The desk he has set up for me is old and wooden. It creaks every time I apply any kind of pressure to it, but like the room itself, it seems to fit. Pushed up against the right wall, it’s situated so that I can either face his chair, which is nestled into the corner, or I can turn to the window and the easel that is set up on the opposite side of the space on the far left.
The walls of the west turret have been built from brick that’s the color of burnt cooper. It’s been left exposed on the interior of the studio, which I’m sure in the sunlight gives the room a spectacular glow. Right now, with the shutters closed and the room in shadows, it just makes the studio seem dark and volatile. Like a dormant volcano in nature, the room is silently smoldering but almost certain to one day explode in a blazing fiery rain of heat.
I don’t sense that this is a place of joy for him. Even with the lights on, the room doesn’t feel bright or happy. No, it actually feels intense and somewhat intimidating.
In the soft glow of the light, this room seems to shimmer with an underlying passion I have yet to understand. A passion for art or a passion for her? I cannot tell which one it is yet.
At the moment, I am seated facing his chair, which looks soft and cozy. It’s covered with an ivory-colored fabric that seems so neutral for this space. Maybe that’s what he needs to help calm him.
Beside the chair is a set of shelves. Atop one of the lower shelves, are several paintbrushes of all different sizes stuffed into a jar. The brushes appear to have clean bristles, but the wooden handles have dried-up paint spotted around them. On the shelf above them is a stereo. Maybe he likes listening to his music when he paints. It’s inspirational, I’m sure.
It’s obvious this is where he spends most of his time. His subtle fingerprints appear on nearly every surface throughout the room.
Turning around from where we have set up, I look again at the easel that’s been covered with a sheet since I arrived. Perhaps it’s something he is working on?
I’d love to go and look, but I know that would be a major invasion of privacy. Instead, I turn back to the journal in front of me.
What must it be like not being able to see? As I reflect, I’m struck with another completely inappropriate and selfish thought. It has to do with the man I’m working with. Imagine not ever knowing how attractive he is?
It doesn’t seem fair that this woman, Chantel, missed out on that. It doesn’t seem fair that she didn’t know what the man—a man she inspired—looked like.
Glancing back at the journal, I decide to continue reading, starting at the second entry on the same page. Pushing aside my worries that Phillipe will suddenly appear to stop me from going further, I sit back, determined to finish this small typed entry before he returns.
Second Opinions ~
I went back today, just like I had said I would. I needed to talk to him again.
It took me a while to track him down.
He wasn’t where we had last run in to one another. This time, he was down behind the chateau. He was by the old arbor—well, that was what my uncle told me when he led me down the pebbled path to what felt like a shaded area. My uncle greeted his employer, the man I now knew as Phillipe, and then he told me he would be over in the vineyard if I needed him.
I stood there silently, waiting for Phillipe to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, I heard him moving around. It sounded like he was shifting his stance from foot to foot. Each time he changed the weight of his footing, I heard the pebbles crunch. When I heard a swivel sound in the gravel, I knew instantly that he was facing me.
I have to admit that I felt a little apprehensive. I’m not good with strangers, and I don’t handle change well. That was why I put on my sunglasses today. Yes, I know how ridiculous that seems, but I enjoy the privacy they afford me and the courage they seem to instill in me.
“You came back,” he said to me.
I swear that I felt his voice travel up my body, taking my breath away. I took a step closer.
“Do you need some help?” he asked.
Immediately, I sensed him beside me.
I turned in the direction where I felt him move, and I took a deep breath. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the smell of him, and it was so intoxicating. I remember consciously licking my lips because it made me hungry—hungry for him.
“No, I don’t need any help,” I responded.
Then, I berated myself because he moved away from me.
“Tell me your name,” he demanded softly. “I didn’t get it yesterday.”
I smiled for the first time in months, as I flirted with him. “Well, you didn’t ask.”
If I thought his voice was sensual, his chuckle was wickedly hypnotic.
“You’re correct, so let me rectify that. Mademoiselle, please tell me your name.”
That was the moment—the moment I went back there for. That was the moment I knew that this man was going to change my life forever. Suddenly, I found myself wanting to change his.
“Chantel,” I informed him. “Chantel Rosenberg.”
I felt him step up close to me.
Not many people do that. I think my handicap scares them, but it didn’t seem to bother him as he whispered, “Chantel, you’re beautiful. I think I’ll call you…Beauty.”
I close the journal in a room that is still empty. The clock has just turned 11 a.m.
I have been sitting here for two hours. One of those has been on my own, and I have a feeling that for the rest of the afternoon, I will be hard-pressed to find the man who doesn’t want to be found.
Chapter Two ~ Curiosity
As I make my way down to the main dining room later that night, I find myself stopping in front of the painting by the stairs. Again, I discover that I want to reach out to stroke my fingers along the round curves. This time, I actually make the move toward the image, and just as I raise my arm, I hear the sound of a throat clearing from the landing below.
Almost as though I’m being pulled from a dream, I turn and find Phillipe standing at the foot of the stairs. Unflinchingly, his eyes lock with mine. This is the first time that I’ve seen him since he left me this morning. That’s how it had felt. He left me. What an odd way to feel.
“She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” he asks me.
I have no idea how to answer him. I’m so entranced, and at the same time, I’m shocked by the image because I never expected to feel so many emotions from observing the female form.
He saves me from having to answer him by making a move. He grips the wooden banister and takes each step one at a time, slowly ascending to where I am paralyzed. When he finally reaches me, he moves into the space between the railing and my body. At this stage, I’m sure I should feel uncomfortable, but all I feel is anticipation.
Anticipation of what, I’m not sure.
“It’s her skin.” His smooth voice wraps around me. “She’s so fair and so plump.”