Painted with Love: Romance Eludes Time and Death

by Karen Diana Montee

  "Thank you for telling me, Mother.” I paused briefly with a look of reassurance for her. “I will miss you terribly. I will return as soon as I’m able. Thank you for your understanding and support. You’ve been everything to me, Mother. I know we fought a lot, and I was always head-strong, but I watched you. I always admired you. In some ways I just wanted to be different from you because we were so much alike. You're the most amazing Mother ever. I hope that my children feel at least half as much love for me as I do for you. Everything you taught me is now what I take with me. I want to be more like you.”

  My mother was crying. She couldn't speak. She kept nodding her head, trying to let words escape, instead more tears flowed. We embraced again. Finally, she managed to say, "I love you. I wish for your safety and happiness. You know that I can’t travel that distance, so please write and come back soon." She didn't have to say any more. She had said it all through the years. I felt fortunate to be her daughter.

  My father walked over to the two of us. "May I cut in?" He asked. My mother wiped her face and turned away.

  "I will miss you my cherished. What’s going to keep me busy when you're not here to aggravate me?" I laughed out loud. He was trying to bring a smile to our faces. “I’m proud of you daughter, for being true to yourself.” I tried to speak and tell him that he taught me to be who I am, but he interrupted and continued. "I've always been proud of you. You've been in touch with your heart since you were a small child. I always admired that about you. My brain has more to say out loud while my heart stays quiet. Thank the Lord above that you’re different. You allow your heart to have a voice, even when it challenges others. It’s commendable. The world needs more people like you, my sweet. Remember how important learning is. Open your mind to new knowledge. When you return, you can tell me all about the new land. If I were a younger man, I would be intrigued to explore it. I will see it through your eyes."

  Now, I was crying and I could not speak. I looked up at my distinguished father who loved me powerfully. He was the reason I wouldn't settle for less than Jean-Paul. I’d always been loved by a man. I understood what it meant to be respected. I could never let myself be called a wife to a man I could not hold in high regards. My father taught me many things, but above all he showed me what a man is capable of being. Because of him, I now had a husband who would revere me, make me feel safe, and I could be honored to be his wife.

  "I have no words clear enough to explain my gratitude for your support, for believing in me and for showing me how to love. I wish I could say… more…” Tears flowed in streams down my cheeks. My wedding dress was becoming wet from all the tears shed by me and my parents. Jean-Paul was correct to have us come back for the wedding. I married a wise man, and today was only the beginning of exploring his love.

  Martine approached me next. Her look showed pride and exuberance at once. “You’re a beautiful bride,” she began. “I could not have chosen a more perfect mate for Jean-Paul if God had given me the task. Now we are finally family and you can call me ‘Mother’ instead of Auntie.” We both smiled.

  “I am a bride today because of you. You saved me from doom. I owe you my life.”

  “You owe me a hug and nothing more. Go in peace now and be happy and make some babies. Nothing could be cuter than a child belonging to the two of you,” she added. We had a long embrace. I felt a mutual respect and knowing between us. Our secret of my escape would forever hold her dear to me.

  We spent two days in Le Havre for a brief honeymoon, soaking up France before our long voyage. Then we boarded a large vessel to cross the rough sea to our new land. During the journey back to America Jean-Paul and I were both pretty quiet as we each realized that it might be two years before we saw our family again.

  The last day of the cruise I became terribly ill with fever, chills, vomiting, and fatigue. I decided I hated traveling by ship and would only take one more trip across the ocean when it was time to live again in my homeland. Jean-Paul became slightly ill as well, but cared for me as if he was strong.

  Jean-Paul bought tickets to leave immediately for the west coast by train. I didn't feel like traveling any more, but I didn't want to tell Jean-Paul how ill I felt. We would need to impose on Madam and Monsieur Batton again or stay in a hotel if we didn’t leave right away. Jean-Paul found a carriage ride to take us to the train station. He helped me board, and then he loaded our belongings on to the baggage car.

  Jean-Paul paid for us to ride by train all the way to San Francisco to avoid traveling the last leg by wagon. I sat quietly on the coach seats of the noisy train, trying not to show Jean-Paul my terrible fatigue. I could barely hold my head up or keep my eyes open. I was weak from vomiting and no food. Twenty-two passengers had died on the ship from the dehydrating illness. I certainly felt fortunate. Jean-Paul expressed pure gratitude that I was among the strong survivors. Yet, my reserves were empty and I wondered when I would have the time to rest and regain strength.

  We had ten more days of travel on the long voyage from east to west to reach our new home. Food was not readily available and restrooms were few. Jean-Paul saw the pallor in my face. He asked me what he could do to make me well. “Hold my hand and smile at me,” I told him.

  Jean-Paul decided to upgrade our ticket to a sleeping car. The cost was significantly more, but he knew that I needed the rest and privacy the car would provide. When we reached the next station, he negotiated for a sleeping car. The train was very full, but two beds were available with two other passengers in the car, both male. Jean-Paul told me it was the best he could provide, although he wished he could do more.

  I laid in the bottom bunk of the car and slept for days. I woke only for soup, tea and bathroom breaks with no interest in sitting to peer out the window.

  “Jean-Paul, you are kind. Thank you for caring for me. I wish I could be better company for you on this long journey,” I told him before closing my eyes again.

  Jean-Paul later told me about an incident that happened while I slept. He noticed one of the men in our sleeping car staring at me. Jean-Paul felt angry inside and ready to fight the man. He thought the men were probably railroad workers or miners, going from town to town, never settled and always looking for sex because they weren’t responsible enough to settle down with a wife and give a good woman a home. The idea of them thinking about me in an inappropriate way infuriated Jean-Paul, although we were stuck with them in this small car for days. The two men slept most of the time and looked haggard. Jean-Paul assumed it was because they were recovering from over consumption of alcohol. Neither one of them looked as if they had enough strength to give a day’s work or owned any clean clothing.

  One of the men noticed Jean-Paul watching him and he broke the indignant tension Jean-Paul felt. “What happened to her? How did your wife become ill?”

  “On a ship,” Jean-Paul replied sharply. “We came across the Atlantic from France. Many people caught a terrible illness. A lot of people died from dehydration. I am grateful to have her alive.”

  “Indeed,” said the weary man. “You are fortunate.”

  “Where are you men traveling from?” Jean-Paul asked through his anger.

  “My name is Peter. This is my father Andre. We are the only survivors in our family. We moved to Galveston, Texas from Holland three years ago with our wives and my four children.” Peter began to choke. He paused and looked at the floor before returning his gaze at Jean-Paul. “Did you hear about the hurricane?”

  Jean-Paul thought for a moment. He had heard a little about a bad storm and many deaths. He nodded twice.

  “We were there. There was no warning. One minute we are in our field and the next minute it’s blowing and raining like there is no tomorrow. Father and I began to run for the house. The sea started to come onto land right away. Our own boat floated in the field and we ran for it through a swamp of wet crops. We both got to the boat and went to save our family.” Again Peter stopped and gulped as if he were swallowing all of his pain. Peter s
tarted to cry. “The ocean came in too fast. Before we knew it, the fields were covered in three feet of water. We couldn’t control the boat and get through the flood to our house.” Peter held his face in his hands. He shook his head. “They’re all gone; every one of them. We’re the only ones left. Half the town is dead and the animals too. The place reeks of death and is flooded with the tears of the living. The place haunts us. My father and I wish we were dead with our wives. I can hardly look at a child without falling to the ground and screaming. I have nothing to live for my friend. Everything I valued in my life is gone from me. I have nothing. You are lucky that your wife survived. Take good care of her. You will be nothing if you lose her.”

  Jean-Paul sat quietly watching a broken man cry. His father hadn’t even opened his eyes. Jean-Paul felt badly for misjudging the men. “I’m sorry for your loss, Peter. I know that doesn’t help. But I am very sorry.” The two men looked at each other with a sense of understanding. Peter nodded, “Thanks mister.” Peter lay back down and closed his eyes again. Jean-Paul told me that Peter looked as if he were praying for his own death.

  I slept through the whole conversation. Jean-Paul told me that he was glad I didn’t hear the story and feel even worse than I already did. He knew then and there that he must never lose me and he must get us home to our families.

  It seemed a strange coincidence to me that his father’s name was Andre, but neither Jean-Paul nor I commented on it.

  By the time we reached Oklahoma, I was feeling stronger. I sat up holding my tea, peering at the mountains and grassy valleys that passed, not saying a word. Finally, I asked, “Jean-Paul, I reviewed the maps before we came, but I didn’t really understand the empty space and endless tracks. All of Europe wouldn’t fill up this country.”

  Jean-Paul smiled. “It is good to hear your voice and see an inquisitive expression on your glowing face.”

  When we arrived in San Francisco, the first thing I said was with great enthusiasm, “It reminds me of Paris!” There were many rows of homes that looked much like the one I grew up in. Jean-Paul smiled back at me with relief.

  Our new apartment was modest and dark, needing many items, and a woman’s touch to make it more comfortable. I couldn’t wait to get started.

  Jean-Paul painted while I cooked and listened to the deep hum he made in his throat as he stroked the canvas with brush and paint. I smiled in gratitude and praise to God for Jean-Paul.

  It was time for me to go out to shop for items the home needed. The windows were bare, offering no privacy. The cupboards didn’t have cooking utensils, or enough pots and plates. There was no reason to live like a peasant. Jean-Paul had saved up more money than I expected. With the money given to us at our wedding and a generous gift of cash from my parents, we had plenty of funds to buy the essentials.

  I fixed up our new home while Jean-Paul set up the new business. On the weekends we walked along the beach and enjoyed our new city, while we dreamed of returning to Paris.

  Shortly after we settled in to our new life, I began to receive letters from Andre. Two months after we moved in, I found the first one in the mailbox. My heart nearly coiled into a permanent cramp the first time I held the envelope sent from Andre Monet. I feared the content, but decided I must know what he was planning. Reluctantly, I opened the letter and read the awful words.

  My Dearest Cherish,

  California suits me well. Once I mastered this unpleasant language they speak here, the bar exam was easy to pass. I was hired immediately by an excellent firm. Yours truly is a criminal litigator, and an excellent one, I must say. Let me make clear that money will never be a problem. Should you become my wife in the future, you will be cared for well.

  As you know I am a forgiving man. I am certain that you were coerced into this marriage, manipulated by an evil suitor. This is why I don’t hold my anger against you, directly. You will come to see my wisdom in time. I watched you walking yesterday. You looked beautiful, as always. I would like to buy you a new dress. Poverty doesn’t suit you.

  My love for you is growing, Cherish. As I mature, I realize how short and precious life it, and how quickly it can be taken away. I know that being with the woman God intended me to be with is of utmost importance before this body I hold dear is taken to the grave. I will hold you in my arms again, before my last day of life.

  I will continue to write to you so that you will remember I am here suffering without you. I pray for your wellbeing.

  Andre Monet

  I crumpled the letter in anger. I hated him for trying to destroy my happiness and make me feel guilty for his feelings. He was no longer my friend. Now he was my enemy. I wondered if I should tell Jean-Paul. Perhaps I should not upset him, yet I didn’t want anything hidden between us. I waited for the right opportunity.

  We spent the weekends exploring the area and restaurants together. Days after the letter arrived, Jean-Paul invited me to join him for a day trip. He summoned a carriage which took us northwest, towards downtown and the mouth of the bay. Jean-Paul helped me from the carriage and carried the food, leading us towards a path. Jean-Paul walked a bit quickly. “Can we slow down, Jean-Paul? At this pace I shall tire. You must try walking quickly in this long skirt with these boots.”

  “Sorry, my love, I didn’t realize my pace. I’m simply excited to show you something.”

  “Will it still be there if we arrive a half-hour later?”

  “But of course, my darling. Please forgive me.”

  “Very well, have we much farther to walk?”

  “Are you tired? Would you like to rest?”

  “Um, a little.”

  “Let’s rest over here.” Jean-Paul directed us to a patch of wild grass where we sat to rest. Jean-Paul looked around to see if we were alone. With no one in sight, he leaned in to offer me a kiss. “Pardon me my lovely wife, I find your lips completely irresistible.” I accepted his advance with pleasure. We both withdrew after one passionate kiss, knowing that if we lingered close together too long, an interlude would surely follow.

  “Cherie, darling,” Jean-Paul began, “I want to be a father.”

  “My love, I am excited and ready to bear and love our children. I desire to give you sons and daughters that I may bathe, feed and dress. But most of all, beyond anything else, I shall show them how much I love you and teach them how great you are.”

  “How’s it possible that you’re not impregnated already? I make love to you every day, sometimes twice. Will it take long?”

  “Sweet, Jean-Paul, sometimes these things take time. Your Auntie Martine would say, ‘In God’s time.’ It will happen. Be patient.”

  “So true. Thank you, love.”

  “For what?”

  “For being you and loving me.”

  “You’re most welcome.” I smiled the most loving smile I could muster.

  “Could a man be luckier than this?” Jean-Paul asked.

  "Could a woman be more appreciated?" I asked. We both smiled in gratitude of each other.

  “Darling, I have some news.”

  “Good news I hope,” Jean-Paul said. The sun lit his hair and the wind blew it wildly. I wanted only to see him smile and not deliver this news.

  “Not really good news. When the mail arrived this week, there was a letter from Andre.” Jean-Paul’s eyes widened and then I saw a hint of anger. He didn’t speak. “The letter said that he passed the bar in California.”

  “What else did he say?!”

  “Nothing worth mentioning. He didn’t announce why he was here and not Paris, or in what city he was dwelling.” I paused briefly to see if Jean-Paul wished to comment. “He has a way of threatening, between the lines. It’s his way to intimidate. He is trying to come between us. We cannot allow him to win this game.”

  “How could he possibly have our address, Cherie?!”

  “Jean-Paul, there’s no need to be angry with me. You know that I would not give it to him. How could you question me in this tone?”

&nb
sp; “Then who?” Jean-Paul had not raised his voice to me before now.

  “I believe that it’s Marion,” I said.

  “Marion? Never. What motive would she have to share this information?”

  “This is only a guess, but it seems to me that deep down she wants to be more than best friends with you. She loves you more than a friend or cousin.”

  “What?”

  “Jean-Paul, at our reception dinner I watched her carefully. I saw how she looks at you. She met Andre at Martine’s home. I believe she told Andre about me getting on the boat to leave Paris. She must have overheard my conversation with Martine. She didn’t know that I changed from servants clothes into a golden gown.”

  “She’s married.”

  “She’s not happy,” I replied. Jean-Paul studied my face. “A woman sees these things.” The sun disappeared behind a cloud, the air cooled and the cold ground gave me a chill. A quick shiver shot up my spine.

  Jean-Paul was silent, as if contemplating Marion’s behavior towards him over the years. His eyes moved around in many directions, perhaps searching for answers.

  Jean-Paul stood and reached for my hand. He lifted me to my feet and turned to continue our walk. We walked together in silence. I regretted sharing the letter on our walk.

  An hour later we reached the destination Jean-Paul had directed us to. Jean-Paul spoke, avoiding the subject of Andre. “We are here. The water before us is the Pacific Ocean. In town you see the bay. This is the ocean.” I looked out in wonderment. I had floated across the Atlantic, but not peered upon the Pacific. Before us stretched a vast body of water, one that my parents, and most Europeans, would never see. It extended out until it disappeared into the horizon of mist and clouds. It was soft blue, with almost a white sparkle over the surface. It was massive, yet alluring and friendly, almost welcoming.

  Jean-Paul explained more, but with a tight tone, hiding emotions he didn’t want to show me. “This area is called the Presidio. It was named el Presidio by the Spanish leader Lieutenant Colonel Juan Bautista de Anza who arrived here in 1776 with a small group of men to establish the northern- most outpost of the growing Spanish empire. Their rule here didn’t last long though. Soon it fell under Mexico’s control. The United States took control of the Presidio in 1846 and made it into a strong western army post. Before Europeans arrived here, the native people, called the Ohlone, lived here for more than one thousand years. They fished as their main source of meat.”