Stepping back slowly, I realize something else through all of the sadness and pain. He does trust me. Thisishim trusting me. I can feel it just as strongly as I can feel her presence here with me. She’s sharing in my moment of clarity and insight. I realize this ishimtrusting me withher.
Wiping the tears away from my face, I turn to go and find him. I’m determined to tell him that I understand now. I have everything I need. I know how incredibly wrong they all were.
After her death, Chantel’s parents were the most vocal of his accusers. They pointed to him as the man who had brainwashed, manipulated, and trapped their poor,blinddaughter, who had no knowledge of his wicked ways.
What irony it is that their daughter saw life and love more clearly than either of them did. Nothing about Chantel was explored. No one asked how she felt. No one looked beyondthe surface. Everyone saw the finality of her life and made assumptions.
I now know that assuming was the biggest deception of all.
Twenty-Seven
TRUTH
I RACE DOWN the stairs and grab my coat from the rack by the door. Heading outside, I know exactly where he is—the river. He’s got to be down by the river.
Stopping for a moment, I look to the sky and feel the warmth of the sun as it beams down over my face. It’s just turned noon, and there isn’t a cloud in sight. It’s cool, but there’s no wind. The air is still.
Zipping my coat, I start to make my way to the small path through the vineyards, and as I get closer, I find myself picking up pace until I’m jogging. Reaching the last bend in the path, I make the turn and spot him immediately.
He’s over by the edge of the water with his back to me. As usual, he’s wearing his long, dark coat. The collar has been turned up against his neck. His hands are clasped and drawn into tight fists behind his back.
I realize that I’m holding myself as still as a statue. I’m barely even breathing, not wanting to disturb him. I try to think of some way to let him know that I’m there without startling him. I’m surprised when his deep voice reaches across the empty space.
“I know you’re there, Gemma.”
Swallowing and shaking my hands out by my legs, I tell myself,Move.Put one foot in front of the other and move. Go to him.
Just as I make that first step, he mumbles, “I always know you’re there.”
That’s when I falter. My foolish heart starts to thump at the idea that he notices me—until I remind myself of everything he’s told me and everything he’s done over the last few days.He sees me only because of her.
Compelling myself to move again, I manage to make it as far as a couple of feet behind him, but I lose my nerve and stop. I wait patiently for him to either acknowledge me or pretend I don’t exist. I know that no matter which option he chooses, it will cripple me in some fundamental way.
It feels like hours pass by as I stand on the bank of theFleuve Sauvage de Fleurs, staring at the strong shoulders shrouded in black wool, but in actuality, it’s not much longer than several minutes.
His voice finally breaks through the thick silence. “It was a day just like today, you know. Only it was warmer.”
I don’t question which day he’s talking about because I already know.
“There was not a cloud in sight,” he tells me, then lets out a small laugh. “I had this idea to paint her here in the water.”
He looks over his shoulder at me. He’s waiting for me to comment. Perhaps he’s waiting for some kind of accusatory statement, but he won’t get that from me. I know he did nothing wrong. When it’s clear that I’m not going to say anything, he again turns back to face the running river.
“The weather was perfect. The sun was up, bringing you warmth when you stepped outside. It was blue. The sky was such a brilliant shade of blue that day. I didn’t think to checkthe weather. Pretty fucking stupid of me, since I knew the water table had risen with all the rain we had received.”
I shift my feet slightly, looking up at the cloudless sky, and realize that it currently looks exactly as he is describing—a brilliant shade of blue.
“It was around two thirty in the afternoon when we came down here. I clothed her as I wanted to paint her. She wore a white dress that flowed down to her toes. Her beautiful…” Pausing, he seems to gather himself before continuing. “Her beautiful hair was left out. I wanted it to float around her.”
I know somewhere deep inside he’s villainizing his own actions. He’s blaming himself for bringing her down here, blaming himself for dressing her, and blaming himself for ultimately letting her go.
Over and over, he watches the scene playing out in his mind. As he stands there by the river where she finally let go, leaving him, he closes his eyes and sees every detail with startling clarity.
Chantel stepped out of the chateau.
“You look like an angel,” he told her as he looked her over. He had bought the dress the other day when he was in town. It was hanging in the window of a little boutique, and as soon as he saw it, he visualized her wearing it while somehow floating. She had then told him about her dream. It wasn’t until they had gone down to the river that he realized he wanted to paint her in the water.
She laughed. “An angel?”
