I make my way up to the studio after lunch.

He didn’t tell me to meet him there. He didn’t invite me to come. But, after what happened this morning, I now have a burning compulsion to see him to set things straight.

As I get the door of the familiar studio, I can hear music floating through the air. The violin definitely holds a new fascination for me, and I can see I am not alone. It is obvious it also pulls at Phillipe in a way that I still don’t quite comprehend.

Stepping across the threshold, I look around the room and spot him sitting on a stool behind the large canvas that is propped in its usual spot, up on the easel over by the window.

He hasn’t seen me yet, so I’m careful not to make any noise as I make my way farther into the room that is dappled by the sun’s rays.

I can see his feet resting on the floor. He’s taken off his shoes from this morning, and he’s rolled up the bottom of his jeans. His hair looks rumpled and disturbed, and his mouth is pulled into a serious line that makes his entire face look different. He appears annoyed, frustrated, and maybe even a little bit sad.

I know that I ruined whatever trust I had gained when I let my preconceived ideas and opinions of him take hold of me for just a millisecond this morning. Now, as I stand here, watching him move his brush across the smooth surface with his focus aimed intently on what he is doing, I can’t help but be disappointed in myself.

I am always objective in my job. I have never been one to let other people’s opinions influence the way I interview or talk to a potential witness or subject of a story. This morning, though when I had let previously reported stories feed my moment of doubt , I did, and in turn, I lost his trust. It’s now imperative that I regain it.

“I know you’re standing there, Gemma.” His somber voice floats across the silence.

Clasping my hands in front of myself, I make my way farther into the room. I stop behind the canvas, directly in his eye line.

For some reason, I feel the need to whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He stops his brush stroke as his annoyed green eyes rise to meet mine over the top of the painting he is working on. “Well, you have.”

I grimace for a moment, telling myself not to let him intimidate me. I’m here to do a job. I can’t let an argument of a personal nature come between us. Us? Is there an us now?

Well, there is certainly a professional us. The other day there was a personal moment, but I cannot not let one, slight misunderstanding ruin my chance to tell this story. To take away my opportunity to know what happened, and to let the world know there was more to this tragedy than what we’d all been told. Or, at least, that is what I am hoping to discover.

“Well, I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to come and see when you next want to work on the piece.”

His eyes leave mine to focus back on what is in front of him.

“What are you working on?” I ask, trying to get him to talk to me. It becomes immediately obvious though that I’ve said the wrong thing.

“Nothing of importance.” He dismisses me coolly, placing the brush on the table beside him. “You want to ask me questions, Gemma? Sit and ask. I’m here, you’re here, and that’s all that’s required, correct?”

I clench my jaw, annoyed at his terse words. I make my way to the small desk I’ve been working at and pull out the chair. I turn it and sit, facing him. The canvas is between us. I’m frustrated at the obstruction, but I know he wouldn’t move it, even if I ask.

“What was the decision behind the name of the second painting in the series, Armor?”

I fall silent as the soft sounds of the violin fill the air. I almost ask him to turn it off. Isn’t this hard enough as it is without her playing in the background? I know deep down in the pit of my stomach that it is she who is currently providing the somber soundtrack.

“Not where I thought you were going to go,” he tells me, shifting his eyes to the painting between us.

I settle back in the chair at his words, and I lift my pen to the pad. “Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?”

As I sit there, waiting for his response, I’m not really sure what I’m even expecting at this stage. I know I’m not going to have to wait long when Phillipe stands and moves around the easel, walking across the space toward me.

I uncross my legs, placing both my hands on my lap, as he stops in front of me. He’s close enough that our pants are touching. He’s close enough that I have to tilt up my head at an awkward angle to look at him.

“I was expecting you to ask about that day. You know, the one everybody talks about? The one you keep avoiding, even though you keep thinking about it,” he accuses softly. He turns, walking away from me, going back in the same direction he came. “You surprise me, Gemma. It seems you already have an image of me all worked out in that pretty little head of yours. So, why not try to confirm it as quickly as possible and be on your merry way?”

Standing up, I throw the notepad onto the chair and take a fuming step forward.

“You know what? You’re right, okay? I screwed up. I let other people’s views and opinions filter in for a moment, and it clouded my own judgment.”

Keeping a close eye on him, I try to remember to breathe as he turns slowly on his bare feet. His eyes narrow on me while he takes a closing step back in my direction.

“And what did other people tell you?”

Swallowing once, I remain silent. I don’t know how to tell him some of the things people have said. They’re cruel and malicious. I have no desire to repeat them, especially when I don’t have any way of knowing if it’s true. I can only follow my instincts, and even though they are a little jumpy right now, I find myself needing to believe that they wouldn’t lead me astray.

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

Taking that final step forward, eliminating the space between us, Philippe is now bare toes to booted feet with me. I can feel his body heat emanating from him, and his hair has fallen haphazardly into his eyes. Placing his hands behind his back, he bends forward, almost as though he is about to kiss me.

Instead, he stops a breath away from my mouth. “Well, what would you like to talk about, Gemma?”

Refusing to step back, I tilt up my face to him. “I told you. Armor, the second pose you painted of Chan—”

“Shhh,” he coaxes, those full lips seductively requesting my silence.

Bringing up his right hand, he places a silencing finger against my lips, and I can feel my heart start to beat in overtime.

“Listen,” he tells me.

Closing my mouth, I listen. I suspect he didn’t stop me to listen to the music. I think it was more to keep me from saying her name out loud. Keeping my eyes on his, I watch in fascination as they seem to cloud over and get darker as the music builds. The tempo climbs toward a breathtaking peak before it crashes over and tumbles back down to the soft strains filtering through the air.

“Incorporating the violin into Armor came to me one morning when I saw her right over there,” he told me, reaching out to grip my arms.

He turns me, and I’m now facing the open window.

His mouth moves to my ear, his voice deep and hypnotic. “She mustn’t have been able to sleep because I remember waking to her standing there, just as she had left my bed, completely naked. Her skin was perfect.” He strokes his hands over my shoulders and down my arms. “Pale and soft, and as she stood there, she held her violin to her cheek like she would a lover’s hand, like my hand.”

I feel myself holding my breath as he paints the scene before us. It’s crazy, but I actually feel as though I can see her, almost as though she’s here in the room with us.

“Her hair was rumpled from my hands the night before, and when she left it out, it hit her shoulders around here.” He demonstrates by touching a finger to my shoulder blade.

“She looked like an angel.” He lets out a soft exhale. “Like someone had plucked her from the sky and placed her here in my studio. She didn’t seem real.”

His breath is warm against my ear and neck as his fingers trail down my arms to my hands where he entwines our fingers gently. I close my eyes and imagine what he is telling me.

“She stood there and played for at least an hour, maybe more. That was the moment, right there. I knew I had to paint her with the violin. It was like an extension of her. What better way to do that than capture her naked as the day she was born with the object that brought her to life?”

As the question fades into the now silent room, I feel him release my hands, and I turn to see him walking back to the painting he was working on. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling cold and alone.

“So why call it Armor? If the violin is part of her, why name it as though it’s a shield? That painting is so soft. I still don’t understand.”

I’m confused. Chantel seemed like such a strong individual. She was a woman with a handicap. A lot of people would let that hold them back, but she didn’t. No, if anything, she exceeded everyone’s expectations. She became an accomplished musician who moved to France and became the model for a now world-renowned artist. That did not seem like a woman who needed protection, yet in the end—

“No, you’re looking at it wrong,” he tells me from where he has now sitting back down, resuming his painting from earlier. “Armor as in the violin makes her stronger. This painting represents a quiet inner strength.”