“No, not yet,” he says.
I find it hard not to flip it open just for a peek, but I’m here to listen. I want to learn about his paintings and what really happened that night, but since he said not to look at it yet, I place the journal on the desk.
“Okay, let’s start at the beginning.”
He takes a deep breath, and for some reason I hold mine before he finally blows his out.
“Go ahead.”
Shifting in my seat, I begin. “What inspired you to paint your critically acclaimed series?”
He lifts a hand to stroke the stubble lining his cheeks and chin, and then he replies so softly that I almost miss it.
“Beauty.” There’s a pregnant pause before he repeats himself louder. “Beauty inspired me.”
Scribbling this down, I ask my next question without looking up. “The beauty of the world?”
Not missing a beat, he replies, “No, the beauty of a woman. One woman.”
Looking up at him, I instantly know he meansher, and I swallow deeply. I now understand the reason for his focus on every intense stroke of the painting that hangs center stage on the wall by the staircase, lit up as though it is the pride and joy of the house.That painting is beauty, and she is the one woman.She is the woman that has captured the attention of the entire world, bringing probing questions to this man’s door.
Urging my brain to catch up, I remind myself to be professional, to ask only what I need to, and to build up to the parts of the story I so desperately want to know from this very private man. Instead of following my own directions, I blurt out, “What moves you?”
He seems to think about this question longer than I expect him to before he deflects with one of his own. “You don’t want to ask me the most obvious question first, Miss Harris?”
Immediately, I know what question he means, but I’m not ready to ask that yet. I’m here to learn about the vision behind the images and his side of this terrible nightmare. So, no, I don’t want to ask him the obvious…yet.
“I thought we decided on your calling me Gemma,” I point out, trying to keep our conversation light.
Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head in a mock bow. That’s my signal to continue.
“What moves you?” I ask again.
For some reason, I anticipate his having an answer ready. Instead, he sits there in thought while I picture the woman in the painting, knowing he is thinking of her.
“What moves me?” he repeats.
I nod and wait, gripping the edge of my seat, and this is only my second question.
“The answer to that is the same to your first question, Gemma. Beauty moves me.”
After scribbling that down, I bring my eyes back to his. “And beauty is one woman?” I ask just to be sure.
His eyes remain steadfast on mine, and without a shred of doubt, he tells me, “Beauty is Chantel.”
Finally, the woman in the painting, Chantel, has been invited into the room.
One
FIRST SIGHT
I NEED TO type something, and I need to type it now.
Something happened to me—a moment, I believe.
I’ve always held on to the idea that moments happen to shape who we are and who we will become, and I’m almost one hundred percent positive that I had a moment of clarity today.
In wine country in Bordeaux, France, I met a man.
