Chapter 20
Twenty
ALONE
ALONE ~
THROUGHOUT MY whole life, I was comfortable being alone. It never really bothered me until he left me standing on my own tonight. It was then that I realized I had never really known what it was like to be truly by myself. Ironically, this occurred when I was surrounded by a room full of people.
Phillipe’s paintings took off. In the past two months, prints have been replicated and sold around the world.
From the exposure afforded by that little art gallery and first newspaper article, the media has courted and hounded Phillipe, trying to get a piece of him ever since.
In fact, just the other night on the radio, I heard an announcer jokingly discuss the talent that had propelled him into the spotlight.
She laughed and went on to say that the ladies of the world thanked him for his skills, because now they could admire his smoldering good looks.
For once in my life, I truly hated the fact that I could not see what the world sees.
Tonight, as I stood in a room full of beautiful women—of that, I had no doubt—I let my insecurities slip between us.
His success was both amazing and completely unreal.
The level he’d reached in such a short amount of time—not to mention the fact that thousands of people now had pictures of me in their homes—was slightly mind-blowing.
I had known all along that he would succeed.
He was so passionate about everything he did that it had made sense that his paintings evoked such a strong reaction.
But tonight, he wanted me to go to a gala with him.
So far, I had declined every invitation, realizing that people wanted to know all about the woman behind the paintings.
After all, in a recent interview, one reporter had asked if I was, in fact, real or a figment of his imagination.
He had assured the man that I was very real.
Now he was asking me to confirm it. How could I refuse?
I tightly clutch the journal to my breast as I make my way downstairs.
I cling to it as if loosening my grip on it might make me lose my place—or, even worse, the words might vanish.
It amazes me that Chantel was so reluctant to be in the spotlight, only because she seemed so comfortable there when playing Diva and posing for Phillipe.
I know it had to do with the content of the paintings, but really, there was nothing to be ashamed of.
Like she wrote, Phillipe’s work propelled him into the spotlight, and his brooding, dark looks made him a solid bet when it came to magazine sales.
One minute, no one had heard of him, and suddenly, he was everywhere, not only with his paintings but as the man himself.
He is the enigmatic, mysterious artist who is undeniably attractive, and he is the man every woman wants to pose for, but he wants none of that. He only wants her.
It all begins, and consequently ends, with Chantel Rosenberg.
The gala was at seven thirty p.m.
I was sitting up in the studio, waiting for him. He’d left around twenty minutes ago to get ready, and I had done the same.
I was dressed in red silk. Phillipe had picked an evening gown the color of Diva’s velvet violin case. He told me that my complexion and dark hair reminded him of Snow White.
It was appropriate, because we would be tested tonight. Our foundation would be shaken, and for a minute, I would forgot who we were.
Someone would offer up temptation, a whisper of doubt, but it wouldn’t come in the form of an apple. No, it would come in the form of something much worse. For the first time ever, I would doubt Phillipe, and with doubt trickling through my veins, I would feel like I had nothing else in the world.
For that moment in time, I would feel completely alone.
I finally reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the music room.
I move over to the light switch I saw him use the other day.
The bright lights illuminate the stark white space with the odd-shaped boards on the walls.
This is the first time I have been in here alone, and I am almost positive that I can sense her presence here, stronger than before.
I make my way to the sound system and look at the rows of CDs. Each label is different: CR-Canon in D, CR-Requiem for a Dream (Lux Aeterna), CR-Vivaldi, Four Seasons (Winter). This is her collection. This is her.
I look through all of them until one in the back under a stack of books catches my eye.
Pulling it out, I read the label—CR-Air.
I haven’t heard this one yet, and I’m curious.
That’s one of my favorite classical pieces, and Chantel was a musical genius.
The fact that she learned to play each of these pieces by ear just makes her even more incredible to me.
I put the CD in the stereo, hit play, and wait for the music to begin. Instead of the sweeping strains of the violin, I hear a hell of a lot more than I anticipate.
Suddenly, the room is full of happy laughter. From every corner of the room, a female voice surrounds me. I stiffen automatically, knowing it is her.
“Really, Phillipe? Give me Diva. Let me play.”
I clutch my throat. My breath leaves me, but nothing prepares me for the deep rumble that follows.
“Come and get it.”
“No, you wanted to hear my favorite piece. Remember?”
“Yes, but now I want you to come here.”
“Well, too bad. You can’t always get what you want.”
I listen to every second of this intimate captured moment. There’s a shuffling noise, and then his voice. The sound is now so familiar, yet it’s so completely foreign as it drifts over me.
“Play for me.”
She starts playing.
The room fills with one of the most famous melodies in the world. The piece permeates the air with such clarity that there isn’t one part that feels rushed or mechanical. As it ebbs and flows seamlessly, it is almost surreal that I find myself likening it to the tides of water flowing downstream.
Chantel plays the piece with such passion that I can only sum it up as this: if the notion of sublimeness were to take musical form, this is what you would hear.
Phillipe has been gone all afternoon. After Gemma left, he decided that he wanted some time to think. Things are not going as planned. Originally, he wanted Gemma to come to the chateau, read the journal, ask her questions, and write her story.
However, like the way everything else seems to be turning out for him as of late, it is not going according to plan.
Instead, he’s finding Gemma extremely hard to resist, especially when she’s imitating or replicating Chantel.
In his mind, it’s becoming more and more difficult to differentiate between the two.
The two women seem to be merging into one, and it’s now almost impossible for him to stay away.
This evening, he makes the decision to go to her. He knows that Gemma has gone back down to study the paintings, and he has a feeling that he will find her there.
As he makes his way down the stairs, he can hear music playing. Air, he thinks immediately. Stopping two steps from the bottom, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, remembering that day. He knows that, at the beginning of the recording, he captured her for a moment.
When she first left him, he sat down in the showroom with that piece playing on a continuous loop. But now? He remembers he hid it away, because it’s been months since he heard her play this.
Taking the last two steps, he expects to see Gemma standing in the empty space, but she’s nowhere to be found. Obviously, she left the music playing before moving to the showroom.
Deciding to leave it on, he makes his way across the room to the door leading to the dimly lit area. When he steps through, he sees Gemma standing directly in front of the painting titled Sacred.
She has her hands behind her back, and he can see the journal between her fingers. He must have made some kind of noise, because she turns to face him.
“Gemma.” He nods.
She responds with a slight return nod and serious eyes. “Phillipe.”
“How was your afternoon?” he inquires as he moves closer.
“I spent it down in the arbor reading.”
His eyes move to the journal then back to hers. “Oh? What did you learn today?”
“So far, not much. She’s writing about the night she went to the gala with you.” Gemma hesitates. When he doesn’t respond, she foolishly continues. “Isn’t that the night the press first wrote about her?”
He nods again. “Yes, it was. Do you remember what they said?”
A frown forms as she thinks about that question for a moment. In stark detail, he witnesses as each emotion crosses her delicate features when they enter her mind.
“Yes.”
He narrows his eyes, knowing he just put her on guard. “You do, don’t you? What is it they said?” he asks.
His voice is deceptively calm, but his eyes are giving him away. There’s a storm brewing inside of him, and he knows that she can sense it.
Licking my lips nervously, I square my shoulders as though I am heading into battle. “They said that you broke the ambassador’s nose and ribs in a jealous fit of rage.”
He moves abruptly, looming directly in front of me. Gripping my shoulders tight, he hauls me up against him, and the journal falls from my hands.
“I was jealous, Gemma. I should have fucking killed him that night,” he growls.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I can’t look away. He’s so magnificent in his rage that I can’t help but stare up at him as I see the truth of his words in his eyes.
“Do you know why I didn’t?” he asks quietly.
At this stage, I know my eyes have to be as wide as saucers. I stand mute, not having the ability to voice the question that I am dying to ask, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to tell me anyway.
“Because I was afraid I’d hurt her as well.” He pushes back from me and turns, pacing across the space. “She just fucking stood there, Gemma.”