Frosty ... The Real Man

by CJ England

  Afterwards, he traced her chin with his lips. “Now I think you will remember The Footbridge in another way ... no?"

  Amy giggled. “I'll never look at it the same way again.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed, loving the afterglow of their lovemaking. “It was special."

  "Every time with you is special, Ami."

  Her lips curved into a smile. He was the most romantic man she'd ever met. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with curiosity about this lover she knew so little about. “Tell me more about you."

  Givré gently smoothed her flyaway hair. “What do you wish to know?"

  She snuggled closer, still feeling him pulse lightly within her. Maybe she could find out more about this belief he had about being a spirit. “You said you've been a Christmas spirit for how long?"

  His arms tightened, and he stiffened slightly, showing that the subject was still an unwelcome one. “Ami..."

  She shook her head at him. “I told you about my ex. You can talk about your past too.” She kissed the side of his neck. “Please?"

  Givré sighed. He couldn't say no to her. “I have been a spirit for over one hundred years."

  Her eyes widened. “Tell me what happened."

  He tried to disengage their bodies, but she held him tightly. Giving up, he put his chin on the top of her head. “My name was Jean-Marc Beauchamp. I was born in the year of our Lord, 1856 in Paris, France. My parents were very poor and I spent much of my time on the street.” He sighed, thinking back on the days of his youth. “When I was a young man, I happened upon a showing by an unknown painter. An Impressionist. His work spoke to me, calling to something inside. It made me long for things ... yet undiscovered. I knew then I wanted to paint. From that point on every franc I could spare went to supplies."

  "What happened next?"

  "I found that I had some skill. I started with simple landscapes and then moved on to portraits. After a few years, I attended a second showing of the artist that had inspired me, giving him one of my own paintings as a thank you.” Givré grinned in memory. “He said I had talent, but was undisciplined. Then he dragged me into his backroom and we painted through the night. I will never forget him and what he did for me."

  "Who was it? Would I know him?"

  He smiled. “Perhaps. His name was Renoir. Pierre-Auguste Renior."

  Amy's mouth dropped open and she pulled back to stare at him. “You studied under Renior? The great master ... Renior?"

  Givré kissed the tip of her nose. “Non ... I only met him that once, but he made a tremendous impression on me. For the next few years, I devoted myself to my art. I was just experiencing some fame when I ... died."

  "How?” She couldn't imagine someone as alive as him, dying. “What happened to you?"

  He swallowed and memories burned in his eyes. “I was painting ... of course. In the streets of Paris. I had set up my easel on the sidewalk near the river Seine and was capturing a lovely woman who was sitting on a park bench. I remember she had a pink parasol and a smile almost as sweet as yours, Ami."

  "Go on,” she urged.

  "I was so enthralled in my work; I did not see it coming. A run-away wagon whose driver had forgotten to set the brake. They came up over the sidewalk and crushed me.” His mouth tightened. “I was dead before I knew what happened. It was the summer of 1886."

  "Oh, Givré,” Amy murmured. “I'm so sorry.” Her hands stroked his back for awhile before curiosity took over. “And that's when you became a spirit?"

  "Oui.” He eased out of her arms, disengaging their bodies. He handed her a handkerchief, cleaning himself up with a second one. Once his clothes were put to right, he helped Amy slide down from the railing, and helped her tidy her own. Then he pulled her back into his arms.

  "Since it was not my time to die, I was given the opportunity to become a Christmas spirit. Now each year I am sent to earth to help someone who needs it."

  Amy hugged him to her. “I'm sure glad they sent you to me."

  "I am as well,” he agreed. He took her by the hand and they started walking back toward town. “Though I find that this trip is as much for me, as it is for you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Never before have I connected so strongly, as I do with you. It makes me wonder why exactly I am here."

  She peered up at him. “I thought you said you came to take me to the ball?"

  Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he shook his head. “You are a beautiful and interesting woman, Ami. You do not need help from me to get a date."

  "You are going to take me, though?” Suddenly, she was terrified he'd leave her.

  "But of course,” he said with no hesitation. “I am looking forward to it.” He wrapped a strong arm around her. “But I am also still looking for what other way I can help you."

  Amy snuggled against him. “I don't care why you're here. I'm just glad you are. For whatever reason."

  Givré kissed her upturned lips and hugged her tightly. He was in full agreement, but something deep in his soul told him it was something more ... something very important.

  * * * *

  Amy crawled out of the warm bed, groaning a little as her feet met the cold floor. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't fall asleep. Givré and she had spent a wonderful Sunday together, first at church where everyone's eyes had bugged out when they'd seen her tall, handsome escort. Afterwards, they'd slipped away from the curious church members and headed straight back home to watch Christmas movies and eat her special cookies and freshly popped popcorn. Relaxing, intimate and utterly enjoyable, Amy felt herself falling harder and harder for him.

  Maybe that's why she couldn't sleep. When they'd finally gone to bed, they'd made love, slowly, never taking their eyes from each other. Afterwards, while Givré had fallen asleep, Amy stared up at the ceiling finally recognizing that she wasn't just falling anymore.

  She'd already made the journey. She was in love with him.

  But who was he? If she was honest with herself, that's what was making her doubt her own sanity and keeping her up at night. Was he a magical Christmas spirit sent to help her with a Christmas wish? Or was he just a man who had wandered into her yard in need of help and had come up with this fantastical story as a cover, knowing that a woman as creative as Amy was just might buy the whole thing.

  Firming her lips, she grabbed her robe and tip-toed down the hall to her study. There, she booted up the computer, then padded to the kitchen to nuke a quick cup of tea. Then, back to the study and sitting at the desk, she got to work.

  Her fingers flashed over the keyboard, tapping in data, without any real hope that anything would come of it. She about dropped her tea cup when her search came up with his name...

  Jean-Marc Beauchamp (b. January 02, 1856, Paris, France—d. July 16, 1886, Paris) Thought by many to be the bridge between the styles of Renoir and Monet, his tragic accidental death brought short a career rife with possibilities. Many art historians believe that had Beauchamp not died, he would have earned his place with the other Masters of the time. His early works showed a traditional Impressionist style, yet he added a flare of reality that makes his paintings some of the most sought after of the time.

  "Wow,” Amy whispered aloud. “One of the Masters, huh?” She noticed a link to see some of his work and clicked on it. Her creative heart moaned in appreciation as she looked at the art on the screen. Beauchamp had painted mainly landscapes, all in the Impressionist manner, but there was something more to them ... an extra glow that caught your eye. They were beautiful.

  "What are you doing?"

  Givré's voice startled her and she jumped, almost spilling her tea again. “Damn it, you scared me."

  He chuckled and walked towards her. “I am sorry, ma ange. But the bed was lonely without you. Why have you left me?"

  Amy smiled up at him. “Couldn't sleep. I guess I was thinking about what you told me yesterday and I got curious."

  Grinning, he bent and lifted her, sitting in the
vacated chair and settling her into his lap. “You were curious about Jean-Marc Beauchamp? I am no longer that person."

  She snuggled closer and then tapped on the screen. “I googled the name and look what I found."

  Givré's brows came together. “Googled?"

  His accent made the word sound even more ridiculous and she giggled. “It's a search engine used to find information."

  "Ahhh ... I see. And what have you found?"

  "Take a look."

  Givré bent and perused the computer screen. “I am listed in this machine?” He read it quickly and then beamed at her. “You see ... I am an artist."

  Amy grinned. “I knew that."

  "Show me more."

  She leaned over and clicked on another link. She gasped as a black and white photo came into view. She blinked and shook her head. It was impossible. It just couldn't be.

  It was Givré. There was no doubt about it. His face, his hair, his dark eyes, even the arrogant tilt of his chin. Her gaze went between the picture and her lover. If she'd wanted proof ... here it was.

  "It's you,” she said lamely.

  "But of course,” he said. “Who else would it be?"

  "Who else, indeed?” she murmured. She watched, as using the mouse, he moved through the art site, talking about several of the artists and the Paris he once knew. Her mind and heart was in turmoil. He was who he said he was. An artist from the 1800's who had died, and then been reborn as a spirit of Christmas. Then he'd taken possession of her snowman, so he could come and work a miracle in her life.

  And she'd fallen in love with him.

  Her eyes filled suddenly. Now that she knew the truth, she felt her heart breaking. When she'd thought that he was a real man, she had the hope that he would stay with her, but now she knew that was impossible. After the ball, he would leave her to go back to his place in the sky and she would be left with just the memories of a man who wasn't real at all.

  * * * *

  Givré flipped through the channels on the TV listlessly. He wasn't interested in anything that was on. He glanced at the door to Ami's basement studio suppressing the desire to go see what she was doing. She'd made it clear he was to stay out of the studio.

  He didn't mind ... much. He knew she was working on the ice sculpture she would show at the Winter Wonderland Ball, and she wanted it to be a surprise. But the work was taking up all her time, and time wasn't something they had a lot of. He could feel the hours slipping by like skaters dancing down a river of ice, and he wanted to shout out his rage. He wanted to spend every moment with her, making memories of them for the long, lonely nights ahead. The thought of his existence without her made him want to shake his fist at the fates.

  And there was something going on with Ami, too. Ever since the night when she had found his name on the computer she had acted different. She still smiled and laughed with him, but there was something in her eyes that he hadn't seen before. When he asked her about it, she'd shrugged and told him it was because she believed him now. That she was sorry she'd ever doubted him, but he knew it was more. She wasn't telling him everything.

  She'd started locking herself in the workshop, working at all hours as she created whatever masterpiece that burned in her mind. Then she would come upstairs, her eyes wet and her face flushed and she would tear at his clothes, pulling him to the ground and begging him to make love to her. He would oblige, showing her in every way he knew how, what he felt for her, but it never seemed to be enough.

  She would lie still in his arms, her heart pounding erratically, then she would rise and walk back downstairs in silence and the whole cycle would start over again.

  He worried that she was becoming bored with him. That the sweet connection they had at the beginning was at its end. Perhaps the sex was all they had left now. The thought made his stomach roll with sickness.

  But then she would hold him tightly as she lay sleeping and his worries would ease. He began praying that somehow God would give him more time with her. But he got no answer. As the days drew nearer to the dance, he knew that when he left he would be leaving more than just his heart behind with her. He would be leaving his very soul as well.

  Chapter Eight

  Come and trim my Christmas tree with decorations bought at Tiffany's

  I really do believe in you, let's see if you believe in me.

  'Santa Baby'

  The ballroom glittered like a night sky. Hundreds of thousands of twinkle lights and candles gave the room an almost mystical ambiance. Huge swaths of translucent fabric were draped dramatically in the corners, flowing down like sparkling pale waterfalls to pool on the polished floor. Round tables with spotless white tablecloths dotted the room, and costumed waiters maneuvered their way amongst the milling guests. It was truly a Winter Wonderland.

  On the north side of the room, the wall was covered in windows that looked out upon the surrounding Rocky Mountains. A raised dais held two pieces of art, and one tall box like structure, all covered in soft white cloth.

  "Are you excited?” A deep voice spoke in Amy's ear.

  Amy smiled and turned to look at Givré. “Yes.” She leaned up to kiss him. “And having you here makes it even better.” She gazed at him admiringly.

  Dressed in an elegantly tailored tuxedo, Givré was easily the most handsome man in the room. He wore a traditional pants and jacket, but instead of the conventional white ruffled shirt, he wore a high-necked black button one. With his ebony long hair and slightly bearded chin, he looked even more mysterious and gorgeous than ever.

  They had dined and danced, and the evening was all she'd hoped for. With him as an escort, Amy felt like the hours were magic. She had waited her whole life for a night like this and a man who made her feel she was precious.

  Givré stared down at the one woman who held his heart. She looked like a jewel in her sparkling white gown. It was strapless with a high waist and covered in crystals, which made her shimmer in the light of the candles. With his diamond snowflake at her throat, she was so beautiful, she stopped his breath.

  Amy had piled her hair up on her head, tendrils falling down her neck to tease the top of her smooth shoulders. Reaching out, he wound one around his fingers, drawing her close so he could nuzzle the curve of her neck.

  "I wish to be at home with you,” he muttered. “I am tired of sharing."

  Blushing, she pushed him away. “Don't be selfish. You'll have me all to yourself, soon."

  His eyes darkened and he pulled her against him. If his job had been to take her to the ball, he wasn't sure when he would be snatched away. He hoped that he would have time to make love to her one more time.

  He shrugged away the painful thoughts. “Do you wish another drink?"

  She considered that. “I don't think so.” She glanced at the clock. “In five minutes they should start the presentation.” She stood on tip-toe to kiss him. “I'm going to check my makeup in the ladies room."

  "Oui ... do not be long.” He cupped the back of her neck and kissed her again, this time with more heat. “I will miss you."

  Cheeks pink, she hurried away.

  "Well ... that was special."

  Givré turned toward the mocking voice and his lips tightened. “Madame Gwen.” He sketched a short bow. “Are you enjoying yourself?"

  She pouted, her ruby red lips rivaling the red, skin tight dress she wore. “I would enjoy it more if you danced with me."

  Her cloying perfume swirled around him and his nose tickled from the effort not to sneeze. “My apologies. My dances are all saved for my lady."

  "Oh, come on now,” she whined, her crimson nails plucking at his lapels. “She's not here now, and I adore this song."

  "You do not understand,” Givré stepped away from her. “I choose not to dance with anyone else."

  Gwen's eyes narrowed. “You shouldn't turn me down, Givré. I am very important in this community. You don't want me for an enemy."

  He looked down at her, noticing her pinched li
ps and thinking her bad mood would give her wrinkles. “If turning you down for a dance makes you my enemy, Madame, I would not want you as a friend."

  Her eyes flashed angrily. “You'll be sorry.

  "I think not.” He looked over her shoulder and smiled at the returning figure of his beloved. “You see, you do not have the Christmas spirit, Gwen. Until you learn to give with the spirit of Christmas, your heart will always be triste ... sad. You should try to be more like my Ami. She is belle ... beautiful inside and out."

  "Hi, Gwen.” Amy smiled as she slipped her hand through Givré's arm. “You look quite ... festive tonight."

  The other woman lifted her chin. “Excuse me. I want to get ready for the presentation.” She swept off in a cloud of perfume and hurt feelings.

  "What was that about?” Amy asked, turning to him. “She looked fit to be tied."

  He shrugged. “It was nothing. I met Gwen the day I was angry with you. She is not a nice person."

  Amy stiffened. “Where did you meet her?"

  "In the little park, near the fountain, in the center of your town. I was sitting on a bench feeling sorry for myself when she approached me.” He gave her a dark look. “She wished me to model for her."

  "What?"

  Givré laughed. Taking her hands into his, he pressed a kiss to the palms. “Of course, I told her I was already your model. She did not take it well then, either."

  Amy snorted. “Bitch."

  "Non, non,” he reproved. “Do not dirty your sweet mouth with such language. But...” he stared after the retreating red garbed woman. “She is one of those sharks you spoke of. This I know."