My eyes roam over his long legs up to the white button-up shirt he’s wearing. Phillipe is right. Seeing is something I take for granted, and I have to admit that it’s an absolute pleasure to see him.
He seems to know my thoughts because he grimaces. He pushes himself away from the wall, turning to look back out the window.
“I racked my brain for days, trying to think of a way to let herseeme, so she could know me. I even looked it up online, and finally, I came up with an idea.”
I sit silently, waiting.Please tell me,I internally plead.
He looks back at me over his shoulder. “She’ll tell you what she saw,” he informs me in a cool tone as he makes his way past me toward the door. Just before he reaches it, he adds, “I think I’m done for the morning. Maybe we can meet again tonight? Let’s say eight?”
I nod before I realize that he’s not even looking at me. “Eight sounds good.”
Without another word, he continues out the door.
I quickly grab the journal and flick through it. I see there are several pages before the next stopping point, so I pick it up and move over to his soft chair in the corner. Curling into it, I can still feel the body heat he left behind. I snuggle back and open the book, eager to discover what Chantel saw.
Three
VISION
TODAY, ISAWPhillipe.
That sounds so crazy, but it’s true.
When I arrived at the chateau today, I had no idea what it was he wanted to show me. In all honesty, I couldn’t even imagine what Phillipe couldshowme.
So, when he finally explained—well, I’ll just type it here.
After leading me up a staircase with fifteen broad steps curving around a wall—which my uncle now tells me is a turret—through a part of the building on the west side of the house, Phillipe guided me by the hand, always gently, into a room off to the left.
Immediately, I was hit with smells that were foreign to me. The scent was strong, almost alcoholic in nature. It wasn’t drinking alcohol. It smelled more like rubbing alcohol.
We stopped walking, and that was when I asked, “Where are we?”
I felt him brush by me, walking farther into the room. “My art studio.”
He’s an artist. How did I not know this about him?Why didn’t anyone tell me?
I just assumed he ran the vineyard. From then on, I was very hungry for answers. “What do you paint?”
He chuckled, and the wicked rumbling teased my skin. “Pictures.”
Frustrated, I stepped forward and then stopped, not knowing what was in front of me.
“It’s okay,” he told me. “I cleared the space. There’s nothing to trip over or bump into.”
My heart sped up at the thoughtfulness of his gesture. “You did that for me?”
“Yes. I wanted you to feel comfortable and at ease here.”
Strangely, I did. Stepping closer toward the direction of his voice, I asked again, “What do you paint?”
This time, I heard him move. His feet shuffled across some fabric, maybe a drop cloth on the floor, before he stopped in front of me.
“I’ve been looking for something, something that will inspire me, Chantel. Something the world will look at and want to cry because it’s so fucking beautiful your body just can’t help but weep.”
I stood there speechless as his voice, coupled with the words he was telling me, pulled at my soul. From somewhere deep down inside of me, I realized what he wanted. I knew as he moved closer still thatIwas what he wanted to paint. I wasn’t sure how that made me feel.
Tilting my head to him, I stated softly, “The world is a big place. That’s a lot of people to touch and a lot of people to please.”
