Yes, today out in wine country, I met a man, and something about that man moved me.
Something about that man changed me.
Day Two
Closing the journal, I look out the window to the sun that’s now shining brightly, casting a beautiful morning glow over the vineyard.
Phillipe instructed me to read no further than the natural end of each journal entry. Every page is a time capsule of precisely inked words typed meticulously letter by letter, old-school style. All of the words have been methodically tapped out by the handsof a very unique individual. It’s obvious by the way he had the pages bound together that they mean the world to him, and now he is entrusting it to me.
Honestly, I know there’s no way Phillipe would ever know one way or another, but I can’t stop remembering the firm tone in his voice and the steely determination in his eyes when he handed me the journal with strict instructions and a request that I meet him this morning.
Looking at the clock, I watch the hand as it slowly moves to nine, and then I turn and head up to the studio to wait for Mr. Tibideau.
Today is going to be painful, like opening an old wound.
Phillipe stands in the drafty kitchen with a cup of coffee, listening to Penelope, his housekeeper, hum as she bustles about making pastries.
Today, he’s going to allow himself to look back, remembering a time he’d rather lock away and keep to himself. He knows that if he doesn’t tell the story the way he wants it to be told, he’ll forever be judged. He’ll never be left to live his life in peace—well, at least be left to live it alone. Peace is just a selfish illusion now.
He notices it is nine a.m. Turning on his heel, he brushes a kiss on Penelope’s cheek, and then he makes his way up to his studio.
When he arrives, he sees the assiduous Gemma Harris sitting at her desk with her notepad open.
She put on a courageous face yesterday. He saw the apprehension in her eyes when they first met. She probably remembered all the things she read in the tabloids about hisartistic temper, or the even worse headlines that he can’t bring himself to think about.
Well, no matter what she heard, Gemma is presenting a steady and strong composure, and he has to admit that he is impressed.
She’s set up her laptop, but the screen is blank. He has a feeling that she takes notes first, and then she goes back to write her story. He respects that. He understands an artist’s mind, and in a way, Gemma is an artist, just like he is.
As he makes his way into the room, she looks up at him. He detects the slight tightening of her fingers around her pen.
Ahh, not so calm.
“Good morning, Gemma. I trust you slept well?”
She monitors him closely as he moves into the room. “Like a baby. This place is so quiet at night.”
Nodding his agreement, Phillipe makes his way over to the chair he favors and sits down. “So I’ve been told.”
Gemma turns in her chair to face him, pen in hand and notepad on her lap. When it’s clear he isn’t going to say anything, she licks her bottom lip before speaking. “I read the journal entry this morning. I have to admit, from a journalistic point of view, it will be extremely difficult for me to stop reading and wait until our next meeting.”
Phillipe smiles briefly. “But did you?”
“Did I what?” she responds, staring at him with wide, guileless eyes.
“Wait?”
She shifts in the chair and nods. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I waited.”
“Good, Gemma. That’s good. Trust me when I tell you that waiting is often the best part of a story,” he explains. “After all, once you know the story, it’s over.”
Leaning back in his chair, he waits as she scribbles something down.
“I’m ready when you are,” she says.
Looking her over, he feels his heart actually start to ache as he closes his eyes…
It just wasn’t happening for him today.
