His Muse

by Twyla Turner

  Yeah, even five years later, I can’t bring myself to journey back to the city I love. Cannes is great, but my heart is in Nice. Literally. That day I saw Etienne and Vanessa strolling and kissing hand in hand, I left my heart on that café table.

  “I’ve just been eating better and taking long walks in the evenings if the weather is good.”

  “So, no new lovers?” Raquel gives me a sly smile.

  “Ha! No way!” I shake my head adamantly. “Though I must say, I’ve had quite a few offers recently. I guess I really am looking less pitiful these days.”

  I took one lover about two years ago. The sex was decent. Nothing like in the past. But it was pleasant enough. The drama to go along with it wasn’t. The man had apparently been quite prolific in his love-making around town. A new-age Casanova. All it took to end things was a lover of his throwing wine in his face while we had dinner together one night. He’d lead her to believe that he was exclusively dating her.

  I left him sitting there at the table and haven’t seen him since. Nor have a dated anyone since. In fact, I’ve sworn off men altogether. I’ve learned to be happy on my own. It helps that during one of Raquel and Tiffani’s trips out here, we made a shopping trip to a sex toy shop and I bought a very industrious and drama free vibrator to get me through tough spots.

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. You look amazing! And happy.” Tiffani smiles at me.

  “Thanks, ladies. You both do too.” I reach over and clutch Tiffani’s hand. “How was your exhibition, Tiff? I’m so sorry I couldn’t bring myself to attend.”

  “It was incredible! I sold nearly all my pieces! Raquel is a genius.”

  “No, it was all you, ma chére. Your work is just that good.”

  Tiffani flushes with pleasure.

  In all the years they’ve been coming to see me, there has been an unspoken rule between us. Etienne and Vanessa’s names are not to be spoken. Only one time they were brought up. Raquel had informed me that the couple was moving to Paris to be closer to his parents. His father was sick, and he wanted to be near them, spend time with them before it was too late. I understood how it felt to lose a parent. He had my sympathies.

  Raquel had only told me in the hopes of convincing me to move back. But Nice was filled with memories I’ve never been ready to face. I like the shield of numbness I’ve built around me. I want to keep it that way.

  Once they left, they truly stayed away. Out of respect for me, Raquel didn’t contact them either. Better not to know so she couldn’t be tempted to pass the information to me.

  “Speaking of exhibitions,” Raquel begins. “There is one I need you to come to.”

  “If I couldn’t bring myself to attend Tiffani’s, what makes you think I can come to this one?”

  “Because this one involves you,” Tiffani says.

  “How so?”

  Raquel takes a deep breath and then releases it with a sigh. Ready to do battle.

  “It’s Etienne.”

  I frown at her.

  “It’s Etienne’s exhibition.”

  “So, he’s back?”

  “Oui.”

  “Then it’s a double no.”

  “Please, Ryn.” Raquel implores. “It is important. I have seen his pieces. They are the best I have ever seen. And you have a lot to do with it.”

  “No, I can’t. I won’t,” I say firmly.

  I never told the girls, but there were a couple of times he had reached out to me. I never answered, and I deleted the messages before I could hear what they had to say. I’d brought them together, and that was all I could give. I couldn’t give them any more of myself.

  I couldn’t then, and I refuse now.

  “Ryn-”

  “No!” I cut her off. “I’ve moved on. I’ve finally found a way to be happy without him. I can’t open up old wounds. I refuse.”

  My friends exchange meaningful looks.

  Raquel slides an invitation across the table. “If you change your mind, it’s in two weeks. You need to see this. And I have never been more serious about something in my life. Please, take some time to consider it.”

  I take the invitation and shove it in my purse. The subject moves to safer topics, but my thoughts continue to stray to the invitation burning a hole through my purse.

  ~~~

  The taxi from the train station drops me off out front of Raquel’s art gallery. I step out and smooth down my coral dress. I press a hand to my gut, trying to suppress my nerves. I also take a moment to question my sanity.

  “I can’t believe I let Raquel talk me into this,” I grumble under my breath.

  If I’m being honest with myself, though, my curiosity as to why I needed to see his exhibition is what really decided it for me. Even if I’m having second thoughts.

  I seriously consider getting back in the cab and heading back to Cannes. Too bad the taxi is already down the street and turning a corner. I turn back towards the door with a sigh.

  Inside, the gallery is packed. I can see why. I’m sure a lot of the fanfare is to celebrate the popular artist’s return. But more than that is the extraordinary artwork. From the first paintings I can see as I step inside to the few I spy in the distance, they’re breathtaking.

  They’re a departure from his normal style. These are surreal and whimsical. Like stepping into the world of Alice in Wonderland as told through Salvador Dali.

  The first painting is of a woman, who happens to look a lot like me from the back. She’s turned just enough to see a partial profile of her sad face. She stands in a desert, viewing a painting of a bleeding heart that hangs suspended in mid-air. The next is of the same woman, me, running through the air holding the strings of a cluster of red heart-shaped balloons. She’s chasing a hat that is grasped between the fingertips of a giant paint-stained hand coming down from the sky.

  As I walk along, I realize that the collection is his love story. Told in storybook-like form. Each one is tied together by the same theme. Hearts. Either anatomically correct hearts or the common heart-shape. They are beautiful, goosebump-inducing, and somewhat sad.

  I reach the painting that tells the story of when I introduced him to Vanessa. I swallow hard. In it, he’s painted an incredible likeness of himself. But he’s sawed in two, half of his heart and other entrails exposed. One half of himself cups my face lovingly, and the other half cups Vanessa’s face just as intimately. All of it symbolizing how torn he had been.

  The painting after that puts our heartbreaking goodbye in the rain on display. The painting is a self-portrait as he looks at me just as he had then. He’s created it to look like the rain is melting his face, exposing another face underneath. One face is happy, and other is miserable. But the way he’s painted it, it’s hard to tell which face is first and melting into the other.

  Unable to face it, I skip over the story of his life with her. Instead, my eyes land on the final painting and I gasp. It is a close-up portrait of a gorgeous little girl. Her hands are cupped in front of her, within them she’s holding up the world. She’s blowing on it, and tiny seeds in the shape of little red hearts appear to almost float off the canvas. Like when a child blows on a dandelion. Its seeds scattering through the air.

  I blink quickly. She has to be his. His little girl. I had no idea whether they’d had kids yet or not. How many. Or whether the child is a boy or a girl. I hadn’t wanted to know. And seeing the painting now warms my long dormant heart and then breaks it again.

  A tug on my dress pulls me from the spell the painting has me under. I look back, but no one is there. Well, at least not someone trying to get my attention. I feel the tug again and look down. My heart stops.

  Standing down below is the sweetest little cherub I’ve seen since Kari was a baby. As if the little girl jumped down from the painting and materialized in front of me. Her hair is just like his. Wheat-colored and wavy with curls at the ends. Her skin is toasted caramel, and her eyes are a combination of her mother’s and father’s. Green blended with
brown. Hazel. Her full, little lips smile up at me, and I kneel down to her level. She can’t be any more than three or four.

  “Well hello, sweetie. What’s your name?”

  “Amalie.” She understands English.

  “That’s a beautiful name, Amalie.”

  “Merci.” She looks at me earnestly. Like only a child can when they have something important on their minds.

  “Did you want to tell me something, Amalie?”

  “Tu es l'ange?” She asks softly like it’s a secret. Are you the angel?

  I blink at her, speechless. My chin trembles. I clear my clogged throat, though my voice still comes out gruff.

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  She throws her chubby little arms around my neck and squeezes tightly. I hold on just as close with one hand as I swipe at my eyes with the other.

  “I knew it was you.” She whispers in my ear in perfect English. “I dreamed of you.”

  Just as quickly as she hugged me, she releases me and runs off. My watery eyes follow her little back as she runs through the maze of adult legs. She stops in front of a pair of jeans. My eyes travel up the long legs and body until they meet familiar green eyes.

  He doesn’t look much different. Sexy and beautiful as ever. The only changes are a slight thickness to him that men get when they reach their thirties as well as a few lines around his eyes. Less boyish and more man. It looks really good on him.

  Etienne. Etienne. Etienne.

  I let his name take up space in my mind. I’ve tried not to say it or think it for five years. But seeing him has opened up everything inside of me that had long gone dormant. I feel everything. Joy. Pain. Arousal. Love.

  The one thing I don’t feel is hope. I haven’t seen Vanessa yet, but I know she’s here somewhere. Seeing them together, chatting with them is more than I can handle.

  It’s all too much already.

  Etienne picks up his daughter. She whispers in his ear and points in my direction. He nods at her and turns to look at me again. He smiles at me warmly from across the room and starts towards me.

  I have two choices. Stay or run.

  As emotions choke me, the decision is easy.

  I run.

  I turn on my heels and make quickly for the door. Tears blind me as I reach for the handle. I rip it open and run out into the night. I slam into someone solid and strong arms hold me steady.

  I look up into the warm green eyes of an unbelievably gorgeous older man with longish salt and pepper hair. I shiver around the hands that hold me gently. Shiver in recognition. Recognition of the heart.

  “It’s you.”

  “It is me.”

  Chapter 29

  Fifteen years later…

  I wake with a start. Sunlight streams through the windows making it hard to focus. A shadow drifts over me, and I blink groggily as my blurry eyes clear and come into focus.

  The green eyes and salt and pepper hair of the man in my dreams hover above me. His eyes shine with love and concern. I smile sleepily up at him. His full, plump lips spread into an answering smile before descending to mine.

  His paint-stained hands clutch my face, his thumbs caressing my cheeks. I open for him, and he settles between my legs.

  “Etienne,” I sigh.

  “You had the dream again?”

  “Yeah.” I nod.

  “I am here. And I’m not going anywhere.” He says as he slowly slides inside me. “Je t'aimerai pour toujours.” I will love you forever.

  “Et toujours,” I reply. And always.

  As he slowly brings me to climax, I marvel at how we’ve never tired of each other after all these years together.

  I’ve been dreaming about that night at the gallery a lot recently. Each time bringing back up the memories and emotions of the past. Filling me with the need to purge and tell my story. To help those who are starting over. And for one person in particular.

  The dream always starts out with me getting out of the taxi in front of the gallery. Everything happens exactly the same as it did that emotional night. With one exception.

  How it ended.

  Oh, I did run. The same as I did the night I introduced Vanessa to Etienne. The night I let him go. And just like he ran after me the night I let him go, he ran after me again the night of our reunion…

  “Taryn, wait!” I hear Etienne shout behind me.

  I keep running anyway.

  A strong hand bands around my upper arm, halting me and spins me around.

  “Etienne, please let me go.” I implore him. “I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m so happy that your life turned out how you wanted it. But please just let me be. I found a way to be happy without you and all this has done is stirred up shit I thought was long gone.”

  “Ryn, I had to see you. I had to tell you about this extraordinary and heartbreaking life I was given because of you. I needed to thank you. But there is so much more. I thought it was for the best that I stay away, even though I have wanted to call you every day. I tried a couple of times, but you refused to answer or call me back. And after speaking with Raquel, about my life and yours. I knew I had to give you this. If you will only give me a chance to tell you everything.”

  “To give me what, Etienne.”

  “A different ending.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Let me show you. I painted it all.”

  “I already looked at your paintings.”

  “Not all of them.”

  I give him a look.

  “Do you honestly think I did not see you from the moment you walked through the door? I watched you skip over the parts you did not want to see. And if you had seen them, I do not think you would have run.”

  Damn! He’s still exactly the same. He doesn’t miss anything.

  “I can’t.”

  “Please. If after seeing them, you still want to run, I will let you go.”

  I swallow past the knot in my throat and nod resolutely. He gestures back towards the gallery but is careful not to touch me as we walk back. Once inside, I see Raquel holding Amalie. She smiles at me, her eyes filled with emotion. I have absolutely no idea what is going on.

  Etienne leads me to the section of paintings I had purposely avoided. I close my eyes and sigh heavily as I shake my head in frustration.

  “Just look.”

  I open them.

  The painting after the self-portrait of the rain melting his face is a painting of me walking away into the darkness as rain falls. A cracked heart on the ground as if I’m leaving it behind. On my back are a pair of tattered angel wings, above my head a dull tilted halo.

  “Are you the angel,” I hear Amalie’s little voice say in my head.

  The next painting is what I didn’t want to see. It is of Etienne and Vanessa. They are kissing as a weeping angel, me, cries tears in the shape of hearts above them. The hearts rain down on them, bringing them love.

  I angrily swipe away my real tears.

  Each painting of them as their love grew has the angel somewhere in it too.

  “You were always there,” he says softly next to me.

  One painting, in particular, squeezes at my heart, and I choke on a sob. Vanessa’s belly is round and protruding. Etienne is kissing it, and inside is a shining heart.

  I’m ready to walk away. I even begin to turn, not wanting to see any more.

  “Keep looking,” Etienne’s voice has gone gruff with emotion.

  I look back curiously. My hand flies up to my mouth, and I gasp. My eyes immediately fill with more tears. I wipe them away quickly so I can see if I’m imagining things.

  It is a portrait of Vanessa holding baby Amalie. Vanessa has wings that are spread wide behind her as she perches cross-legged on top of a gravestone. Her name, Vanessa Martin Lemaire and a date marked nearly four years ago are etched into the stone.

  Etienne clears his throat. “She died not long after giving birth. She got to hold Amalie one time b
efore she went.”

  “Etienne…I am so sorry.” Fresh tears spill down my face. “I-I didn’t know.”

  “It is okay. I am so happy I was able to be with Vanessa even for a short time. And she gave me the most incredible gift. As did you.” Etienne wipes his thumb across his eyes before pointing to the rest of the artwork.

  The final series of paintings are of Etienne and Amalie. Her mother often in the background as well as me, watching over them. Vanessa, a wispy transparent figure, an angel who can no longer be seen but is still there. While I’m whole and here. Their angel on earth.

  And finally, the last painting I saw before I ran. The portrait of Amalie.

  “Amalie wanted me to create a painting for her mother and you from her. She is my world,” he points to the globe in her hands, “and she is sending love to both of you for helping bring her into it.”

  I am at a total and utter loss for words. Never did I imagine that his life had turned out this way. My heart breaks for him.

  “I…I don’t know what to say.”

  “You do not have to say anything. I just needed you to see it.”

  “Isn’t it a beautiful story?” A little voice says from behind us.

  We turn, and Raquel is there with Amalie still in her arms. My friend’s eyes are as watery as mine.

  “It is very beautiful.” I smile at her.

  Amalie never knew her mother, so it’s not a sad story to the little girl. To her it’s a fairytale, told to her by her father. A story of angels and love. All to create her.

  Technically, she’s right.

  “I am sorry I did not tell you a few weeks ago, ma chére. I figured it was Etienne’s story to tell, not mine.” Raquel says, thickly.

  “It’s okay. I understand. It was best told this way.” I turn to Etienne. “The collection is breathtaking. The best you’ve ever done. I’m sorry I didn’t give it a chance.”

  “I understand why you felt you could not. If I were in your position, I do not believe I could either. Thank you for letting me show you.”

  “What will you do now?” I ask quietly.

  Etienne takes a deep breath and shoves his hands into his pockets.