The Cult of the Black Virgin

by Serena Janes

  Glenda was an astute reader of her fellow human beings, and Edward concurred with her diagnosis of this particularly sad case.

  He turned to his wife and gave her a hug as he felt the train begin to move.

  * * * *

  Finally, the train pulled away from the station, and Luc was left standing alone. A light rain began to fall. He was so tired he could barely think what to do next.

  Throughout the good-byes he’d kept one eye on the watch for Joanna. Twice, a flash of red caused his heart to leap into his throat. He had it fixed in his mind that she would come to him with his red bandana still tied around her neck.

  The first time he’d glimpsed red, it was only an umbrella being opened by a girl on the other side of the station.

  The next splash of red was even more alarming. It turned out to be a dark-haired woman’s blouse. Another dark-haired woman. Not the woman he was waiting for. Not Joanna.

  Two nights before, after a terrible confession to Simone, and a tearful goodbye to his son, Luc had returned to the hotel in Martel. But when he opened the door at just past midnight, he found the room empty. None of Joanna’s things were there. It appeared that she hadn’t used the room at all.

  First he was frightened. Then he became angry.

  He stormed back to the gîte and woke Madame Guillmont. She told him about James’ surprise arrival.

  “The American man took her away, Lucien. They left in a taxi, about six-thirty.”

  “And you don’t know where they went?”

  “How could I? She didn’t talk to me at all. She wouldn’t even look at me when she left. What could I do? It’s none of my affair.”

  “What about the man? Did he say anything?”

  “When he arrived, yes. He told me there was a family emergency and that Mademoiselle Clifford must go home. That’s all I know, Cherie. They could be in Paris by now.”

  Luc went rigid with terror, which quickly turned into fury. He wanted to hit something. Or someone. Preferably an American male.

  But what can I do? Putain de merde! Fuck!

  Madame swore to her friend that she knew nothing more, but they began to quarrel when Luc accused her of hiding something. In the end, he returned to the empty hotel room, to try to gather his wits. He decided the only thing to do was empty the mini-bar and crash into oblivion.

  The next day he managed to finish the tour, but he knew he did a poor job, for he was present in body only. There was no point in trying to explain anything that had happened between himself and Joanna. And when he saw people looking at his naked ring finger he grew angry.

  None of this is anybody’s business. Let them think what they want.

  He gave away nothing.

  How long should I stand there in the rain? Is there any point? Maybe she’s waiting for me at the hotel. Or back at the van. Why didn’t she call me? Has she lost my number? Maybe she left a message for me at either the hotel or the gîte. I’d better check right away.

  But he couldn’t fool himself for long. As he began to walk slowly away from the station, hands thrust deep into his pockets, a sense of utter futility replaced his usual confidence. She wasn’t coming.

  She wasn’t coming.

  Epilogue

  Four years later, in Nice.

  Glenda and Edward Evans had always loved the south of France and were thrilled when their eldest daughter married a young Frenchman with excellent credentials and a secure job at a technical college in Nice. That meant they could holiday in France whenever they wanted, as they were now, for Easter.

  The beach was crowded today, which was to be expected, given the warm weather and the holiday. But they found a space close to the shore and spread their rugs. Glenda opened her basket and laid out the lunch she had packed. Edward had his nose buried in a book.

  As she was filling cups from a thermos of tea, she overheard the voice of a woman sitting on a blanket nearby. It sounded familiar.

  She handed Edward a cup and looked at the attractive young woman, a young mother playing with a child who looked about two years old. The beautiful little girl had light brown curls and very dark eyes, and was busy filling a plastic bucket with stones. Her mother was handing her pebbles one at a time, teaching her to name the colors.

  The mother spoke in French, but she wasn’t French. She had a strong foreign accent, and at first Glenda couldn’t place it.

  She stared, confident the young woman was too engrossed to notice her rudeness. Glenda noted how pretty she looked in her straw hat and a lacy top worn over her chic swimsuit. She thought back to the days when she was a new mother, remembering her frumpy dresses and how she never had the time to look after herself properly. But then she didn’t live in France, did she? French women always looked so sophisticated, she thought. Even the immigrants.

  She unwrapped her sandwich and began to eat, sneaking a look at the mother and child from time to time. The woman radiated femininity and sensuality. Glenda thought she looked happy.

  Then she saw why.

  A strikingly attractive man of impressive proportions walked out of the sea and over to their blanket, shaking drops of water over the child, who began squealing with delight. “Papa! Non, Papa!”

  As soon as Glenda saw the tattoo on his arm, she knew it was Lucien LaPlante. It had to be!

  “Edward! Look”!

  But he kept on reading.

  She remembered Lucien with affection. He was the best guide she and Edward had ever met. But wasn’t there something sad that had happened to him?

  He didn’t look sad now as he bent over to give the glowing young mother a wet kiss before grabbing a towel. When Glenda saw the woman’s smile, her mouth fell open. She immediately recognized Joanna.

  Here they were! Together! With a child! Tears misted Glenda’s eyes.

  “Oh, Edward. Look who it is!”

  Edward looked up at his wife with a frown on his face.

  “What? Who?”

  Glenda lowered her voice. “It’s that tour guide from the Dordogne trip. You remember.” She tilted her head towards Luc. “Do you recognize the woman?”

  Edward peered over the top of his reading glasses in the direction of her gaze, and his puzzled expression gave way to a wide smile.

  “Of course I do, but I don’t believe it,” he said, scrambling to his feet. He made his way over to the couple and extended his hand. “Pardon me for intruding, but I believe we know each other, Monsieur LaPlante. And Joanna,” he added, turning to Jo with a look of genuine pleasure on his face. “Edward Evans, from Birmingham. My wife, Glenda, is sitting over there,” he pointed vaguely to his left. “We remember you fondly from our walking tour three or four years ago. How good to see you again—especially you, Joanna.”

  Luc shook his hand but it seemed to take him a moment to recall the English couple. Jo, however, jumped up and embraced Edward lightly. “Of course! I remember you both very well,” she exclaimed. “I’ve thought of you and Glenda often.” She turned to Glenda, who had joined them, and the two women hugged each other.

  Then they all began to talk at once.

  Luc picked up his daughter proudly, introducing her as Bella. But Bella decided she wasn’t in the mood to meet new people, and began to wail.

  “Please. Will you come for lunch one day this week?” Jo said, looking at her husband for approval. “I’d love to spend some time with you while you’re here.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. When can you come?” added Luc as he swung the now-laughing Bella into the air.

  A few days later, Glenda and Edward arrived at the LaPlante family’s summer home for a simple lunch. Luc, their gracious host, walked them through the house to the patio. Glenda almost missed a stair as she gasped at the view of the sea.

  Joanna came out with Bella on her hip, mother and daughter dressed in simple white. Luc, too, was dressed in pale colors against the sun. He took Bella from Joanna’s arms and introduced her once again. This time she didn’t cry, but pointed down to the
small black and white dog at her father’s feet. Luc laughed and introduced Sammy. “We brought him over from the States as a landed immigrant. Joanna wouldn’t think of leaving him behind.

  “I’m sorry you won’t be able to meet my son today. He’s spending the holiday with us, but being twelve it’s all about football for him. He and his cousin are off at a game today.”

  Glenda turned from the beautiful family to the overgrown garden. Cascading bougainvillea and elegant palms made a perfect frame for an old stone table surrounded by wooden chairs and colorful pillows. It was an exquisite scene, she thought, as Luc pulled out a chair for her, and certainly had Birmingham beat all to hell.

  Luc kept the cooled wine flowing, and the seafood salad and fresh fruit were delicious. Soon the mood grew confidential enough for someone to bring up the sensitive subject that Jo and Luc shared with only their closest friends and family members. They wanted to explain what happened at the end of that Dordogne tour, Luc said. He knew it had ended badly for some, and mysteriously for everyone. The Evans had to be dying of curiosity.

  Luc shifted Bella from one knee to the other and began. He told them why he misled the group into believing he was still married, admitting he was a fool for not realizing how much he was compromising Joanna’s reputation. But then he got to the more important part of the story.

  “Do you remember that Joanna’s American boyfriend arrived unexpectedly in Martel?”

  Glenda and Edward nodded in unison.

  “Well, he’d come to give Joanna some bad news. Do you want to tell it, ma biche?” he asked his wife, softly.

  Jo nodded. “My father died. While I was in St. Sozy. “ She looked out to the sea as she spoke. “He had a heart attack, and he died. I wasn’t picking up my emails, and I hadn’t called the States for days so I didn’t know.”

  “I’m so sorry. How terrible,” the Evans said together.

  “Thank you,” Jo said, turning to look at them. “My family had postponed the funeral. Waiting for me, of course. And so James came to take me home. My father and I were very close, and James knew I would be devastated.

  “And so I had to go with him,” she said, turning a tender smile on Luc, who was looking at her with shining eyes.

  She looked back to the Evans. “I went home, in a daze, oblivious to the devastation I’d left behind me.” She sent another soft look to her husband. “It took me a couple of weeks to get my head straight, but eventually I realized I couldn’t stay with James. I belonged to Luc. I still do.”

  She was smiling but Glenda could see the tears beginning to well in her dark eyes.

  Luc reached over his daughter’s head and pulled his wife’s hand to his lips. Then he gently kissed the black and white Yin and Yang symbol tattooed on the inside of her forearm. It was an exact replica of his, only smaller.

  “As I belong to you,” he murmured.

  Glenda noticed they wore matching wedding bands of plain gold.

  * * * *

  Jo stood up and began to clear the table, asking Glenda if she’d like to see the house. It was very old, and had some interesting features, she explained. After the women deposited the dishes in the kitchen, Glenda stopped in front of a painting of Our Lady of Rocamadour. The Black Virgin.

  “You know, I’ve seen another Black Virgin. In Turkey, when we went last year. I’d almost forgotten all about it, but seeing this reminded me of her.”

  “Yes. Luc bought this one for me. We have another in our house in Cahors.”

  Jo didn’t venture to explain why she owned two images of the Black Virgin.

  “Aren’t the stories of the Black Virgin fascinating?” Glenda asked. “Remember that old professor with his theories about her coloring? I can’t remember his name, can you?”

  “Arnold. Thomas Arnold. But you told us a few things about her yourself. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Didn’t I say something about her helping ease the pain of childbirth?”

  “Well, yes, you did. But that one doesn’t work, you know.”

  Both women laughed.

  Jo wondered at the coincidence of Glenda, Thomas and Luc coming together at the same place, at the same time, to teach her something that would change her life so profoundly. If she’d never learned about the Cult of the Black Virgin, if she’d never given up her good sense to join it, she would probably be married to James now, instead of Luc.

  And Bella wouldn’t exist. It would be some other child, a child born out of duty more than love.

  She couldn’t bear to think how her life might have turned out. She believed herself to be the luckiest woman who had ever lived.

  “Yes, the stories around the Black Virgins are certainly strange. I’m so grateful that I got to meet her,” said Jo quietly as she absent-mindedly ran her fingers over her tattoo.

  About the Author

  Serena Janes is proud to say she was born in Vancouver, Canada. She now lives about 100 miles from that beautiful city, on a beautiful island, in a house called “Ocean Glimpses.”

  Serena holds both a Bachelors and Masters degree in English, and has been teaching university-level courses in literature and composition for many years. She loves to travel and her goal is to write a story or novel set in every one of the foreign countries she’s ever visited. This should keep her busy for the rest of her life, she figures.

  When she’s not reading, writing, gardening, beach-combing, swimming, cooking, walking, sewing and collecting stamps and postcards from around the world, Serena enjoys her husband and Mr. Bates, a tabby cat named after a character in Downton Abbey.

  If you enjoyed Cult of the Black Virgin, look for its sequel, Revenge of the Black Virgin.