Strong Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #1)(71)

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.