Phillipe looks over to where Gemma is kneeling naked on the floor with her arms wrapped around her waist. He can see her fingers against her back as the violin is propped up behind her.

The Sacred pose now resonates in the deepest parts of him. Depicting a woman’s smooth skin, she’s stripped bare of everything, except for her violin and her soul.

When he walked by Gemma’s room earlier tonight, he heard her calling out Chantel’s name. He didn’t know what to think. At first, he stood frozen by the door while the name he cherished floated through the air. He thought he had imagined it until it was repeated over again.

Deciding to go in and investigate, he was shocked to see the bedroom empty, especially when he expected Gemma to be lying in bed. All that greeted him though was an unmade bed with rumpled sheets and her laptop open, displaying that horribly tragic article. The words pointed at him like an accusatory finger.

That was when he heard it again. Chantel’s name was almost moaned this time. As he followed it to the bathroom, he found Gemma halfway submerged in the tub of water. Moving quickly to her, Phillipe felt his stomach plummet as his heart picked up at a rapid tattoo pace.

No, no, no! was his initial thought as she laid there, unmoving and silent. Automatically, he reached out, watching the blonde hair floating around her face change to black as he was hurled back to that day. That terrible day was forever etched into his mind with such alarming detail that he felt like it was an image carved on the insides of his eyelids.

Blinking rapidly as his frantic heartbeats increased, he grasped her naked shoulder. When he touched it, feeling her warm skin, he allowed his breathing to somewhat calm. She’s alive. As that thought registered in his mind, she opened her eyes to stare up at him.

“Phillipe?”

Looking away from the spot he has now painted over several times, he notices Gemma is looking at him over her shoulder.

“Yes?” he replies absentmindedly. He tries to bring himself back to the present with the woman who is here.

“You said something. I was just asking what you meant.”

Frowning, he shakes his head. After placing the paintbrush down, he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

He concentrates as Gemma’s eyes narrow on him. He knows that she wants more from him. Every time he touches her, he feels her whole body open, wanting to give herself to him. Instead of returning the gesture though, he just continues to take. He takes her mind, and he takes her body. He also knows that, at some point in between, she has also handed him her heart.

Repeatedly, he reminded her that there was no way he could be what she wanted. He was still spoken for. He was damaged, and he was still hers.

“That’s okay,” she says from across the room.

She stands and turns to pick up the sweater that she left on the desk. It’s the same desk that he moved up here for a journalist only weeks ago. Weeks ago, he specifically requested that journalist to be Gemma Harris.

After she pulls the blue wool over her head, she steps into her pants. He quietly watches as she gets dressed. If things were only different, Phillipe thinks to himself. If she had been first for him, maybe he wouldn’t be where he was today. Maybe he’d be happy, and maybe, he could have made her happy.

She crosses the space to where he is standing and moves around the easel. That’s when he hears her take a shocked deep breath. Looking at her, he sees the questions flooding in her eyes.

“What? Why...” She stutters and then stops. Licking her lips, she straightens her shoulders. “That’s not me,” she points out.

Phillipe turns away from the full force of her accusation and reaches out to trace his fingers over the canvas. He doesn’t care that the paint smears and smudges. His fingers move over the dark hair that is pulled into a loose bun at the nape of a luminescent neck.

“No,” he confesses, “but when I look at you, she is all I see.”

* * *

Trying not to lose hold of the tight grip I have on my emotions, I bite my bottom lip and nod.

“All of them?” I question, needing to know. I need to know if he painted her in every single one of the images he made me pose for.

He turns on the wooden stool he is seated on, and haunted eyes stare up at me. He replies softly, “All of them.”

I nod, and without a word, I pivot on my heel, wanting to leave the space. I need to get away.

Just as I reach the door, I hear him whisper, “I’m sorry.”

As I turn around, ready to forgive him, I notice his hand is on the canvas, and I realize that it isn’t me he is apologizing to.

Picking up the journal from the table by the door, I quickly flee the scene. I can’t even begin to hold back my emotions while I run down the stairs. I glance swiftly at the woman who hangs silently as the center of attention. She’s the center of importance in this house. I feel the tears welling in my eyes. I know that I’m fighting a losing battle, yet I keep throwing myself down on the sword. Constantly, I give myself to him, and continually, he denies me for her.

As I push open the back door, I’m relieved to see that night has settled in because the darkness is the exact place where I want to be. Picking up my coat and a small flashlight, I head out. Following the little dirt path he led me down a couple of nights before, I make my way through the rows of vines as I reach up to wipe the tears from my face.

When am I going to fucking learn? The pain caused by his confession continues to pummel me in waves. She is all I see. His words repeat in my mind as the memory of his tortured expression tears at my heart. Why can’t I just let him go? It has only been a few weeks. Days before this, I didn’t even know who Phillipe Tibideau really was. In fact, the thought of knowing him intimidated me. But now? Now, the thought of not knowing him slays me.

As I make the final turn in the bend, the Fleuve  Sauvage de Fleurs comes into view. I slow my pace and notice the moon is casting a beautiful glow across the running water.

Gradually, I move toward the edge of the bank. I can hear the yellowhammers chirping in the branches above, just like she did. As I get to the edge of the river, I sit down and open her journal. Closing my eyes for a minute, I pause, listening to the sounds around me. There aren’t many. It’s extremely peaceful. I hear only the running water, the birds, and the occasional croak of a full-bellied toad. Opening my eyes to stare up at the sky, I search for peace or comfort of some kind before I look down at the writing before me.

If I can’t have him, then I am determined to hear from the one woman who did.

* * *

Perceptions ~

I spoke to my mother today.

She called me because one of our family friends had let my parents know that they had read an article about their daughter and how she had inspired an artist. Naturally, my parents had then looked up the artist and the collection online.

It always amazes me that two people can be put in a room with the exact same object or image, and as they stand there and study it, they will undoubtedly arrive at two very different conclusions.

Especially when it comes to my relationship with Phillipe.

“Chantel, honey, I think it’s time you came home. Don’t you?”

“No, Mom, I don’t think I need to come home. I’m an adult, and I am happy here.”

In all fairness, she had started out calmly. It wasn’t until she had mentioned the reason for her call that I got annoyed.

“How can you be happy, posing naked for a man all day, Chantel? Is that your definition of a productive life now?”

“I do not pose naked all day for a man, Mom.” I paused, taking a breath, as I paced around the studio.

Phillipe went to town when I received the call. I was starting to wish I had gone with him.

“Mary Beth called me today, and she told me she had read all about you and The Blind Vision Collection. Chantel, honestly, the paintings are obscene.”

Shaking my head, I tried to remind myself that she was my mother, so of course, seeing those pictures shocked her. The poses were intimate. They were nude. Her reaction was normal, especially coming from a parental point of view.

“He is using you, Chantel.”

That was not parental. That was cruel and unfair.

“He has a name. It is Phillipe. You met him once, but apparently, you can’t even be bothered to remember that. He is not using me, Mom, and even if he was, maybe I want to be used.”

“Chantel!”

“What?” I demanded into the phone. I was angered on behalf of the man who so lovingly touched me and looked after me. I was angered for a man who was not here to defend himself. “He has never done anything but love me, Mom.”

She lowered her voice, and I could tell that she was either trying to keep herself under control or she was trying to hide the conversation from someone.

“What he has done is take your gift—your love of music—and destroyed it. He’s defiled it and you, Chantel Rosenberg. The fact that your uncle allowed you to meet him in the first place and that you have allowed all of this is abhorrent!” Her breath heaved through the phone until she finally let out a quick disgusted breath. “Well, obviously, he’s manipulated you.”