Chapter 26
Idip my brush into the light indigo color I made, before adding a few strokes on the canvas. Inspiration is flowing through me like warm honey out of a hive—or maybe because of a certain pair of honey eyes. My latest work in progress in front of me is almost complete. I can’t wait to add it to my growing number of new works I’ve already finished.
A woodworm infestation on the second floor has meant work has had to stop on the chateau while it’s been treated. Which means I have uninterrupted painting time. I’ve secretly converted one of the g?tes into a mini studio, there are a few of my old canvases lining the old wooden work bench. With my newly started ones on the easels next to me. It’s my little sanctuary.
Luc knocks on the door before pushing the rotting wood open.
“Is it time to go?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the stroke I’m painting.
“Nearly,” he replies. The sound of shuffling steps tells me he intends to stay a little longer. He’s not been in my “studio” yet—and something about him being in here today is making me more uneasy than anything else.
Holding the paintbrush midair, from the corner of my eye, I see Luc over my shoulder. “Did you need something?”
“I brought you a coffee. I worry about you locked up in here with nothing to eat or drink.”
“Oooh, thank you.” I place my palette down and snatch the mug from his hands, almost inhaling it. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until Luc mentioned it.
“So.” Luc scuffs his foot on the dusty ground. “You’re an artist.”
“Depends who you ask,” I reply over the rim of my mug. My stomach is in knots, not from the coffee either. I’ve never felt more exposed to Luc. This is the one piece of me that Luc hasn’t really seen yet—and the one thing that could very well crush me.
“Just like your dad,” he breathes, not realizing how on edge I am waiting for him to say something.
“Trust me, I’m nothing like my dad?” I place my now-empty mug down.
“My maman used to paint with him. They went to art school together.”
“Your mom was an artist too?”
“No, she went to college for it but dropped out after a year.” He surveys my painting with a keen eye. I dip my paintbrush into the solvent before picking up another color. “She always found it hard to stick at anything.” Luc tucks his hands into his pockets. “I bet your papa loved painting with you.”
“I’m sure he would’ve if he’d gotten the chance.” I wipe the glob of paint on my finger down my pants. The air in the room thickens and almost suffocates me. I’ve had a long time to accept that he’s gone, but talking about it now reopens the wound. My nose itches as the back of my throat aches. Luc’s mom grew up with my dad; there is so much I don’t know about him, his childhood.
“Can I ask you a question?” Luc breaks the silence.
“You just did,” I reply, and he bites his lower lip. “But feel free to ask me another.”
“Why are all your paintings hidden away?”
“Because I’m not ready to share them,” I whisper before diving into the rejection that changed my life and made me uproot everything to live here.
“Those are just a few people’s opinions, Rory; you shouldn’t let them stop you from being who you are.”
My eyes softened; he is right, but that doesn’t mean my pride isn’t hurt.
“Promise me, you won’t hide them away anymore, you have so much talent,” Luc whispers and threads his fingers through mine. Right now, it’s not a promise I can make.
“I’ll try, but you have to promise me you won’t talk about it with anyone yet.”
“I won’t if you won’t.”
“Oh great,” I groan. “I’m crap at keeping secrets.”
“I know to avoid doing laundry you turn your panties inside out,” he whispers back and makes me gasp in shock. Of all my secret habits, this was one I’d hoped he wouldn’t cotton onto.
“Who spilled.” I sit abruptly up.
“Aurora, it is no secret.” He laughs, brushing off my habit like it wasn’t that bad.
“What hope do I have, nothing is sacred.” I sniff, self-conscious that he knows my little dark secret, but at least he didn’t know that some days I went sans panties altogether to avoid needing to wash them at all. I hate laundry, almost as much as I hate cooking, but if I have to take a pick, I would rather cook than wash clothes any day of the week.
“Well, as much as I love talking about your panties,” Luc clears his throat, “I have to go into work today, a few clients need their sketches done.”
I return my attention back to the painting. My chest tightens, and I bring up a knee, resting it on the edge of the chair and casually draping my arm around it. “I’ll be here,” I reply, dipping my paintbrush in the Prussian Blue. The time alone should excite me…but why does Luc not being here make me want to cry?
I spend a few hours painting in my studio but become quickly bored. The chateau is empty. No Henry, no André, no Pierre. The silence of no machines is deafening. Most importantly, no Luc.
Shit. I can’t believe this. But I miss him. I miss Luc.
The sun is finally coming out now that spring is here. It streams in through the lone window and my skin aches to have it on me. I abandon my painting, grab my Kindle, and pour myself a generous glass of wine. When my paintings aren’t providing enough escapism, I know a good book will do the trick.
I take a generous sip from my glass before placing it down on the wooden side table I dragged out onto the lawn. Reclined back on the lounge chair and with my legs stretched out in front of me, I’m soaking up that much-needed vitamin D, half-interested in reading my book, but more interested in watching the time pass…waiting for Luc to come home. If only I can get the set of honey eyes that play a starring role in my dreams out of my head, my life would be golden. But every single book I start, all I can picture is him.
“Maybe I should’ve messaged Madeline to hang out with me.” I pull the brim of my overly large sun hat down farther.
“She probably would’ve said yes, but she’s locked in a town meeting, or did you forget it’s Tuesday?” A shadow casts over my legs, causing me to shiver.
I hide the smile under the brim of my hat. He’s back. Fuck yes. “You’re blocking my sun,” I announce instead. When he doesn’t move, I release the brim of my hat and gaze straight up at Luc.
“Did you get this letter?” Luc asks.
“I have received many letters in the last few months, you will need to be more specific,” I pull my sunglasses down and stare at him over the rim to see him holding the typed letter about the missing Monet jewels I read a little while ago. I guess we’ve received another one.
“From Arnaud.” His lips thin and his nostrils flare like he is practicing some serious patience.
“Oh, that, yeah,” I reply offhandedly, sitting up. “I threw that out.”
“Why?” Luc asks, staring at me like throwing out a junk letter is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.
“Please, that letter screams scam.” I scoff. “Do you expect me to believe that there are missing jewels tucked away under the chateau like the Monet’s were the Romanov family two-point-oh?” I roll my eyes at his na?vete. Evidently, there was more than one person who claimed to know where a horde of precious jewels were stashed, and I don’t believe a single one of them.
“There are missing jewels,” Luc declares, causing me to still.
“Good joke.” I roll my eyes. “Is this the jewelry Timothé is also looking for?”
Luc pulls a small square photo from his back pocket and hands it to me. The black-and-white photo is of a velvet pillow with a thin diamond chain necklace with a heart-shaped sapphire the size of a robin’s egg nestled in the middle.
“This is the duchess’s famous heart of Carcen. On the birth of her first son, the duke gifted her this necklace. It was passed down the line to the wife who gave the firstborn son. Louis was the last person to have the necklace, and with no son, he kept it. But he buried it somewhere, and he didn’t leave any clues. He didn’t even tell my grand-mère.”
“What did Timothé say about the jewels?”
A shiver goes down my spine. “He said that they’re his and he’s been looking for them because Louis misplaced them before he died.”
“Interesting.”
It’s the way Luc doesn’t automatically tell me Timothé is correct that has the hair on my arms standing on end. “So this Arnaud is legit then?”
“Not a clue. Probably some opportunistic treasure hunter,” Luc replies.
I bark out a laugh and stand, Luc still towering over me. God, why did he have to be so tall? “Please don’t tell me we’re officially going to start treasure hunting now?”
“His letter got me thinking. Do you know if Louis left a note saying where the necklace might be?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Even if I did. Are you going to try to take that too? Wait, let me guess. Louis promised it to your grand-mère, and you want to collect?”
“No.” Luc shakes his head.
“No?” I quirk an eyebrow.
“It belongs to the chateau,” he replies, knocking the wind out of me.
“Are you telling me that for once we actually agree on something?” I stare back at him, my body frozen in place.
A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps.”
I eye Luc; the honesty behind his words is still yet to be determined. Giving him a tight smile, I say, “Well, thanks for letting me know,” with a boldness I didn’t know I possessed, I pat Luc’s chest as I move around him, taking extra note not to linger on his well-muscled pec.
“Aurora, wait?” Luc grabs my arm. It’s no secret I’m an admirer of Luc in his work clothes, but casual Luc has my tongue nearly falling out of my mouth—his ripped jeans hugging his thighs and exposing the tanned skin to the hot sun. Knowing exactly what he is packing is also really not helping either. “I’m just trying to do right by Louis.”
I almost snort. If Luc has shown me anything these last few months, he most definitely is not trying to do right by Louis. I stare into his eyes and part my lips, slightly wetting my bottom lip with my tongue.
“Okay.” I cave quicker than I would like to admit. There is just something about Luc that tears away at my self-control. “Where do we start?”
“Did Louis leave anything behind in the other g?te?” Luc asks.
“I haven’t really looked,” I admit. Not that there are many hiding places after Luc and I moved our stuff in.
“Let’s go through the stuff he left behind then.” Luc smiles, tucking the photo back into his pocket.
“All I wanted to do was drink my wine and read my book,” I grumble, barely audible, as I trail my sluggish steps behind him. The absolute last thing I want to do is now pull crap out just to put it back away.
“These are the only notes I’ve found.” I lift a stack of papers and unopened envelopes onto the crude workbench. Most of the papers meant nothing to me.
But maybe they would mean more to Luc. I watch him thumb through the papers. A small fizz of excitement makes my tongue feel tingly in my mouth, I feel like Inspector Jacques Clouseau. Only instead of the Pink Panther, we’re looking for the heart of Carcen.
After going through the whole pile of papers, Luc throws down the last piece of paper. “It doesn’t look like he wrote it down,” Luc announces, running a frustrated hand through his hair. My stomach knots, maybe Luc’s vested interest is more than just doing right by Louis. It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention that Timothé is also trying to locate them, but something holds me back.
“I guess he didn’t,” I agree, and collect the rest of the paperwork, throwing it in the box I’d found it in.
“Maybe he buried it in the moat?” I blurt. Luc freezes and blinks slowly, almost like he’s assessing if I’m joking or not. “Well, I mean, if I were hiding buried treasure, the moat would be where I would put it.” I shrug, like it’s a completely logical idea. Luc remains silent.
“You might be right.”
“Can I record that so I can play it in front of André?” I ask as he opens the door and sends me a glare over his shoulder.
“He would never believe you anyway.” He pauses at the door, staring at me with raised brows. “Well?”
“What?”
“We’re going moat hunting,” Luc replies, rubbing his hands together.
Moat hunting, I mouth, lucky we had the thing decontaminated, because I’d hate to fall in by accident. My afternoon went from relaxing and getting some sun to moat hunting. I trail after him, shaking my head. This is the first time he’s entertained one of my ideas, and it’s probably my stupidest one.
“Bring your wine, let’s go.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day,” I call to his retreating back.
“Moat hunting, he says,” I grumble and down the rest of my glass before pouring another—I need to be prepared, after all. “That’s not weird at all.”