off. Sleep would have been a welcome respite from reality, except for the nightmares. She’d been haunted by various dreams, all involving the morning she woke up alone in the orchard. She was frightened
and lost and Gabriel was nowhere to be found.
It was almost noon when she crawled out of bed to check her
messages. She’d expected at least a text or a one line email, offering some kind of explanation. But there was nothing.
He’d acted so strangely the day before. On the one hand he’d
told her he hadn’t fucked her; on the other, he’d called her Héloise.
She didn’t want to believe that he was so cruel as to flaunt the fact that he was ending things with a play on words, but he’d used the
word good-bye.
Gabriel’s Rapture
Her feelings of betrayal ran deep, for Gabriel had promised
that he would never leave her. He was far too eager to go back on
his promise, she thought, despite the fact that the university had no jurisdiction over his personal life, so long as she was no longer his student.
A dark thought occurred to her. Perhaps Gabriel had tired of her
and decided to put an end to their union. The university had simply handed him an opportunity to do so.
If her falling out with Gabriel had occurred a few months earlier, she would have stayed in bed for three days. As it was, she dialed his cell phone with the intention of demanding an explanation. He
didn’t answer. She left a terse and impatient voice mail, asking him to call her.
Frustrated, she took a shower, hoping that the time to herself
would afford her the opportunity to see her situation with clarity.
Unfortunately, all she could think about was the evening in Italy
when Gabriel showered her and washed her hair.
After she dressed, she decided to search for Gabriel’s sixth letter, so she could read paragraph four. He’d given her a clue, she thought, as to what was really happening. All she needed to do was find his words.
She wasn’t sure what he meant by letter. Did he mean emails or texts? Or both? If Gabriel was counting the emails, cards, and notes that he’d written to her from the very beginning of their relationship, then by her calculation the sixth letter was a note he’d left her the morning after their horrendous fight in the Dante seminar. Luckily, she kept it.
She pulled out the paper and read it eagerly.
Julianne,
I hope you’ll find everything you need here.
If not, Rachel stocked the vanity in the guest washroom with
a number of different items. Please help yourself.
My clothes are at your disposal.
Please choose a sweater as the weather has turned cold today.
Yours,
Gabriel.
235
Sylvain Reynard
Julia wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind to embark on a
detective mission or to engage in any elaborate decoding of messages.
Nevertheless, she turned her attention to the fourth paragraph and tried to figure out what Gabriel had been trying to communicate
to her.
He’d lent her the British-racing-green sweater, but she’d returned it. Was he trying to tell her to look at one of the clothing items he’d bought her? Julia pulled out everything he’d ever bought her or that she’d borrowed and placed them all on her bed. She forced herself
to take her time examining each item. But there didn’t appear to be anything unusual about any of them.
Was he trying to tell her to weather the storm? Or was he simply saying that his affection for her had turned cold and this was good-bye?
Her anger burned blue. She stomped to the bathroom to wash
her hands, catching sight of her image in the mirror. The wide-eyed nervous girl who had started at the University of Toronto in September was gone. Instead, Julia saw a pale and upset young woman,
with pinched lips and flashing eyes. She was no longer the timid
Rabbit or the seventeen-year-old Beatrice. She was Julianne Mitch-
ell, almost-MA, and she would be damned if she’d spend the rest of her life simply taking the scraps that others deigned to throw at her.
If he has a message for me, he can damn well say it in person, she thought. I’m not going on a scavenger hunt just so he can assuage his conscience.
Yes, she loved him. Looking at the photograph album he made
for her birthday, she knew that she would love him forever. But love was not an excuse for cruelty. She was not a plaything, an Héloise, to be dropped like a pair of dirty socks. If he was breaking things off with her, she’d make him say so to her face. She was simply going to give him until after dinner to do so.
In early evening, she walked to the Manulife Building, the key
to Gabriel’s apartment in her pocket. With every step she imagined what she would say. She wouldn’t cry, she promised herself. She would be strong. And she would demand answers.
As she turned the corner and approached the front door, she
saw a tall, impeccably dressed blonde exit the building. The woman 236
Gabriel’s Rapture
looked at her watch and tapped her foot impatiently as the doorman waved over a waiting taxi.
Julia hid behind a tree. She peeked around the trunk in order
to take another look.
At first glance, she’d thought the woman in question was Paulina;
upon inspection she realized her mistake. Julia breathed a sigh of relief as she approached the building. Seeing Paulina with Gabriel on this day of all days would have been devastating. Surely, he wouldn’t do that to her. Gabriel was supposed to be her Dante. He was supposed to love her enough to travel through Hell to protect her, not take Paulina back the moment their relationship was threatened.
With some trepidation, Julia entered the lobby and waved to the
security guard, who recognized her. She decided against announc-
ing her presence to Gabriel and took the elevator to his floor. She shivered as she contemplated what she might find in his apartment.
She didn’t bother to knock but simply let herself in, fearing that she’d find Gabriel compromised. But something strange caught her
attention as soon as she’d closed the door. All the lights in the apartment were off and the hall closet was open and half-empty, hangers and shoes haphazardly thrown on the floor. It was very unlike Gabriel to leave things in such a mess.
She switched on several lights and placed her key on the table
where he always kept his keys. His keys were not to be found.
“Gabriel? Hello?”
She ventured into the kitchen and was shocked by what she found.
An empty bottle of Scotch lay on the counter, next to a broken glass.
Dirty plates and cutlery were dumped in the sink.
Steeling herself for what she might find, she walked to the fire-
place, only to discover a mark on the wall and scattered glass shards on the floor. She could see Gabriel flinging his Scotch in anger, but she had a hard time imagining him leaving broken pieces for someone to step on.
Desperately worried, she crept down the darkened hall and into
the master bedroom. Clothes were strewn across the bed, the drawers to Gabriel’s dresser half-opened. His closet was similarly disarrayed, and Julia noticed that many of his clothes were gone as was his large suitcase.
237
Sylvain Reynard
But what caused her to inhale sharply were the walls. All the
framed photographs of her, and of Gabriel and her together, had
been removed and piled face down on the bed, leaving the wal s
bare except for the hooks on which the photographs had been hung.
Julia gasped in horror as she saw that the reproduction of Holi-
day’s painting of Dante
and Beatrice had been taken down and was
now leaning against the credenza, its back on display.
Shocked, she sank down on a chair. He’s gone, she thought.
Julia burst into tears, wondering how he could have so easily
broken his promises. She searched the apartment in vain for a note or some indication of where he’d gone. When she came across the
telephone she contemplated calling Rachel. But the thought of hav-
ing to explain that she and Gabriel were over was too much to bear.
With one last look she turned out all the lights and was about
to walk through the door when she stopped. Something niggled at
the back of her mind. Closing the door, she returned to Gabriel’s
bedroom. Searching with her fingers, she fumbled about, looking for something. When she didn’t find it, she turned on the light.
The photograph that Rachel had taken at Lobby several months
earlier was missing. Gabriel always kept it on top of his dresser. In the picture, he and Julia were dancing, and he was looking at her
with no little heat.
Julia stood for a moment, looking at the empty space. It was
possible, she thought, that he’d destroyed the picture. But a quick inspection of the wastepaper baskets in the bedroom and bathroom
suggested he hadn’t thrown it away.
She didn’t understand why he’d left or why he’d left without
offering her an explanation, but she began to suspect that all was not as it seemed.
As she took one last look at the empty hangers in the closet, she
contemplated taking her clothes with her but only for an instant.
Strangely enough, they no longer felt as if they were hers.
A few minutes later, she was waiting for the elevator, feeling
battered and bruised. Her nose began to run as she wiped away a
few tears. A hasty search of her pockets yielded no Kleenex, only lint.
This made her tears fall faster.
“Here,” a voice at her elbow said, holding out a man’s handkerchief.
238
Gabriel’s Rapture
Julia took it gratefully, noticing the embroidered initials S.I.R.
on it. She wiped her eyes and attempted to return it, but a pair of hands made a motion of refusal.
“My mother is always giving me handkerchiefs. I have dozens.”
She looked up into kind brown eyes that were partially hidden
behind a pair of rimless spectacles and recognized one of Gabriel’s neighbors. He was wearing a heavy wool coat and a navy beret.
(Which, because of his age and heterosexuality could only be
explained by the fact that he was French Canadian.)
When the elevator arrived, he politely held the door open for
her before following her inside.
“Is something wrong? Can I help?” His lightly accented voice
cut through her haze.
“Gabriel is gone.”
“Yes, I ran into him while he was on his way out.” The neighbor
frowned at the tears that were still welling up in Julia’s eyes. “Didn’t he tell you? I thought you were his —” He looked at her expectantly.
Julia shook her head. “Not anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
They were both silent as the elevator continued its descent to the ground floor. Once again, when the door opened, he held it for her.
She turned to him. “Do you know where he went?”
The neighbor accompanied her to the lobby. “No. I’m afraid I
didn’t ask. He was in quite a state, you see.” The neighbor leaned closer and dropped his voice. “He reeked of Scotch and was extremely cross. Not in the mood to chat.”
Julia smiled a watery smile. “Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“It isn’t a bother. I’m guessing he didn’t tell you he was leaving.”
“No.” She wiped her face with his handkerchief once again.
The neighbor began muttering something about Gabriel in
French. Something that sounded a good deal like cochon.
“I could deliver a message for you, when he returns,” the neigh-
bor offered. “He tends to drop by my apartment when he runs out
of milk.”
Julia was quiet for a moment, then she swallowed hard. “Just tell
him that he broke my heart.”
239
Sylvain Reynard
The neighbor gave her a reluctant, pained nod before taking his
leave of her.
Julia walked outside into the bracing wind and began her long
walk home, alone.
240
Chapter 28
Several hours after the hearing, Gabriel sat in his apartment
shrouded in darkness. The only light visible came from the blue
and orange flames that flickered in his fireplace. He was surrounded by her. Completely surrounded by her memory and her ghost.
Closing his eyes, he swore he could smell her scent or hear her
laughter echoing down the hall. His bedroom had become like a
shrine, which was why he was sitting in front of the fire.
He couldn’t bear to look at the large black and white photo-
graphs of the two of them. Especially the one that hung over his
bed — Julianne in all of her magnificence, lying on her stomach with her naked back exposed, partially wrapped in a sheet, gazing up at him in adoration with sex-mussed hair and a sweet, sated smile…
In every room he had a memory of her — some of them joyous
and others bittersweet, like dark, dark chocolate. He stalked to the dining room and poured himself two fingers’ worth of his very best Scotch and downed it quickly, relishing the burning sensation as it stung his throat. He tried desperately not to think about Julia standing in front of him, jabbing an angry finger into his chest.
“You’re supposed to love me, Gabriel. You’re supposed to support me when I decide to stand up for myself. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do? And instead, you cut a deal with them and dump me?”
At the memory of the look of betrayal in her eyes, Gabriel threw
his empty glass at the wall, watching it shatter and fall to the floor.
Shards of crystal like jagged icicles scattered over the hardwood, glimmering in the firelight.
He knew what he had to do; he simply needed the courage in
order to do it. Grabbing the bottle, he walked reluctantly to the
Sylvain Reynard
bedroom. Two more swallows and he was able to throw his suitcase
on the bed. He didn’t bother to fold his clothes. He barely cared
about taking the essentials.
He thought about what it was like to be banished. About Odys-
seus’s tears at being so far away from home, from his wife, from his people. Now Gabriel understood exile.
When he was finished, he placed the framed photograph from
atop his dresser in his briefcase. Stroking a tender finger over the face of his beloved, he downed more Scotch before staggering to the study.
He ignored the red velvet wing chair, for if he turned to look at
it, he would see her, curled up like a cat, reading a book. She’d worry her lower lip between her teeth, her adorable eyebrows scrunched
in thought. Had any man ever loved, adored, worshipped a woman
more?
None but Dante, he thought. And he was seized by a sudden
inspiration.
He unlocked one of the drawers of his desk. This was the memory
drawer. Maia’s picture was there, along with the scant remnants of his childhood — his grandfather’s pocket watch, some jewelry that
belonged to his mother, her diary, and a few old photographs. He
removed a phot
ograph and an illustration before locking the drawer again, placing the items in his pocket. Pausing only to open a black velvet box and withdraw a ring, he headed for the door.
The chill in the Toronto air sobered Gabriel as he walked deter-
minedly to his office. He only hoped he would be able to find what he needed.
The building in which the Department of Italian Studies was
housed was dark. As he switched on the light in his office, he was assaulted by memories. Memories of the first time Julia visited his office and he’d been unspeakably rude. Memories when Julia stood
by the door after that disastrous seminar, telling him she wasn’t happy.
Telling him she didn’t want Paul. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if he could block out the visions.
He packed his fancy leather briefcase with only the files he needed and a few books, before searching the shelves. Moments later, he
found the simple textbook and breathed a sigh of relief. He penned a few words, added his bookmarks, then switched off the light and
locked the door.
242
Gabriel’s Rapture
All faculty in the department held keys to the departmental
office, where Mrs. Jenkins’s desk and the mailboxes were located.
Gabriel used the light from his iPhone to find the box he wanted.
He deposited the book, stroking his fingers lovingly across the name labeling the mailbox. He noted with satisfaction that other textbooks were in other boxes, then with a heavy heart, he exited the office.
P
Paul Norris was angry. His anger was directed at the most evil
man on the planet, Gabriel Emerson, who had verbally abused and
seduced his friend before dumping her.
If Paul had been a fan of Jane Austen, he would have likened
Professor Emerson to Mr. Wickham. Or perhaps, to Willoughby.
But he wasn’t.
Nevertheless, it was all he could do not to pummel Emerson
senseless and give him the ass whipping he’d been in desperate need of all year. Additionally, Paul felt betrayed. For God knows how long, Julia had been involved with a man she called Owen.
Gabriel Owen Emerson.
Perhaps she wanted Paul to figure it out. But it had never crossed his mind that Owen was, in fact, Professor Emerson. He’d cursed the man and told her secrets about him, for God’s sake. Secrets about
Professor Singer. And while she was accepting his sympathy, she was sleeping with him. No wonder she’d sworn up and down that Owen hadn’t bitten her neck, that it was some other asshole.
Gabriel's Rapture gi-2 Page 28