The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  I gaze deeply into my best friend’s eyes, and she pulls back slightly, raises a brow. I don’t need to say another word. She knows. “The thing is, I’m not coming home. This is home now,” I say anyway.

  “Oh, you sure as hell are coming back home,” she says adamantly. Samantha reminds me of Nathalie that way. Bossy, demanding, and all heart. You have to peel through the protective layers to find her vulnerabilities. An unexpected tear appears. “How am I going to do life without you?”

  “I know, it’s crazy,” I say honestly, wiping away the lone tear with my index finger. “But we’ll figure it out. We always do. Let’s just enjoy tonight.” My attention is immediately drawn to the entrance. “Come with me. I want to introduce you to that couple over there.”

  Jean-Paul and Lea, whose stomach is starting to pop, enter the ballroom. When they see me, they both smile broadly and walk in my direction.

  When Ava turns around to grab an appetizer off a server’s tray, Samantha whispers, “Tell me that’s the Jean-Paul and Lea? Oh. My. God. You did that?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Holy shit, girlfriend.” She lets out a low whistle. “I want every last detail. I’m so damn boring. All I’ve got is Eric.”

  “Eric is the best,” I say.

  “Yeah, he is. A pain in my ass but I’ll keep him. But in my next life . . .”

  Jean-Paul and Lea both kiss me, and I rub her tummy. “You look so beautiful,” I tell her.

  “If I weren’t so damn sick, I would tend to agree.”

  I laugh. Lea is Lea to the end. I introduce them both to Ava and Samantha. Within seconds, predictably Samantha, the maven about everything, begins to give them pregnancy tips and parenting advice, and the two of them are ridiculously soaking up every word. And then over Samantha’s shoulder I see Luc walk in. I gasp slightly. Alone.

  “Be right back,” I say.

  Samantha, who has the sharpest eye in town and can read any situation, grabs me by my arm. “Now I understand why you’re staying.”

  I smile tightly, and take a deep, nervous breath as I walk toward him. A crowd immediately clusters around Luc, and I stop where I am. Over shoulders, our eyes meet. He excuses himself and walks toward me.

  He takes two glasses of wine off the nearest server’s tray and hands me one. He eyes me up and down and there is an unmistakable glint in his eye. “It’s really nice to see you.”

  The way he is looking at me—am I imagining it? I beam anyway. The new black dress was worth every cent. “How have you been?” I ask. He looks good, back to himself in a navy sport coat, crisp white shirt, and jeans. The only person here in jeans. Casual elegance and perfect.

  “How am I?” His wan smile belies his impeccable appearance. “I don’t really answer that question anymore.” He sees Olivier in the distance and his expression darkens. “He’s here, of course.”

  “Yes, with Sabine.” I lean in and reposition myself to block his view.

  He laughs. “Still protecting me, are you?”

  “Maybe so,” I giggle. “What have you been doing?”

  “Painting. Keeping busy. I try not to give myself too much downtime.” His eyes bore into mine. “Any downtime, actually. You look . . .”

  “Well, you at least have to finish that sentence,” I say, my mouth curling upward.

  “You look like . . . you.” He quickly downs his glass of wine. “I will see you after the event. As you know, I am speaking tonight. Not my favorite thing to do.” He looks at me intently, as if he wants to say something, but stops himself. I don’t push him. Best right now to say less and wait for more.

  THE MUSEUM DIRECTOR MAKES A TOAST TO THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUESTS who have been invited to the gala, a fund-raiser for cancer research, which Luc had insisted on. He discusses the breadth of Nathalie’s work over the past twenty years, her brilliance, her incomparable magic. And then voilà, he removes the covering and presents Eve.

  There is a stunned silence at first, followed by thunderous applause. Everyone is awed by Eve’s magnificence. Under the brilliance of the chandeliers and the glow of candles throughout the room, Eve stands even prouder—a radiant monument of womanhood towering above us all; a fighter, a feminist, a protector, a heroine. She doesn’t just stand tall—she is a symbol of strength and fearlessness: a woman holding a spear in one hand and a serpent by the neck in the other. Don’t mess with her—nude albeit defiant. She is breathtaking and shining. And she is mine.

  The applause is earsplitting as Luc walks up to the podium. I hold my breath. Samantha squeezes my arm tightly. I lean into her. She looks at me. I place my hand on my heart. She knows.

  It takes five full minutes for the applause to die down and Luc looks overwhelmed. “Thank you all for coming tonight,” he begins. “And a special thanks to the Arts Committee for making this memorable event happen.” He names at least ten members and purposely leaves out Olivier. “There are so many things I could say but I thought it best to go personal. I want to tell you about Nathalie, the Nathalie I knew . . .”

  He recounts her life as a young, ambitious artist, as a woman who’d lost her parents early on and had to survive. He describes her as a fighter, a workaholic, who yearned to be a mother more than anything but couldn’t carry a baby to term. Her sculptures, he explains, had become her children. Nathalie never rested on her laurels. Art wasn’t just her passion, it was her breath, down to the very last one. He pauses, choking up. “My friends . . . Eve is her opus, her greatest gift, the final piece that meant everything to her. She is the daughter Nathalie never had, the woman she wanted to be and to raise. And if anyone knew Nathalie—the word ‘no’ did not exist for her. Can any artist answer to the greatness of Michelangelo? No. But Nathalie was determined to do it. She fell in love with the David when we were art students traveling around Italy, and for the next two decades her dream was to one day create an equal, a contender. She began Eve over ten years ago. She stopped and started, sculpted and discarded. But once she discovered she had cancer, everything else she was working on took a backseat: Eve became her obsession. Nathalie was revitalized like I’d never seen her before. Even through the treatments and the worst of it, she was determined to create a woman who could take on a Goliath, if challenged.” He glances up at the gilt-framed mural ceiling. “I know Nathalie is watching from above and this night means everything to her, and to me.” He fights back the tears, but there is not a dry eye in the house. “But before I leave, there are two acknowledgments—actually three—to whom we owe this day.”

  Oh no, this was not the plan. This is Nathalie’s day. I’m just the ghost. The heat rises to my face.

  “Ava Bloom . . . a talented and beautiful young art student, an American, spent the semester here with us at the École des Beaux-Arts. She is the model. Nathalie chose her for her strength, her character, her willfulness. Ava, please raise your hand.”

  “Mom, what do I do?” she whispers nervously.

  “Be proud, be you,” I say, squeezing her tightly as she waves to the guests.

  When the applause dies down and the cameras stop clicking, he continues. “And Claudia Martin took care of Nathalie around the clock when she got sick, and especially in the end as the cancer spread. Claudia made it her life’s mission to make my wife comfortable. Every day that Nathalie remained alive is due to this incredible woman. Claudia, if you would . . .” He points in her direction. Blinking back tears, Claudia is visibly humbled by the roaring applause.

  “And finally . . .”

  I dig my fingernails into my palms.

  “My friends, how is this for a twist of fate . . . Ava Bloom posed for Nathalie, and unbeknown to her, her own mother, a sculptor from Chicago and visiting as a tourist, was chosen to assist Nathalie in the end. She helped with all the finishing touches on Eve, to bring Nathalie’s vision to life when her own hands could no longer work. It is my greatest honor to present to you the very talented artist Sophie Bloom.” He gestures my way.

 
The applause is overwhelming and it seems to go on for hours. This time it is Ava who holds me tightly. I’m shaking as the flashbulbs go off and I spot Olivier clapping from across the room. I nod my gratitude. He deserves that. My euphoric gaze meets Luc’s, and stays there. He is smiling.

  WHAT COMES NEXT IS A WHIRLWIND. REPORTERS ASKING QUESTIONS, MICROPHONES shoved in my face and in Ava’s. We cling to each other amid the frenzy. Part of me is sad, like there is an arm missing, without Gabe to see all this, to be here with us, to share this golden moment.

  I whisper. “You will have to tell your dad about this, honey.”

  Ava looks at me with surprise. “You always think of him, don’t you? Even after everything.”

  I nod. “And I always will. I can’t help it. He’s part of me. He would be so proud right now.”

  She squeezes my hand and I kiss her cheek lightly as a flash sparks in my face. We laugh. We’re going to be okay.

  Luc waits in the far corner of the room for all the media commotion to die down and then he approaches me. “I know your family and friends are in town. I want to show you something. Would that be okay? Can you meet them back at the hotel in say an hour or so?”

  The or so part does cartwheels in my head. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  IT’S A GORGEOUS NIGHT, THE KIND OF COOL, BREEZY, LIT-UP PARISIAN NIGHT THAT you wish you could bottle. I feel ageless, weightless, as Luc and I stroll along the Seine, our arms grazing, my skin against his jacket, easily conversing and rehashing the night, omitting the obvious. I don’t mention how he purposely left Olivier out of all the festivities and honors—never mind that he had organized it all. Luc doesn’t tell me that he had given an ultimatum to the museum officials, that if they wanted Eve to be part of their permanent collection, Olivier Messier could attend the gala but nothing else. I don’t tell Luc that I’d already heard it all from Claudia. I let all that go and instead wonder where he’s taking me, what he wants to show me.

  “We’re almost there,” he says. His pupils are dilated and a playful smile hints at the corners of his mouth.

  “Where?” I ask, feeling a warm glow expanding throughout my body. “At least, give me a clue.”

  His eyes twinkle. “You’ll see.”

  We turn right off Quai Voltaire to Rue Jacob, walk a few blocks and approach an ornate wrought-iron gate covered with climbing roses. We enter the gate, which opens to a lovely courtyard filled with artfully manicured potted plants and lavender, neatly trimmed hedges and shrubs, and white and yellow flowers filling large crackled vases. It’s all so lovely. I inhale deeply, and the scent is divine. Luc leads me along the uneven cobblestoned walkway toward the apartment building thick with ivy growing up the façade. His apartment? My pulse races, my hands are clammy, and I feel butterflies swarming in my stomach.

  “This way,” he says, as we enter the dimly lit foyer and he takes me to the closest door. Standing at the threshold, I realize that I am holding my breath as he unlocks it, flicks on the light, and ushers me inside. I can feel his eyes on me as I take in my surroundings. Paintings, canvases, brushes, oils, palettes, are scattered everywhere. The noxious piney smell of turpentine and the bittersweet scent of linseed oil fill the room. Luc’s sanctuary.

  “Your studio,” I say softly.

  “Yes. I’ve been working on something.” His face becomes flush. He clears his throat, straightens his shoulders, gestures across the room. “For you.”

  Before I can respond, he takes me by my arm and leads me over to the large canvas on the far side of the studio. Its backside faces us, and he slowly turns it around. I look at the canvas, then at him. I feel the slight sting of tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. I move in closer.

  It’s the colors that draw me in at first—vivid shades of purple, lush lavenders, with splashes of blues and earth tones. Then it’s the raw impulsivity of Luc’s brushstroke, lending a rich, dynamic texture to the painting that engulfs me. It takes every bit of restraint not to touch it, to feel the raised composition beneath my fingertips.

  I stand back and fully absorb the image. It is an abstract of a woman sculpting with a man standing behind her, his arms draped over her slim shoulders. His head is dipped, his mouth presses against her neck. The tousled dark hair with strands of gold. It’s me. I turn, meet Luc’s burning gaze. He doesn’t look away. And it’s him.

  “It wasn’t you alone thinking about us,” he admits.

  “I know,” I say tenderly, my voice no longer a voice but a breath.

  His jaw clenches slightly, and his eyes turn serious. “But I need to know something, Sophie. I have to know this . . . it matters.”

  “Anything,” I whisper.

  “Did you ever cheat on your husband?” A man who needs to know the truth. This truth.

  I collect my disjointed thoughts, the images of past and present merging together. There are no lies in this room. “Once,” I admit. “When we were dating. I was in college. I drank too much at a fraternity party and met someone. I told Gabe the truth, we broke up for a short while, and we dealt with it. Kind of.” I gaze briefly at the paint-stained hardwood floor. “The truth is, we didn’t actually deal with it at all. He hurt me right back to even the score. We never discussed it again.” My gaze meets Luc’s squarely and locks. “But never once did I hurt him like that again during our marriage. Never.”

  Forty-three times, I think. All that hurt, that betrayal. And yet, right now, it seems so very distant. Another woman’s life and loss.

  Luc presses his lips together, visibly relieved. “I believe you. There’s something I want to tell you as well,” he says slowly. “Before she passed, when you were in Chicago, Nathalie and I were sitting on the patio, and she told me that after she’s gone she wanted me to find love again.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said nothing . . . knowing what I knew about her and Olivier, I thought it was her guilt speaking. But it’s what she said next that mattered. She told me that she wanted me to move on with my life—to remember her, remember us how we once were, that it would make her happy knowing I was happy. She said she wanted me to find a woman like you, Sophie. Good, honest, all heart . . . and loyal. She said that you reminded her of . . .” He stops speaking.

  “Of you,” I say softly, finishing his sentence.

  I turn away from Luc, lean over, and inhale the intoxicating scent of the painting’s still drying colors. He must have just finished it. I feel his hands lightly graze my shoulders, then wrap around me, enveloping me from behind, just as they do on canvas. Art imitating life, life imitating art.

  “Yes, of me.” His warm breath tickles my ear. “She was in love with Olivier and I won’t lie. It hurt deeply. Her final moments were spent in the arms of another man. And that broke me. I remembered what you told me that night in the studio, and it was the only thing that got me through my deepest pain. You said I was Nathalie’s history, her beginning, and her middle, and that no one can take that young love away. That was all mine.” He gently lifts my chin toward him. “I’ve had time over the past several weeks to think, to grieve, to heal. Nathalie saw you and she saw me. She knew. She saw the possibility of us—before I was willing to recognize it and accept what I too had been feeling deep down.”

  His warm lips brush mine, and he pulls me in closer. Melding into his body, I feel the hardness of his chest, the quickening of his heartbeat. I inhale his woodsy scent, breathing him in fully. His long, lean fingers lace mine—artist’s hands that match my own. I squeeze them tightly and he squeezes back: clasping not clinging, wanting not needing, knowing where we both have been and no longer afraid to embrace what comes next.

  Shutting my eyes, I feel everything at once. Pieces, parts, fragments that somehow, fortuitously, have come together. I smile to myself, thinking of Nathalie and then Lea—their incredible strength. Life is messy, love is messier. But pain is the messiest of all. And yet in brokenness, there is rebuilding, a rising from a fall.

  I graze my ha
nd along Luc’s clean-shaven face. Like a block of marble with infinite possibilities, perhaps we will create our own kind of love, a newness together. But no matter what happens, it is me who has changed, me who is no longer the shell but the pearl; me who is unbreakable.

  Acknowledgments

  Anyone who knows me KNOWS it’s all about My Guy and My Girls—first, last, and in-between: David, Noa, Maya, Maya (Barski), and Izzi (my furry daughter and dialogue sounding board). You are the love, the light, the laughter, and, of course, the “dramatic” inspiration for all my work—the greatest chapter of all.

  I can’t thank enough my wonderful, large extended family for their unconditional daily support, showing up at all my book gigs, cheerleading, and distributing my books as gifts. A special shout-out to my very besties—my siblings and sibs-in-law (muah—love you guys). Much gratitude to my sis-in-law Bonnie Schoenberg—my first reader and “in-house” editor. I’m so very appreciative of all the love and care you put into this manuscript.

  To my Grandma Rachel, always—in spirit, watching over me from Heaven’s Kitchen with that golden ladle. You are the voice in my head.

  Huge thanks to my badass agent—the incomparable Stéphanie Abou and Massie & McQuilkin Literary for believing in this book. Merci beaucoup for everything, Gorgeous Mama. I’m so grateful that you’re my gladiator. Sending deepest appreciation to the talented Randy Susan Meyers for making the shidduch.

  I’m beyond grateful to my HarperCollins Dream Team: my tour-de-force editors Sara Nelson and Mary Gaule (#TeamCharles #TeamJosh), kickass publicist Katherine Beitner, and exceptional marketing guru Megan Looney. Thank you, Suzette Lam and Trent Duffy—my copy editors who shaped ordinary words into extraordinary. And to the art department’s Joanne O’Neill and Robin Bilardello for this beautiful, expressive cover—it’s perfect.

  Special thanks to Ann-Marie Nieves of Get Red PR for her brilliant guidance and unparalleled strategic finesse. Steve Franzken for always making my website “changes” in the wee hours of the night (when I’m working the Insomnia Circuit), Marcy Padorr, my Chicago PR maven who has been by my side since the beginning, and to the ever-fabulous M. J. Rose for her spot-on advice.