things were," I said as I returned to the dressing room.

Abigail returned to her work table. "I suppose you're disappointed."

I stood behind the curtain with my shirt halfway unbuttoned and trousers pooled on the ground at my feet.

"Are you?" I asked.

"A little."

"Would you believe me if I said I am not disappointed? Frustrated, I suppose, but not disappointed."

Abigail was quiet for a long moment. "I always thought of you as quite insatiable."

I neatly folded the shirt I had tried on and grabbed the one I had worn into the shop. "I am insatiable," I answered, stepping out of the newly fitted trousers and into my regular blue ones. "But I suppose not in the way you would think."

I heard her footsteps cross the length of the shop, pausing outside of the dressing room. "You will have to speak more plainly for me to understand."

For a long moment I fell silent, taking the time to button my trousers while the curtain separated us.

"You have made me insatiable for something I never knew I wanted," I replied at last.
"And what would that be?" Abigail asked.

"A connection that is more than physical," I answered quite honestly. "Something…hopefully sustainable."

"Courtship?" she asked.

I leaned against the wall and bowed my head, uncertain of how to voice my feelings on the matter, aware that if I said I was not interested in courtship after asking to kiss her, she would think of my request as the actions of a scoundrel.

"Not yet," I replied. "Perhaps some day, but not yet."

Abigail drew back the curtain just enough to peer inside at me. "You are not one to commit."

"It's not a lack of commitment," I answered defensively.

"Then what is it?"

My heart thudded in my chest, blood racing through my veins. "The fear of failure," I said, wincing as I spoke.

Abigail studied me in silence. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Loss," I said under my breath. "I fear that if I focus on one person, I increase the chance of losing them exponentially. I would rather not have anyone at all than risk losing their affection."

"That sounds very lonely."

"Perhaps, but I would accept loneliness over the greed of courtship when I am aware of all I lack."

Abigail drew the curtain back further and looked me over. I wasn't sure if she was disappointed in my words.

"I would absolutely pull you into this dressing room and sweep you into my arms this very minute and leave us both physically satisfied."

The cadence of her breathing turned harsher, breasts noticeably heaving. I stood upright and linked my hands together behind my back, resisting the temptation of caresses and freely given kisses that would lead to old habits.

"I do care for you," I told her. "I care for you enough where I would not intentionally lead you to believe I am someone I am not, and for now, I am not the sort of person who would provide for you in the ways you deserve in terms of courtship. I do not regret asking to kiss you, nor will I deny the sort of impure thoughts the sight of you has racing through my mind, but I will not ask for anything further."

Abigail sighed heavily. "You are a very frustrating man, one whom I find both attractive and maddening," Abigail said lightly. She swatted at my arm and sighed heavily. "My blood is practically boiling in my veins after a single kiss."

"It was a good kiss. One that I will think about for the rest of the day and possibly tomorrow if you will still do me the honor of attending the gallery show and a night at the opera."

Abigail folded her arms and took a deep breath. "The gallery, dinner, and the opera tomorrow," she said.

"I would like to be with you," I replied. "As friends."

Abigail nodded. "As friends."

oOo

The chill of April erased any amorous thoughts, and by the time I returned home, I was desperate for the warmth of a good cup of coffee to chase away the cold that had penetrated my fingers and caused my face and ears to burn.

"Why in the devil's name is it so damned cold?" I asked Elvira, who had started to scream for the snails she knew were in the terrarium on the opposite side of the room.

In quite the ambitious attempt, I'd created a little greenhouse years earlier out of plated glass panels soldered together with lead-tin that held several plants I'd managed to not merely keep alive, but that had flourished in their humid confines. In a separate, smaller compartment was a space dedicated to the snails when I had an abundance.

"No more snails for the remainder of the day," I firmly said. "You must pace yourself. They aren't readily available this time of year."

"Shhhh!" Elvira responded.

"You are more temperamental than me," I said over my shoulder as I poked the soil with my index finger to see if the plants were in need of watering.

The greenhouse, despite being only large enough for a handful of plants, brought me greater joy than I would have ever imagined. There was something indescribably pleasing about the little forest contained in my apartment, a touch of spring and summer even when the outside world was bitterly cold.

Elvira continued to scream as though I would relent and give in to her demands, wings flapping as she engaged in a blood-curdling tantrum worthy of an audience.

"You are not the only one a bit frustrated over what you cannot have," I said over my shoulder as I spritzed water onto the fern. "I, for one, have denied myself in the most excruciatingly painful way. Do you have any idea what it feels like to want something, but to know you could very well have it, but still make a better decision? Quite frankly, I don't know what has come over me."

Elvira proceeded to imitate crying.

"Crying will not make it any better," I said, amused by her reaction. "In fact, I assume crying will only make it worse."

"You are fortunate I tolerate you," she replied in my voice, using a phrase I told her often.

"Indeed." I closed the top of the greenhouse and turned to face her. Elvira's vocabulary had become quite impressive over the years, her knack for imitation astounding as I'd never expected her to advance beyond the handful of expletives she'd learned at the salon for the first half of her life.

"And you are fortunate to be a bird whose greatest challenge in life is not biting the hand that feeds you."

"Careful, she bites!"

I shook my head at Elvira. "I wish you were able to offer a bit of advice rather than screeching," I said.

She eyed me in surprising silence, as if she wanted to hear my concerns.

"I think I…I think I want to love someone," I said, "which seems like an odd thing to say because anyone else would simply love without question. It seems simple from the outside. Meet someone, realize that you care for them, fall in love, and then… Then what? I've done the first two. The third? I'm not sure how I leap from the second one to the third. It feels like there is far too much room for error."

Elvira preened her feathers and vocalized like she was clearing her throat.

"And what if I leave my heart exposed like a nerve? What if she discovers something about me that she finds repulsive and asks me to never see her again? What if I discover something about her that I find terrible and must break off the relationship?" I scoffed at my own words. "As if there was anything that I could possibly find terrible about Abigail. She is wonderful. She is better than I deserve and I am well aware that she is giving me a second chance and I'm terrified I will somehow ruin it. Whatever 'it' is. Not courtship. I told her I wasn't prepared and clearly, consulting a bird proves that to be true."

I swallowed, still thinking of our kiss. We had done so much more than kiss for nearly three years. I'd followed her upstairs to her apartment once or twice a week for nothing more than meaningless small talk before undressing her for our mutual physical pleasure.

"I want to love her," I said. "I want to be…"

Better. Worthy. Someone else entirely, someone who was not terrified of loss and so stricken with grief that I could not focus on the present or future. Abigail deserved someone whole in her life, someone who could give her the attention and affection she deserved.

"I want to be good to her," I said aloud. "I want to be good for her. It shouldn't be difficult, should it? I feel as though I need a manual to consult on the matter of being able to love someone. That is how inept I am at forming any sort of meaningful bond with another person."

Gooseflesh rose along my arms. Outside of Erik, I had never felt a connection to anyone. Bjorn and Gyda were not parents nurturing a child. Bjorn had no capacity for affection and Gyda

couldn't care for herself, let alone two children. Alak and Val were both disappointed in me for various reasons. The woman with the cart had disappeared, abandoning me without explanation.

"I am fairly certain that love is something that you learn and I am so far behind I don't know if I will ever catch up to others. I ache in ways that I am certain no one else has ever experienced, in ways that I am not sure will ever be healed."

Elvira made several clicking sounds. I had no idea what her response meant, but I assumed she agreed with everything I said.

"This would have been a better conversation for Hugo," I said. "But you have been an excellent listener, Elvira. If I allow you onto my shoulder while I draw, do you promise not to create havoc?" I patted my shoulder, indicating that I wanted her to sit with me, which was almost as great a privilege as snails.

"Elvira, you're such a good girl," she said in my voice. "Papa loves you." She whistled several times and bobbed her head, prepared to leave her stand in favor of my shoulder.

"I will take that as a yes, you are going to be an exemplary macaw for the remainder of the evening and make Papa very proud of you."

With Elvira perched on my shoulder and several sketchbooks of various sizes on hand, I opened my newest book to the image of Beatrix and pinned the page in place with a clip. For a long moment I merely studied the drawing of Bernard's daughter, attempting to get a feel for her personality before I started on the larger portrait.

Most of my portrait subjects were living, breathing people. On occasion I had drawn people that were mostly made up of several individuals: the hair of a woman at the park with her husband, the lips of a woman daydreaming at the cafe, and the eyes, mouths, and features of students over the years.

Beatrix had been a greater challenge, one that had been successful per Bernard's reaction. It was difficult to study her rough sketch and not feel a deep sense of remorse that she had been senselessly killed.

"Your father is such an extraordinary person, Beatrix," I murmured. "There is no doubt in my mind that you knew how much he adored you and that he showed you every minute the two of you were together how special you were to him. There is no doubt in my mind you were equally extraordinary, but I'm certain all you had to do was exist and Bernard would have loved you regardless."

I sketched her smiling, both close-lipped and with her head slightly tilted back as she laughed, radiating joy. I put her in profile and also looking directly ahead at her father, eyes and mouth softened. I knew Bernard would pause frequently before the portrait to see her face wherever the image was displayed in his home and wanted him to be able to smile back at her in the same fashion.

An hour and a half later, I had multiple images of Beatrix Montlaur on a larger sheet of paper with various expressions for Bernard to choose from as the final portrait.

"I have no idea what I will do without seeing your father first thing in the morning tomorrow," I said to the four small Beatrix's sitting on my drawing table. "I don't think I've ever become such swift friends with anyone else before. It's like having a–"

Brother.

My heart thudded. I thought frequently of Erik and I as children, but it was much more difficult to envision our lives entwined as adults. I wondered if a relationship in our thirties would have been as simple as the one Bernard and I had formed in a matter of days. I wanted to believe that the transition would have been seamless in nature, that the two of us would meet and immediately be able to speak for hours without ever experiencing a lull in the conversation.

Despite how much I truly did appreciate Bernard, our time together was at an end. He would be on a train within hours, and the man whom I respected and would have liked to have thought of as a brother would no longer be around for weight lifting, meditation, and conversation. He could not be a brother to me. I couldn't stand the thought of losing another one.

The reality of the situation hit me harder than I would have imagined. Perhaps before or after I spent a few weeks in Italy for the summer, a visit to Northern France would be in order, first to Conforeit to work on the house and then Wissant to visit with Bernard and Celeste.

And Erik? I wanted to believe that by the end of the weekend I would finally make contact with my brother. Instead of Italy and Northern France, there was a chance I would remain in Paris or travel to whatever town or province he called home.

I imagined him in a grand villa, long windows filling his home with sunlight and a grand piano decorated with a large vase of trailing ivy and a bouquet of the most fragrant flowers straight from his own garden.

I pictured Erik living by the sea, my little brother's most favorite place in the world, sun-drenched sand and sparkling waves crashing upon the cliffs where his villa overlooked the ocean, fueling his creativity.

What if he is in Wissant, I mused. Two brothers; one by blood, one by coincidence, both living by the sea.

And Jean? Where did he fit into my future with Erik?I had not thought of what would happen in regards to him meeting Erik. He had been my friend for almost as long as I'd lived in Paris, a brother to me in many ways, but his cruel remarks aimed at Bernard still didn't sit well with me. I couldn't imagine what he would say to or think of Erik when he met him.

"First I must find Erik," I said to myself as I closed the sketchbook and rolled the original sketch into a small cardboard tube to safely hand over to Bernard.

"And then I will address what follows."