Chapter 12
Twelve
brOKEN TRUST
brOKEN TRUST ~
TODAY, I was on a mission—a mission to rectify a wrong.
It had been three days, and still, Phillipe remained aloof.
He had returned from his walk the other night and told me everything was fine, but it hadn’t been. He hadn’t even been back to paint. It was almost as though he had distanced himself from me, and I felt it as acutely as I would if I lost a limb.
When I awoke this morning, he had already left the mattress we share up in the studio. I could hear the soft strains of a violin playing from a recording I had given him, so I knew he was somewhere in the room with me.
“Phillipe?” I called out. I waited for a response, but not for long.
“Yes?” he replied, his deep voice sliding over me like a caress.
I felt the side of the mattress beside me dip.
Reaching across the pillow, I touched his hand. “Will you take me to town today?”
There was silence, except for the music floating around us as I felt his fingers squeeze mine.
“Of course.”
When I sat up, I let the sheet fall down to my waist, hoping to evoke some kind of reaction from him. Instead of the reaction I was hoping for, he let go of my hand, and I felt the mattress shift as he moved away.
“Phillipe?” I called, hating that my voice cracked.
“Yes, Chantel?”
Faced with the moment to tell him anything, anything that might bring him back to me, I found that I was not as brave as I wanted to be, so I remained silent.
“What time do you want to leave?” he asked.
I could tell he was walking away, moving toward the door.
“As soon as I get dressed?” I said softly.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“Phillipe?”
“Yes?” Again, his voice was patient but detached.
I wanted to scream at him.
“I don’t want to be anywhere but with you. You know that, right?”
I never got an answer. He’d already left the room.
Several days later, I pull out my laptop and place the journal beside me in bed. I haven’t been sleeping very well. Too many questions and too many thoughts keep swirling through my mind, and I can’t seem to block them out, not even by shutting my eyes.
I still can’t quite wrap my mind around what exactly happened a few nights before.
Things have changed—Phillipe has changed—and for the first time in his presence, I feel frightened.
Up until now, I have been wary, suspicious, and careful around him, but I have never felt the overwhelming need to protect myself from him that I did that night.
Right on the cusp of that fear is also the sharp, jagged edge of persistent desire.
It’s been days, and I know he’s avoiding me. Still, I can feel my body starting to throb at the thought of him.
Annoyed at myself and my traitorous body that seems to continually betray me, I turn on my laptop and lean back against the headboard, settling in to do something I told myself I would not do while I was here. I search the name Phillipe Tibideau.
He came and got me several minutes later, just like he said he would. Once again, though, he was silent. I hated the silence because I couldn’t see his face to gauge his mood.
He took my hand as we were about to head downstairs.
“Phillipe, talk to me,” I insisted.
He stopped. “What do you want me to say, Chantel?”
“I don’t know, but not talking to me isn’t going to fix things.”
“I can’t explain how I feel,” he softly told me.
I stepped closer to him and raised my hand. He took my palm and placed it on his cheek.
“Tell me,” I whispered.
“No, Chantel. I’m okay,” he assured me, his voice strained.
“You’re not. You’re hurting. Tell me why. Is it because of my parents? I already told you—”
“No,” he replied, placing a finger to my lips. “No, it’s not your parents. It’s me.”
“I don’t understand.”
That was when I felt his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks. As he placed his mouth by my ear, I could feel his breath on my face.
“I don’t want to scare you.”
“But you are scaring me. You’re not talking to me. You aren’t painting. You’ve pulled away.”
“No,” he said, his lips still against my ear. “No, Chantel, it’s the other way around.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand what it is I feel for you, and I’m scared to tell you. I’m scared it will make you run far away and never come back,” he confessed, placing his hand on my chest.
“Nothing could make me leave,” I said.
“Nothing?” Somehow, I knew his eyes were on me.
“Nothing.”
“I can’t stop the ache in my chest, Chantel.” He paused for a moment. I began to speak, but he continued before I could utter a single sound.
“When your parents said they want you to think about moving back to America, I felt like someone had pulled my heart out of my chest.”
“But—”
“Literally, it felt like someone reached in and ripped my heart out of my chest. I shouldn’t feel this possessive of someone.
I know that in here,” he explains, tapping my head.
“But here in my heart and in my soul… Chantel, I don’t know what’s happened to me.
I’m all twisted and consumed in my need with these fucked-up thoughts.
If you leave, I wouldn’t know what to do. ”
“I’m not leaving you,” I said. But he wasn’t in the frame of mind to listen.
“Hearing them talk about you returning in several months made me crazy. I can’t let you go. You know that, right? I need you here.”
“I want and need to be here, Phillipe. Please,” I said, “listen to what I’m telling you. Come back to me. Be strong with me. Trust me.”
“My heart aches for you,” he replied, his voice quiet and low. “I would die for you, and that terrifies me.”
I felt a shiver slide over my spine as I cradled his face in my palms. I had no words.
I was his.
I try not to flinch as the headline glares at me in accusation.
Tragic Accident or Tragic Betrayal?
By Michael London
I skim through the story and find myself cringing at certain questions from the journalist.
And it only gets worse. Words such as tragic, horrifying, and deceptive are littered throughout the whole piece.
Disgusted and annoyed at myself, I snap the laptop shut and push it away.
What am I doing? I have been here long enough to know that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have. Right?
Even though Phillipe is warning me to leave and my brain is agreeing, for some reason, I know that I won’t. On the tail end of that realization is a startling one—I can’t.
Not only am I determined to stay here to get this story and get it right, but I am also here because of Phillipe and Chantel themselves.
Separately, they are fascinating individuals, both artistic in nature and both passionate about the other. Together, however, they are an irresistible force.
If it isn’t her written words, pulling me deeper into their relationship, it is his melodic retelling of their time together, hypnotizing me and inviting me into their lives.
Her music haunts me whenever I allow myself to play it. Before I came here, I made sure I was familiar with Chantel Rosenberg, but not like this. Now it feels as though she is a part of me.
It’s his paintings that move me more than anything else.
They evoke a sensual side in me that I don’t yet fully understand.
All I know is that when I look at them, I feel things that I’ve never felt before.
He makes me feel things I’ve never felt before.
What is it about Chateau Tibideau? It’s like I arrived one way, and I know deep down in my soul that I will leave another.
As I get up from the bed, determined to go and find Phillipe, I am left wondering if that is how Chantel felt as well.
When he arrives at the studio, Phillipe is more than a little shocked to see that Gemma is already there. She is standing where she was at their last meeting several days before, but this time, she is holding a towel around her body.
It is immediately obvious to Phillipe that her mood is different.
He isn’t surprised, considering the previous turn of events.
He knows that he shouldn’t have pushed her the way he did the other night.
The further she delved into Chantel’s journal, and by default his own life, the more he felt himself slipping.
He is being dragged into his own desolate abyss, and he knows if she stays, he is going to pull her in too.
So the best thing he can do for Gemma is warn her and make her want to leave. Maybe then they can just forget about this whole asinine idea.
What he didn’t expect is to find her up here this morning, already disrobed, save for the towel, watching him as he walks into the room.
“Morning,” he tells her.
Her eyes follow his every move. She doesn’t say a word. She just keeps her gaze focused and her shoulders straight.
Ah, so that’s how we are going to play today.
She’s annoyed with him and more than a little wary, but she isn’t giving an inch. She has decided to show up and give him strength.
“So, you’re not talking to me, Gemma? That’s not very mature, especially since I haven’t seen you for three days.”
Her green eyes narrow.
“Fair enough. Silence it is,” Phillipe concedes, stepping behind the easel. “The violin is in the case.”
He tracks her movements as she walks over and unsnaps the case with one hand. Her aggravation only increases as she clutches the towel between her breasts while reaching in to lift the violin.
“You’re angry at me.”
With no response to his statement, he contemplates her honey-toned back as she makes her way to the spot illuminated by the soft light.
After she situates herself, she removes the towel, revealing her smooth, curvaceous breasts and hips.
She has also pulled her hair into a high bun, wrapped with a red ribbon.
The loud color against her light hair is erotically sensual. It stands out like a warning sign. One that I should heed, he thinks. He has a feeling that Gemma is the final act in his life, which he’s already labeled a tragedy.