Chapter 2
PHELAN
"Oh! What a delight! My handsome husband has returned!" Hugo exclaimed the moment I walked into his home. "And on his birthday no less. Happy fiftieth, my dear."
I immediately issued my fraudulent wife a significant look. "My darling, you know very well I am not fifty."
Hugo made a face. "Forgive me, then, Phelan, but how old are you now? You're not older than fifty, are you?"
Nothing kept my vanity in check quite like Hugo insinuating that I looked fifteen years older than my actual age. The audacity of my fake wife with her unkempt beard and jam-stained shirt.
"Oh for God's sake, Hugo, I'm thirty-five."
"As in you were thirty-four yesterday or you are thirty-six today?"
Hugo could not have made the situation more confusing. I found him both frustrating and amusing.
"I turned thirty-five today," I said.
"And you don't look a day over it, either," Hugo replied.
To that, I sighed and shook my head, finding him utterly exhausting. "How have you been?" I asked, taking a seat beside him in the parlor.
"Quite well," Hugo said. "And yourself?"
"So far the day has been good," I said as I began rearranging the books, magazines and newspapers on the coffee table into separate stacks.
Thankfully Dorothea had returned and the house was back to its normal state of disarray rather than the chaotic touches Hugo added while he had been on his own.
I had kept up as much as possible, but with limited time and Hugo's ability to constantly create small disasters, I felt bad for what Dorothea must have returned to after her holiday.
"How is Italy?"
I told Hugo the same thing I told everyone else about the marble quarries and he agreed that it was not easy work, but hoped it was worthwhile.
"You know, Lucille La Behr paid me a visit just the other day," Hugo mentioned. "Did you know the two of you share a birthday?"
"I did, actually."
Hugo nodded slowly. "Fate works in mysterious ways, does it not?"
"I have no idea what that is supposed to mean."
"Oh, don't play daft, Phelan. You know what I mean. Luci is very happy you have returned."
"And I am quite pleased to be back."
"Have you seen her yet?"
"Yes. We met this morning for a picnic."
Hugo's eyes twinkled with delight. "A picnic! This is excellent news."
I didn't disagree with Hugo, but merely nodded in agreement, hoping to curb his level of excitement before he planned a wedding and the naming of children he saw produced from the union he envisioned.
"How are things with Lucille?" Hugo asked.
"What do you mean 'how are things'? I've known her for two and a half months, with one of those months spent in a different country."
"And yet that is still a record for you."
"What precisely are you recording, Hugo?"
Hugo sniffed. "Do you want me to say it out loud?"
"Yes, I do," I said, challenging my mentor to be uncouth.
Hugo crossed his arms. "Women never last more than a night or two with you, do they? You are in and out of beds like they've caught fire."
Of course Hugo had the audacity to say it out loud and Dorothea had the unfortunate timing to walk past the parlor as he spoke. She looked at her employer first, then at me, eyes wide and cheeks burning red before she swiftly skittered toward the kitchen.
"We are not spending nights together," I said.
"Good," Hugo said with a nod of approval. "I'm glad you are conducting yourself like a proper and respectful gentleman."
"Have you seen Marco recently?" I asked in an attempt to change the subject.
Hugo's expression swiftly turned into a frown. "Not since April, no. I've sent him several notes by messenger, but none have been answered."
"That is worrisome."
"I truly don't understand where he could have gone," Hugo replied.
"If time allows, I'll pay his mother a visit," I said, thinking it had been months since she had the opportunity to yell at me. Florine probably thought she was well overdue for berating me.
"Marco is a bit like you."
"That hardly sounds like a compliment."
"Well, it certainly isn't an insult."
"Marco might think otherwise."
Hugo scowled at me. "I see Italy has not changed your disagreeable disposition."
"I can assure you that my disposition is nothing short of delightful and has been before, during, and after my travels."
"Indeed, Phelan. Indeed."
"Are you coming Friday?" I asked.
"Of course I am coming Friday," he said. "You know I would not miss that for the world."
I smiled to myself.
"I don't know what I would do without you. Truly."
"Pray you never find out, my darling."
oOo
Since we were meeting at the salon rather than at Luci's house, I stopped by the Carlyle Club to see who was in attendance and was pleased to find many of the regular members, including Sebatian and his brother Ivo, Calista and her brother Pierre, Mona, and her friend Francesca, who mostly came to observe and nibble on the freely offered snacks.
Sebastian was more pleased than anyone to see me, even when I made it clear that I could only stay for an hour as I had other commitments. He was no different than Duke, displaying his enthusiasm like the dog when presented with a ball.
To my surprise, Sebatian was the first to show his sketch of an older man feeding red squirrels in the park. Rather than sulk at the end of the table, he sat in the middle, waiting to hear feedback regarding his art.
I found myself pleasantly surprised that the rules set forth in April were still utilized by the group, and that scathing remarks were no longer rampant or encouraged. Suggestions were given with care, and Sebastian nodded readily as his sketch was analyzed by his fellow artists.
Calista showed off her still life of cheese and grapes, along with a knife that everyone agreed was exquisitely done as it showed the reflection of a coat rack.
Pierre showed a nude self-portrait, which Calista refused to view despite her brother insisting was tasteful. Personally I sided with Calista as nothing about Pierre undressed was tasteful.
Mona, whom I was surprised to see, brought a portrait of her mother that was good, but not her best work. Several people mentioned that the focal point was off and Mona admitted she had felt something was missing and was glad for their input.
Ivo brought a painting he had touched up of street beggars squatting against a building, cups in hand and head bowed. It was the third rendition that he'd brought since May and most members seemed to express that his second attempt was better.
"Did you bring something, Professor Kimmer?" Calista asked as the group turned to me.
"Not today," I answered.
"Nothing?" Calista asked. "Surely you have something in your satchel?"
My sketchbook was filled with an embarrassing amount of drawings dedicated to Lucille, and like a shy adolescent, I decided not to share my work as I fully suspected a bit of teasing from Pierre and many questions from Mona and Calista asking for the name of my subject.
"Unfortunately, my sketchbook is still in my apartment," I replied, my words meant with groans.
"When does the show at the Louvre start?" Ivo asked.
"Friday," I answered. "And it's not a show, it's a temporary exhibit."
"Are we invited?" Sebastian asked.
"It's open to the public," I responded. "If you want to attend, you are welcome to stop by at any time."
"Professor Kimmer, you are basically royalty to us," Ivo said. "Regardless if it's a show or temporary exhibit, you have a drawing at the Louvre and we will be there the moment they open the door."
"We shall storm in like creative cattle," Sebastian said.
"I appreciate your support," I said. "And I would also appreciate no one storming in like a farm animal."
"When will you be back, Professor?" Pierre asked.
"If all goes as planned, the end of next month."
oOo
I was glad for the brief interlude back to Paris. Never i my life would I have ever thought I'd be homesick for that damned city, but I found myself grateful to wander the familiar neighborhood.
Bloom's was closed when I walked out of the Carlyle Club and toward the salon occupied by writers and poets. There had been no reply to the note I'd left to Madame Giry or Erik, and so much time had passed that I doubted there would ever be communication from Madame Giry.
There was no doubt in my mind that she knew what had happened to my brother and that she could have answered all of the questions I had regarding what had led to his untimely demise.
My heart felt undeniably certain that Erik had taken his own life, and nearly every night that I laid in bed at the inn in Carrara at the end of a grueling day, I went over mentally what I could have done to prevent my brother's death.
I could have paid attention when Erik was three and a half and begging to walk down to the water. Ultimately, that was what had changed the trajectory of our lives. Since that had not happened, I could have chosen the correct door and not ended up in the alley outside of the opera house when I'd seen him again for the first time in decades.
That was how I chose to fall asleep, tormented myself for all of my wrongdoings. One note from Madame Giry would not have provided closure, but knowing what had happened would have at least given me the truth.
And then I could have spent the rest of my life fixating on the true answer and how Erik's suicide was all my doing.
Thankfully, my dark thoughts were pushed away as I approached the salon. Luci met me outside of the salon where the writers met with her hair curled and held up with two dozen sparkling pins.
"Your hair looks nice," I commented.
She looked like a completely different person. Not in a good or bad way, but merely different as I'd never seen her with her hair done up with decorative pins in a more elegant style. Her blond locks were usually beneath her work cap, swim cap, or a loose bun that was slightly-off center, which I found quite endearing with its perfect imperfection.
"Thank you, Fway-lawn. Despite canceled dinner plans, I kept my hair salon appointment," she said, smiling back at me. "A gift to myself for my birthday."
"An appropriate gift," I said.
"Except it's terribly uncomfortable." Her shoulders sagged.
"Uncomfortable?" I questioned.
"Yes, the pins are so tight against my scalp it's been giving me a headache for the last two hours."
"Oh. Can it be loosened?" I asked.
Lucille shrugged. "Possibly, but if I start moving pins about, my entire head might fall off."
"Is that what's holding your head on?" I said lightly.
"I believe the pins are the only thing holding my head up at this point."
"Well, we can't have you reading poetry with your head rolling across the salon floor as it's absolutely filthy. I don't think anyone has swept since last year."
"I suppose I shall suffer for my art," Luci valiantly declared. "Besides, it's only another two hours. I can survive a four hour headache."
I found myself frowning at her. Four hours of strain to her scalp sounded miserable. "Do you want me to try loosening it a bit?" I asked, moving my head from side to side to examine hers.
"Do you have experience with hairpins, Monsieur Kimmer?" Luci asked, appearing skeptical.
"More than you would expect, Mademoiselle La Behr." I answered.
Lucille tilted her head further forward, allowing me a better view of the top of her head where there was a very large pin with a bejeweled dragonfly.
"Please state your experience for consideration in this crucial matter," she said.
"Well, Eliza spent ten years in ballet," I answered. "Many times I had to walk her down to the studio or to her recitals and I became quite proficient at adjusting a pin or two that was stabbing her in the skull or stretching her brain, as she would tell me. And if she began fiddling with them until they fell out, I put them back in for her. Eliza will confirm she arrived at every recital with pins firmly in place, but not too firmly."
"An expert, then, on the proper placement of hairpins?"
"Knowledgeable through plenty of experience," I said. "I will not claim expertise."
Lucille touched the top of her head, chin dipped to her chest. "What about this one? Wiggle it about a bit?"
"Let me pull it out completely and then insert it again at a slightly different angle and we will see how that feels," I said.
Lucille kept her head down, but lifted her gaze, smirking at me.
"Luc–Lucille," I said under my breath. "I beg your pardon?"
"I didn't say a word," she replied under her breath, batting her lashes.
"Clearly I cannot say anything in front of you."
"You're usually the one I cannot say anything in front of without you misconstruing the meaning."
With a shake of my head, I pretended to ignore her, focusing on the pins, removing two, including the dragonfly. With one pin held between my teeth, I insert the first one back into place and then the other one, making a slight adjustment.
There was something wonderfully intimate about being in such close proximity to her. I inhaled the floral scent of her freshly washed hair and felt the heat of her body beside mine. In silence I relished the way she bowed her head and trusted me to adjust the pins in her hair as well as the slightly intoxicating way the open pin slid easily through her locks of light hair.
"How is that?" I asked, taking a small step back.
She looked up at me, her cheeks rosy. "I think I can fully close my eyes now."
"Good," I said with a smile, nodding at the salon door. "Shall we go inside?"
Luci took my arm and we walked inside to a surprisingly crowded salon with at least thirty people in attendance. The last time I had accompanied Lucille there had been a dozen people in total and only four of them took to the podium and read their short stories or poetry.
"A full house," Lucille said.
"They must know you are reading tonight," I said, leaning toward her to whisper in her ear. "On your birthday."
She looked up at me and smiled as we weaved through the tables in the darkened room and found a spot on the furthest side from the door. There she hefted her bag onto the table.
"Do you mind if I leave my bag?"
"I am honored that you trust me to stand guard over your most precious possessions."
"Don't attempt to organize it while I'm away," she said with a shake of her finger. "I will know if you've touched things."
"I shall refrain," I vowed.
She smiled before she walked the length of the room to sign in for the evening.
I sat back, arms crossed, listening to the conversations around me as the evening had not yet officially started and no one was standing at the podium.
Luci returned a moment later. "Officially on record."
"What number are you?" I asked.
"Six, I think. I should ask." Instead of sitting, she walked away again.
"Is that Lucille La Behr?" I heard the woman behind me ask.
"I believe so," her female companion answered.
"What is she doing with him?"
"Charity," the other woman answered. "Clearly this is an act of charity for that poor wilted little thing. Or it's her cousin escorting her out for the evening."
"With her hair done up like that? I doubt he's only her cousin."
"She's clearly trying to impress him. How sad that it will take more than some sparking hair pins to make her attractive."
"How could she have possibly talked that man into spending the evening with her here?"
"Obviously it's because she's offering him payment afterwards. Why else?"
The two of them snorted with laughter just as Luci returned to our table. She looked at me, then at the women behind us.
"Esme, Claire, how are you?" Lucille asked.
"We thought that was you, Lucille. We're well. How are you?" they asked, their tones significantly more pleasant when they addressed her.
"Wonderful," Lucille asked. "Today is my birthday."
"Ah. Is that your present you have sitting next to you?"
Even in the dark, I saw her blush. "Oh. Uh. Forgive me, this is Phelan Kimmer, he's my…" She looked from them to me. "Uh…"
"Admirer," I answered, turning to face the other women. "Phelan Kimmer, admirer of Lucille La Behr, both as a poet and an extraordinary woman."
I regretted that I focused on the two women and their expressions rather than Lucille. They blinked at me, then looked at Luci and smiled tightly.
"Admirer?" one of them questioned, sounding almost amused.
"Is there a problem?" I asked. I turned to look at Luci, who appeared uncomfortable. "She's quite easy to admire, would you not agree?"
I waited for them to say something–anything–that was not pure flattery. If they spoke a single word I found offensive toward Lucille…
I wanted to believe that I would verbally lash out, but I had no intention of embarrassing Lucille with a flippant remark. However, I was not above thinking incredibly scathing thoughts.
"Of course," one of the women said. I had no idea who was who, nor did I care to learn their names. They meant absolutely nothing to me and there was nothing significant about them to mean anything to Luci. "Happy birthday, Lucille."
"It's Phelan's birthday too," she mentioned.
Both women appeared nothing short of annoyed. "Happy birthday to you as well, Phelan."
With that, Lucille sat beside me, smiling to herself.
"Friends of yours?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"No, not really," she answered.
I turned my head slightly to look at her as we spoke. For a moment I thought she looked as though she were in deep concentration, but realized swiftly enough that she was swallowing back emotion.
"Are you nervous?" I asked.
"No, not really, although there are a lot of people here," she said.
"Because they know you are reading tonight."
She pulled her shoulders up to her ears, squirming in her seat. "Oh, don't say that. I don't want forty people gaping at me."
"My apologies, I suppose I don't want that either," I replied.
Lucille pursed her lips and grabbed her bag, setting it onto the empty seat beside her.
"Phelan," she said suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"Did…never mind."
I studied her for a moment. "Alright."
"No, I am going to ask," she muttered, squaring her shoulders. "Did those two women say anything about me while I was away?" she whispered. "Anything…not very nice?"
As much as I had no desire to lie to her, I would not allow anyone or anything to ruin Luci's poetry reading, let alone her birthday. I looked over my shoulder at the women seated behind us, neither of whom I would have looked at twice, They were pretty enough on the outside, but neither compared to Luci. She was incomparable.
I turned my head further, lips nearly touching the shell of her ear, and spoke slowly and deliberately. "They said Wilbur Witless is currently seated alone at the Glass Frog, openly weeping into his glass of wine after being rejected by the one and only Lucille La Behr."
Luci grinned to herself. "That poor witless fool."
"Indeed."
She moved ever so slightly and my lips brushed against her cheek. The zip of attraction that bounded through me crackled like lightning, split into tendrils that ignited the nerves from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. My breath stilled, the urge to grab her by the chin and kiss her on the lips overwhelming.
"I'm glad you're here with me," Luci said, leaning her head to rest on my shoulder.
"I'm glad to be here with you."
The dragonfly pin prevented me from planting a kiss on Lucille's head, but I settled for sitting with her in close proximity, the simple joy of her presence and the intimacy of her touch satisfying in a way I'd never experienced previously with anyone at all.
Luci remained with her head on my shoulder for quite some time and I noticed the people around us–mostly women–glance in our direction. Some offered weak smiles, others merely observed for a moment and then looked away.
She lifted her head suddenly and I turned my head, searching her face.
"I think people are staring at us," she said, keeping her voice low.
Because they were ignorant, I wanted to tell her. Because they were blind fools who could not see what was clearly in front of them.
"Let them," I said.
Lucille's eyes turned wide. "No," she said firmly. "I don't want them looking at me the entire night."
"I will climb on this chair and recite Shakespear and no one will look at you for the rest of the night."
Luci gaped at me. "No, you will certainly do no such thing," she loudly whispered.
Her response amused me. "No, of course not. For one, I don't believe I'm familiar enough with Shakespear to recite more than a line or two. And secondly, that would be mortifying and I'd never be able to step foot inside of here again."
"Banned by the poets," she said lightly.
Crimes against poetry would certainly be a new low for me."
"But is that really such a tragedy?" she questioned. "Never having to walk into a night of poetry reading? Some may say it was worth it."
I looked around the room. "To never see you doing something you love? Yes, of course that would be a tragedy."
Luci's brow knit and she searched my face for a long moment, as if she expected me to snort with laughter and tell her that I hated sitting in a dark room through two hours of poetry reading and could not have been more miserable.
My words, however, were sincere. There were other speakers that I could have done without, but I enjoyed hearing Lucille read what she wrote.
"I am quite the admirer of Lucille La Behr," I softly reminded her.
At last she smiled at me again and placed her head back onto my shoulder, this time with her arm looped through mine.
Every time she moved to applaud the person at the podium or look around the room to see who stared at her, she eventually returned her head to my shoulder. At one point I put my arm around her and felt her melt into my embrace, Another time, her hand found mine.
Out of all the ways I had been with various women, an evening out merely sitting hand in hand had not been something I'd ever experienced–and I wasn't sure if I would have ever wanted to be in that position with anyone else.
We would not end the night with undressing one another and slipping into bed. There might be a brief kiss, but that was as far as it would go before we parted ways. As much as I would have welcomed something far more intimate, I was quite satisfied by getting to see Luci again and again.
And then at the end of my thirty-fifth birthday, I would return home and draw her again before I dressed for bed, cleaned my teeth and washed my face. The following morning when I woke, I would sit up in bed, knowing that I would get to see her again for the cortado I owed her. We would spend another day together, her writing in her notebook, me sketching in mine. She would attend the opening at the Louvre, and I would be on a train back to Italy early Saturday morning.
That was the part I dreaded, but it was only a month and then her hand would be in mine, her head on my shoulder, and the world would be a little brighter with her company.
