Sylvain Reynard - Gabriel’s Redemption

“I didn’t know that.” Julia’s heart felt heavy.

Rachel offered her a sympathetic look. “He’s my brother and I love him. But he speaks without thinking. His issue with your paper is probably that you didn’t write it the way he would have.”

“I’m not going to write things his way. I have my own ideas.”

“My advice is to talk to him. Of course, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let him sweat a little. Make him sleep on the couch.”

“Unfortunately, I’ll probably be the one on the couch.” Julia pointed to the sofa that stood against the opposite wall.

To say that dinner was awkward would be an understatement.

Julia and Gabriel sat side by side. They even held hands during grace. But there was only painful, detached politeness—no warm glances, no whispered words of affection, no fleeting touches under the table.

Gabriel’s spine was ramrod straight, his demeanor cool. Julia was quiet and remote.

Richard, Aaron, and Rachel kept the conversation fluid while the Emersons barely spoke. After dinner, Julia declined dessert and excused herself to work on her lecture.

Gabriel’s eyes followed her as she left the table, a muscle jumping in his jaw. But he didn’t stop her. He simply watched her walk away.

When Rachel went to the kitchen to make coffee, Aaron decided that he’d had enough. He leaned across the table.

“Man, suck it up and tell her you’re sorry.”

Gabriel lifted his eyebrows.

“Why are you assuming that I’m at fault?”

“Because you’re the one with a dic—” Aaron caught his father-in-law’s eye and began coughing. “Um, statistically speaking, eighty percent of fights are the guy’s fault. Just apologize and get it over with. I don’t want to have to sit through another meal like that. It’s so cold in here, I’m going to have to go outside to warm up.”

“I think I have to side with Aaron. Not that you’re asking.” Richard chuckled to himself.

Gabriel looked between the two men with something akin to disgust.

“I tried talking to her. That’s how our argument started. She locked herself in the bathroom and told me to get lost.”

Richard and Aaron exchanged a knowing look.

“You’re in trouble.” Aaron whistled. “You’d better talk to her before bed or you’re looking at couch time.”

He shook his head before moving to the kitchen to join his wife.

Richard tapped the stem of his wine glass thoughtfully.

“Et tu, Brute?” Gabriel scowled.

“I didn’t say anything.” Richard looked at his son kindly. “I’ve been trying to stay out of it.”

“Thank you.”

“But there’s a reason why old married couples tell the young ones not to let the sun go down on their anger. Dealing with problems when they’re small will make both of your lives easier.”

“I can’t exactly have a conversation through a locked door.”

“Of course you can. You wooed her once; woo her again.”

Gabriel wore an incredulous expression. “You’re telling me to woo my wife?”

“I’m telling you to let go of your ego, apologize, and then listen to her. I wasn’t always the man you see before you. You can learn from my mistakes.”

“You and Mom had the perfect marriage.”

Richard laughed.

“Our marriage was far from perfect. But we made a pact early on that we would keep the imperfection out of sight and hearing of you children. Children get anxious when their parents argue. In my experience, couples fight over money, sex, and a lack of respect or attention.”

Gabriel began to protest, but Richard lifted a hand. “I’m not asking what your disagreement was about. That’s between you and your wife. It’s obvious that Julia’s feelings have been hurt. She was very withdrawn over dinner, the way she used to be before she began seeing you.”

“I’m not the one who shut down rational communication.” Gabriel sounded imperious.

“Listen to yourself.” Richard’s tone turned scolding. “Julia isn’t irrational. She’s hurt. When someone hurts you, it’s rational to withdraw. Especially considering her history.”

Gabriel grimaced. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I’m sure that’s true. But I’m also confident that you don’t fight fairly. Learning how to argue with a spouse is an art, not a science. It took your mother and me a long time to figure it out. But once we did, we rarely argued. And when we did, it wasn’t ugly or hurtful. If you can argue with Julia while still convincing her that you love her and that she’s important to you, your conflicts will be easier to manage.” Richard finished his wine and placed the glass on the table.

“Take it from someone who was married a while and who brought up a daughter. When a woman withdraws and is cold, it’s because she’s protecting herself. My advice is to be gentle with your wife and coax her out of that locked room. Or prepare to spend a lot of lonely nights on the couch.”

It was after midnight by the time Julia closed her laptop. She knew everyone had gone to bed. She’d heard their footsteps in the hall.

She crept to the door of the study and opened it. Light shone from underneath the closed door to the master bedroom. No doubt Gabriel was awake, reading.

She contemplated going to him. But the distance to his bed seemed interminable.

She grabbed the bottle of bubble bath she’d spirited away from their bathroom after dinner. She’d take another hot bath in the guest bathroom and try to forget her troubles.

A half hour later, Julia reentered the study, shutting the door behind her. She felt refreshed but only marginally more relaxed. Since Gabriel seemed determined to keep his distance, she’d sleep on the couch.

As she lay under the old wool blanket they’d first shared so many years ago in the orchard, she thought of their home back in Cambridge. She thought of their first few months of marriage and how happy they’d been.

She wanted to be a Dante specialist. It was a long road that would require sacrifice, hard work, and humility. She didn’t want to be the kind of person who thought herself above criticism. She knew that her writing needed improvement.

But when Gabriel said she was going to make a fool out of herself, the pain was excruciating. She needed him to encourage her, to cheer her on. She didn’t need him belittling her. Her belief in herself was shaky enough.

Why can’t he see that I need his support?

As her sadness swelled, she wondered why he hadn’t come to her.

No doubt he’d spent the evening with his family, smoking a cigar on the porch and talking about old times. She wondered what kind of explanation he’d given to Rachel about their conflict. She wondered why she was lying alone in the dark, close to tears, and he seemed perfectly content to leave her to it.

Just then, she heard a door open down the hall. She heard Gabriel’s quick, determined steps. They stopped outside her door.

She sat up, holding her breath. A muted light shone from the hallway, entering the study through the crack beneath the door.

O gods of fighting newlyweds, please make him knock on my door.

She heard what sounded like a pained sigh and a thump that could have been a hand resting against the door. Then she saw a shadow pass across the light as the footsteps retreated.

Julia tightened into a ball but did not cry.

Very early the next morning, Julia’s cell phone rang.

She jerked awake, the sound of the Police’s “Message in a Bottle” reverberating around the room. She stared as the phone vibrated against the desk. But she didn’t answer.

A few minutes later she heard a chime, indicating she’d received a text.

Curiously, she walked over to the desk and picked up her phone. The text was, remarkably, from Dante Alighieri.

I’m sorry.

While she was contemplating what to type in response, another text arrived.

Forgive me.

She began formulating a reply when she heard movement in the hallway. Someone rapped on her door.

Please let me in.

Julia read the newest text before walking to the door. She opened it a little more than a crack.

“Hi.” Gabriel greeted her with a hesitant smile.

She gazed at him, noting that his hair was wet from the shower but that he hadn’t shaved. An attractive dark stubble covered his face and he was dressed in a white T-shirt and old jeans, his feet bare. He was, perhaps, the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

“Is there a reason you’re knocking on my door at six o’clock in the morning?” Her tone was colder than she’d intended.

“I’m sorry, Julianne.” His expression was suitably contrite.

(It certainly helped that his eyes were bloodshot and his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d simply lifted them out of a bag destined for the Salvation Army and put them on.)

“You hurt me,” she whispered.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He took a step forward. “I reread your paper.”

She put a hand on her hip. “You knocked on my door to tell me that?”

“I called, but you didn’t answer.” He grinned. “It reminded me of Toronto, when I had to climb through your window.”

Julia’s cheeks flamed at the memory of Gabriel standing in her backyard in order to bring her dinner, as she greeted him in a towel, fresh from the shower.

“You forgot something. Something important.”

In his hand, he held the illustration of The Contention for Guido de Montefeltro. “I found it on the floor of the bedroom last night. I’m not sure which one of us was carrying it, but someone dropped it.”