Strong Enough

by M. Leighton

  I chose a tiny village to put down roots for several reasons, but if I’m being honest, the fact that Vincent van Gogh is buried here might’ve tipped the scales. Regardless of the reasons, though, I’m glad that I followed my heart. For the first time in two long months, I’ve begun to think I could one day actually be happy here.

  One day.

  And I’m always holding out the hope that “one day” could be tomorrow. Even though I feel like one day might never come. Life without Jasper isn’t getting any easier. Or prettier. Or happier. And every day that passes, every day that goes by and he doesn’t show up at my door, steals another grain of the optimism that I struggle so valiantly to hold on to. If “one day” doesn’t come soon, I’ll be a pile of ash that will simply scatter when it finally does blow in.

  It’s full dark by the time I park my bike under the overhang beside my front door. In most other places I might have to worry that it would get stolen if left unattended and unsecured out in the open over night, but not here. I could probably leave my door unlocked if I really wanted to. But I don’t. I doubt I’ll ever feel that secure. Too much has happened. I have too many bad memories.

  As it does a thousand times a day, Jasper’s mysteriously handsome face creeps through my mind. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, reveling in the sharp angles and planes of his bones, basking in the honey glow of his gaze, shivering under the remembered feel of his touch. I allow myself only a few seconds with him before I push him ruthlessly to the farthest corner of my memory. It didn’t take me long to realize that’s the only way I’ll ever have a moment’s peace.

  “Bonsoir,” a smooth voice says from behind me.

  I jump and whirl around, hand clutching my chest over my racing heart. I was so deep in thought I didn’t hear Gerard approach.

  “You scared the pee out of me!” I breathe.

  “Pardonnez-moi s’il vous plaît. I did not mean to startle you, Elizabeth.”

  Gerard moves into the soft light spilling from the kitchen lamp that I left on until my return. It turns one half of his face to gold and throws the other into blackness. I study his good-looking features—light brown hair, gray eyes, classic bone structure, ever-smiling lips—and I’m reminded of the differences between him and Jasper. It’s as though his face represents those disparities. Gerard is light and open, soft and welcoming, while Jasper was dark and guarded, cool and brooding.

  Their interest in me is equally contrasting. Jasper wanted me as a woman. Gerard, sweet yet firmly gay, wants me as a friend and confidant.

  “It’s okay. What are you doing here so late?”

  “I’ve been watching for your safe return since I arrived home from work.”

  “Is that code for you’ve got man troubles that you need help with?” I ask bluntly, smiling.

  His grin is sheepish as he runs a hand through his hair, throwing spikes up all over his head. “Do you have the time?”

  I study my friend. Today has been a hard day. Memories have been playing on my mind, causing the edges to turn black and curl up like burning parchment. As much as part of me wants to bask in the pain, to let it in so that I don’t completely lose Jasper, another part of me craves the respite such a distraction will bring.

  “Of course. Come on in.”

  With a smile, Gerard follows me in. He wipes his feet on the mat, leaving streaks of mud there. It clings to his feet when he walks down to my cottage. He lives just up the hill from me, which is how we met. He owns the charming little bungalow that I rent. It couldn’t have worked out any better. He speaks excellent English (which is very helpful until I learn French), he has been a cheerful and informative tour guide and he provides a friendly face and a touch of security, which I desperately needed when I first got here. In fact, most days, I still do.

  I dump my cross-body bag and the pack containing my canvas onto the floor by the door.

  “Did you paint today?”

  My smile is immediate and genuine. “I did.”

  “Will you show me? Or must I beg?”

  “Maybe tomorrow? I’m pretty tired from my travels.”

  Gerard’s eyes fill with sympathy. Although I’ve never confided in him, I think he knows there’s more that bothers me some days than just fatigue or sleepless nights. “You need to rest, I can see. My troubles will wait until tomorrow. Dinner?” he asks, his expression that of an enthusiastic puppy when he hears the word “play.”

  “Tomorrow,” I confirm with a nod, grateful that I don’t have to show him my work tonight. I don’t feel like reliving it. I don’t think I have the energy.

  With a quick kiss to both cheeks, Gerard bids me a cheerful good night and disappears into the darkness, leaving me to drag myself up the steps to change out of my paint-spattered clothes.

  At the top of the stairs, I turn left and I flick on the soft overhead light to my bedroom. I stop in the doorway.

  Jasper.

  Sometimes I’m rocked by his presence when I walk into this room. The walls are dotted with oil and canvas reminders of him. He’s everywhere I look, in the familiar landscape of the lake, in the familiar scenery of the woods behind his house, in the familiar angles of his face. My time with him has colored every piece I’ve created since I got to Paris.

  I told myself I had to do it, that it would be cathartic. These were the only things I was inspired to paint, these were the only comfort I could find for weeks. I like to think it’s helping, but there are still times when the sense of loss is nearly crippling, but it does seem to be getting better.

  Maybe.

  A little.

  I hope.

  Some days I think so, but others I fear that it will never get better. Not that it matters. When it comes to Jasper, I’m at his mercy.

  Turning from the shrine my bedroom has become, I make my way into the small, attached bathroom. I splash cold water on my face and take deep, calming breaths until I feel a little more stable. As I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I notice the shelf behind me. My perfume bottle is in the wrong place. I turn to look at it, recalling my routine before I left the house this morning.

  Littering the top shelf is the little wooden box that I keep my jewelry in when I take it off at night, a figurine of a painting girl that I picked up in Paris during my first trip into the city and, usually, my favorite bottle of perfume. On the second shelf are a few other odds and ends and a bottle of exotic French perfume that Gerard brought me. He thought it was “divine,” but I prefer mine. The hint of lilac in my perfume reminds me of Jasper, so I wear it every day. It holds a special place in my heart and on my shelf.

  Until today.

  For some reason, the bottle is resting beside the only other bottle of perfume that I own. But I didn’t put it there.

  A niggle of unease slithers down my spine. After I use the bathroom, I walk back out into my bedroom, looking over every familiar detail of the room. It’s the one room that I have poured most of me into, the one where I feel most at home.

  Everything looks clean and orderly, just like I left it this morning. The bed is neatly made with a spring flower duvet cover that I found in Paris, the rug in front of the closet still holds my slippers, kicked off as I dressed this morning, and my curtains are still open to let in the warm sunlight while I was gone.

  I try to shake off the unsettling feeling and chalk up the perfume bottle to me just depositing it on the wrong shelf by accident. I did leave in a hurry so that I could get back before dark.

  Back downstairs, I search for other things amiss and I find none. I don’t beat myself up over my paranoia. I figure I’ve earned it and then some.

  As I pass the front door, I pick up my portfolio and bring it back with me. I perch on the edge of the couch and unzip the padded sheath, revealing the dried watercolor that I painted in the grass beside a cafe today. I was determined to capture a little bit of Paris rather than spilling my memories onto the thick paper. I was successful, right up until the moment I looked
up and saw the back of a dark head ducking around the corner up ahead. It reminded me so much of Jasper, like most tall, fit men with short, dark hair do (at least from the back) that I couldn’t finish the painting without adding his vague shape to the background. In days ahead, that’s what I’ll remember most about today. The scene was beautiful, the weather perfect, the location exotic, but what will always stand out most was the jolt to my heart when I saw that dark head walking away.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Muse

  Two weeks later

  There’s something enchanting yet downright depressing about the idea of spending the holidays in Paris. The city is so charming, as is this little town with all of its eight-or-so-thousand residents, that I can easily picture cozy nights indoors as well as festive dinners with friends. Only I don’t have many friends. To be more precise, I have one. Ms. Etienne doesn’t count, as she only speaks to me when she wants my help with something in her garden.

  On the other side of that cheerfully imagined holiday coin is the one that shows me all alone in a foreign land, unable to hug my father, share a drink with an old friend or hold the hand of the man I love. I feel as though nearly every step of every day is some strange mixture of moving forward, yet not moving forward at all. I can’t seem to let go of my old life, of my old hopes and dreams.

  It’s too soon, I reason, which is true. It’s only been three months since I left. It’s insane to expect to be fully healed by now.

  But maybe just a little bit healed . . .

  I shake off the thought. It does bother me that I don’t seem to be doing any better. There are times when I think I am, but then I quickly realize that I’m not. Those short bursts of well-being are more like comets. They streak brightly, promisingly across the midnight sky of my life, giving me a few fleeting seconds of light and hope, only to disappear over the horizon. Sometimes they leave me in an even darker place than I was before.

  I look up from my blank sketchpad when I hear a knock at the door. I don’t have to wonder who it is. Since Ms. Etienne’s garden is dead for the winter, it can only be Gerard. He’s still the only friend I’ve made.

  He’s smiling broadly when I swing open the door. He bows cordially and hands me a small, white envelope. “I would like to invite you to a very special dinner tonight, Elizabeth,” he says, pronouncing my name like Eee-lees-a-beth.

  “Well, if this is any indication of what I can expect, I know I won’t have anything appropriate to wear,” I say, giving myself an immediate out.

  His smile gets bigger. “Not to worry, ma chère. I have taken care of that for you.”

  I’m not as apprehensive as I would normally be when Gerard hands me a long box that he was hiding behind his back, likely because he typically has excellent taste.

  “Gerard, you shouldn’t have. I really can’t—”

  “Ah ah ah,” he clucks. “I wanted to. And you really can.”

  I gnaw my lip for a second as I think. I’m sure it’s an extravagant gift, which would normally make me feel bad. But Gerard has money. Lots of it. Evidently he has several investments, including a lucrative development somewhere in Paris. There’s probably no reason for me to feel guilty. He’s my friend and I think he just likes doing nice things for people. So I decide right now to just enjoy it.

  I take the box anxiously. I’m curious about the whole thing—the special dinner, the dress, the formality. He follows me in and closes the door before we go into the living room.

  I set the box on the aged coffee table and release the big, beautiful blue ribbon before taking off the lid. Lying beneath a wisp of tissue paper is a beaded bodice in emerald green. I slip my fingers under the spaghetti straps and lift it out from its nest. Luxurious velvet in the matching jewel tone makes up the lower half of the floor-length gown. All I can do is stare at it for several long seconds before I look over the top of it to Gerard, who is smiling at me with twinkling gray eyes.

  “You will look tres magnifique when you meet the gallery owners.”

  My mouth drops open. “G-gallery owners?”

  “Yes. Gallery owners. Husband and wife. I own the buildings where they opened their first two galleries in Paris and Rome. I’ve known them for quite some time and I know they like to deal directly, as I know many executives do. Julienne saw your canvas on my office wall and would not rest until I agreed to bring the artist to meet her. So here I am, making matches.”

  Now I understand the twinkling eyes and grin that won’t stop.

  For the first time in months, I’m filled with excitement and anticipation. To have the work that I pour my heart and soul into appreciated by art lovers has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. And the timing couldn’t be better. I have pinched pennies to stretch the money Jasper gave me as far as I could, but I have been wondering lately where on earth I could get a job when I can’t speak the language fluently yet. But this . . . this could be a godsend!

  “Nothing to say from those beautiful lips?”

  I blush, not because of the beautiful lips comment, but because I’m sure I’m being rude by diving into my own head rather than thanking Gerard.

  “I’m speechless. I could never thank you enough for being such a good friend to me, Gerard. I don’t know what I’d have done without you these last months.”

  He nods graciously, but I can see how pleased he is. Flattery works best on Gerard. “I believe in your work. I am happy to see when another does as well.”

  “And I’m meeting them tonight?”

  “Yes, in two hours, but we’re meeting in Paris, so you won’t have that long to prepare.”

  “Then I’d better get started. I need to see if I’ve got shoes to go with this, too,” I mutter absently as I carry the dress toward the stairs.

  “Have you checked the rest of the box?”

  I turn to find Gerard holding the white box out to me. As I approach I can see a bulge under another layer of tissue paper. When I peel it back, two silver sequined shoes are revealed. I take them out and place them gently on the floor, slipping one foot in to see if they fit. And they do. As perfectly as if I had picked them out myself. I suspect I’ll find the same with the dress.

  “Like Cinderella, my favorite,” he says with a dreamy roll of his eyes.

  I can only imagine that wearing such a beautiful dress, standing in such beautiful shoes, meeting with people who could make my dreams come true, I’ll feel much like the fairy tale character. If only I had my Prince Charming to complete the picture. Cinderella wouldn’t have her happy ending without him. And I know, deep down, that I won’t ever have mine either. My painting could set the world on fire, I could move back to the states with my father, I could achieve every other thing I’ve ever wanted in life, but all of it would be slightly hollow without Jasper. He is where my heart truly lies.

  “I will be back to collect you in one hour. Will that be enough time?”

  I nod. “That should be fine.”

  I wait for him to cross to the door and I open it for him, leaving my hand on the knob. “Jusqu’a ce soir.”

  Until tonight.

  Until tonight. When I take the first step into my future. Without Jasper.

  —

  I needn’t have worried. Dinner was an amazing success and I’m practically walking on clouds when Gerard ushers me out of the restaurant. I don’t even need a wrap. Wine and happiness are warming my blood.

  I take a deep breath and stretch out my arms, spinning in a circle on the sidewalk. “That was incredible!”

  Paris dips a little on my second spin. Gerard’s arms keep me from busting my ass and tearing my beautiful-but-tight dress.

  “Woops!” I chirp, righting myself and pushing back from his chest a little.

  “Tonight was incredible, just as you are incredible,” he says happily, his gray eyes sparkling.

  “Gerard, thank you so much for this. I just can’t tell you—”

  My words are cut off by the chilling sensation that someone
is watching me. It makes no sense at all. I can only attribute it to the moved perfume bottle and a heaping dose of paranoia.

  “What is it?” Gerard asks, concern showing on his face.

  I realize immediately how unlikely it is that I’m being watched. No doubt Jasper sent me to a place he felt was safe, but try as I might, I can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes on me. Dark, menacing eyes.

  I glance around surreptitiously, but see nothing suspicious, nothing nefarious like a black sedan with a hooded figure in the driver’s seat or a man in a trench coat, smoking by the corner of a shadowed alley. Although I doubt anyone who could find me would be that sloppy in their surveillance.

  Anyone who could find me . . .

  Jasper.

  Could he have found me? Would he have wanted to?

  My heart leaps with a joyful relief at the brief thought that it could be him, that he might finally have come for me. But then rationale dashes those hopes. If Jasper did come for me, there’s no reason whatsoever for him to stalk me in Paris when he could just catch me at my small-town cottage.

  No, it wouldn’t be Jasper. If he was watching me, I’d never know it. As much as I like to think I’d feel him, too, I doubt I would. He’s like an apparition. Invisible. Fleeting.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . nothing,” I add with a reassuring smile. “I’m just ready to go home and let all this sink in.”

  He smiles brightly and loops his arm through mine as we start off toward the car. When Gerard opens the passenger door, I duck inside, searching the street and shadows for anything that appears out of the ordinary as I do. Nothing does, though. No stalker. No watcher.

  No Jasper.

  On the way back to our little village, my heart sinks with every mile we drive, every mile that brings me closer to my new existence. And farther from the man I love.

  —

  That brief, nonsensical thought that Jasper might’ve found me (and yet he hasn’t) heralds a darkness that creeps over my life, over my days and nights like a storm cloud. Longing turns into bitterness, melancholy turns into anger. My frustration with myself for falling in love with a man who is so deeply flawed and inaccessible gushes out in a spray of venom and animosity that has one target and one target alone—Jasper.