Chapter 41
“It’s finally time, if we can have everyone leave the room while the judges deliberate,” the lady in charge instructs, as four well-dressed people exit the room through the double doors on the right, and me right behind them.
“Your painting’s a standout.” André is the first to reach me as the rest of the crowd filters out.
“I don’t know.” I rest my head on his chest, the calming thump of his heart settling me.
“Aurora,” Henry calls as he and the others wade through the crowd. André releases me just in time to be enveloped by Luc.
“That was some speech,” Luc whispers into my ear.
“Even if I don’t win today, the fact that you entered my painting in this competition is enough.” And it is.
A small eternity later, the door opens, and the crowd shuffles back into the room, and so do I, with my hand firmly clasped in Luc’s. An older-looking gentleman is already standing at the podium, holding a piece of folded-over paper. He waits until the room fills again before taking the microphone. “Bonjour,” the man speaks into the microphone, the feedback instantly quieting the crowd, and my insides turn into jelly waiting to hear the results.
“It is my great honor and pride that I get to announce the winner of the regional final today. The winner will have their piece shown here at the Burgundy Gallery and will be in the running for artist of the year.”
My fingers twitch. It still doesn’t feel real—competing in something as prestigious as the regional art show—like at any given moment I will wake up from the best dream of my life. As long as I still have Luc wrapped around me when I wake, I’m okay with this being a dream.
“The other judges and I have been incredibly impressed by the level of talent in this art show, and it is my absolute pleasure to announce the winner…Through the Lens,” the judge announces, and the crowd goes wild. I release the breath I’ve been holding; I knew it was too good to be true, that I didn’t have what it takes to win. I lift my numb hands, clapping politely for the other contestants when Luc embraces me, lifting me up and swinging me around.
“Aurora, you did it,” he whispers, twirling me around.
“No, I didn’t,” I mumble, resting my nose in the crook of his neck, breathing his scent in deeply.
“Aurora, he said the winner was Through the Lens. That’s you,” Luc repeats, and like a lightbulb switching on, I register what he just said.
“I won?” I repeat, still not quite believing it as Luc puts me down.
“Congratulations!” Madeline rushes over, dotting my face with kisses.
“I won,” I say again, believing it more and more each time I repeat the two words.
“I have never been more proud.” Henry and André embrace me, Henry with tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks.
“I won!” I jump in the air and give a squeal, I’m in the running for artist of the year.
The four judges bring over a gold-plated trophy and certificate as I become swept up in taking photos and giving interviews for the local gazette.
I won—and it’s all thanks to the man I love.
The mood in the car is above cloud nine the whole ride. I still can’t believe that I won. A goofy grin plays along my lips, and I don’t think it will come off for the foreseeable future. My face hurts from all the smiling, my muscles frozen in an overexaggerated grin. But it’s a feeling I never want to forget. My eyes keep finding the rearview mirror to see the top of my trophy peeking up in the trunk. I pinch myself to confirm it’s not just a freakishly real dream.
“Now we need to celebrate,” Henry announces as he instructs Luc to take us all to a local restaurant—his treat.
“I can’t believe my painting is going to be sitting in the local art gallery for a year,” I breathe for the hundredth time since the judge called my name out.
“I can’t wait to show everyone my Aurora’s painting,” Henry states, making my cheeks heat. I like being called “his Aurora,” it’s like I’ve finally found a place to belong.
Madeline organized the local gazette to publish an article about me being in the finals for the competition, and I had André hang the article in my little art studio. Days later, when the article came out, I emailed it to Mother—ending our months of no communication—but I’m still waiting to hear back from her. Briar was ecstatic when I sent it to her, along with the photo that Madeline took of Luc and me with my trophy.
Briar
I knew you were beyond talented. Congrats girly. I’m so proud of you.
When my phone rings with a +1 number, my hand tingles as I swipe to answer. It was from America. I check the date. Could it be my mother?
“Hello?” I say, waiting to hear my mother’s voice.
“Hello? Is this Aurora Allard?” The voice isn’t my mother’s, but I do recognize it.
“Yes,” I tentatively reply.
She clears her throat. “It’s Flora from the Tyson Gallery. We have reconsidered your submission, and we would like to welcome your paintings to our gallery.” I choke on my words, not sure I’d heard her correctly. “Hello? Aurora? Are you still there?” Flora echoes down the line.
“Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“So, when can I expect you to send through your work?”
“Actually…” I look around me, at my life in my chateau. Luc looks up from his spot on the couch, reading. “Thank you for your time, but I don’t need the Tyson Gallery’s service,” I declare, paraphrasing the words I’ve had on repeat since Flora articulated them to me.
“Excuse me,” Flora sputters. “What kind of no-name artist would reject such a proposition?”
I smile into the phone. “This no-name artist. But don’t worry, I’m sure that we will probably cross paths again. Until then, I hope you enjoy watching me succeed.” I press the red End Call button; whatever my art career had in store for me, it was not going to involve the Tyson Gallery. And with that, I don’t bother to check if my mother replied; if she isn’t happy with my life, it simply isn’t my problem anymore. I’m done trying to fix it. I can’t change who I am and what I love in order to please her.
In my studio, I dip my paintbrush in the pallet I’m holding and curl my legs under my body. A small dollop of paint lands on my lavender wool sweater. I stare at the light purple paint and shrug; it’s a new sweater that will now join my pile of stained clothes. The curse of being an artist, most of my clothing is stained with a multitude of paint colors and different rosins, but I also wouldn’t have it any other way. I continue to draw the outside garden reflected in the window, humming to the tune playing on the radio behind me. The rain pelts the glass windows. It’s my favorite kind of painting day. The light above my head flickers. I look up at the ceiling, and the light flickers again before going off completely and turning back on. Oh fun. A clap of thunder shakes the studio walls, and lightning zigzags across the skyline. The room lights up and then dims to only the light from the overcast sky shining in through the windows and the soft glow from the three working lights.
“Oh boy,” I mumble, this was one of the worst thunderstorms I’ve been through. The door swings open, and I jump slightly in my seat, splashing more paint on my sweater.
“The storm has knocked the power out,” Luc says, casually resting his forearm on the doorjamb.
“What do you mean? There is still—” My sentence is cut off when the lights turn off again in a giant spark. I clear my throat. “I’ll get some candles.” There was a bit of dim light coming in through the window from the gray sky, but it wasn’t enough. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Luc clicks the flashlight on as he walks toward me.
“I have other plans.” He gives me his elbow. “Here, take my arm.”
I apprehensively slide off my stool, planting my wobbly feet on the ground, and slide my arm through the crook of Luc’s elbow. The moment our skin touches, a jolt of electricity zaps between us.
“This storm is a big one,” Luc says.
“Yeah,” I breathe. I wasn’t usually afraid of storms, but this one was particularly intense. Another clap of thunder shakes the chateau.
“You know, in French we have a saying for when it’s like this,” Luc announces, trying to lighten the mood.
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I ask, needing something to take my mind off the storm.
“Il pleut comme la pisse des vaches,” Luc says.
“It’s raining like cow’s piss?” I snort, unsure I’ve translated that correctly. My French still isn’t perfect, but it’s come a long way.
He laughs. “Exactly. Your French is really coming along.” We stand at my studio door, and I have to hand it to him; it really looks like a giant cow is peeing everywhere. Luc opens an umbrella, and we huddle under it as we rush to his car.
He opens the passenger side door and deposits me inside.
“Well, this is going to be fun,” I mutter as Luc circles the car and gets in.
“Ready?” He turns to me, starting the engine.
“What’s all this?” I ask over the din of rain pelting the windows. We’re both almost soaked through from the rain. My teeth chatter from the cold. I adjust the dial to blast heat through the car.
Luc produces the certificate I’d won from behind his back. “I do owe you a date.”
“You want to do it now?” I ask, my eyebrows reach my hairline.
“It’s not like I haven’t been planning this for a while.” Luc scoffs, and my heart stutters. Why did he have to be so romantic?
“What if I wanted to go metal detecting in the moat, go searching for that medieval armor I was told about, or package all our candle orders,” I continue. “I was thinking of getting some geese, and I could have gotten you to make the pen.” It may have been an idea I’d just come up with, but having geese at the chateau meant fresh eggs. “Oh, better yet, training the new puppy I want to order.” More random ideas pop into my head, and I keep spurting. “Such a wasted certificate.” I tut.
Luc clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Woman, you drive me crazy. I’m trying to do something romantic here,” Luc replies, suddenly nervous as he pulls out of the chateau driveway. His grip on the steering wheel tightening as the muscles around his shoulders bunch. I sniff, and that heady cologne that I can’t seem to get out of my clothes envelopes me. I’m secretly addicted to that scent.
“So even if there wasn’t a storm that knocked the power out, you still had this planned?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says on an exhale. We settle in silence. I stare out the window, trying to figure out where the fuck he is taking me. After twenty minutes, the silence becomes too thick and suffocating, and I fiddle with the dial on the radio, turning the music up.
Over an hour later, I realize exactly where we’re going. I turn in my chair to face him. “You shouldn’t have,” I breathe, my voice hitched.
“I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t have,” Luc mumbles, and I lightly smack his shoulder. “Ow.”
“Now look who is being the unromantic one,” I deadpan, my cheeks heating. Luc parks the car and comes around to open my door with the umbrella in hand.
“That painting you were working on looked beautiful,” Luc changes the subject. “What made you want to paint the garden?” Since winning the regional finals, I’d been painting like crazy. It also helped that the pressure for the renovations had died down since Luc signed the whole thing over to me.
I shrug my shoulders, and a shiver goes down my spine as the air around us crackles. “Everything I look at makes me want to paint it. There is just something about this place.” I hold Luc’s gaze. “It’s mystifying,” I breathe, and my stomach tingles, as if his eyes were staring straight into my soul.
“You have no idea.” His voice is just as breathy as mine. Desire thick in the air.
“Tell me, what’s it like to date Jean-Luc Badeaux?”
“The third,” Luc replies and laughs when I give him a puzzled look. “My grandfather is Jean-Luc Badeaux, I am Jean-Luc Badeaux the third,” he repeats.
“Oh,” I reply. “Sorry, what’s it like to date Jean-Luc Badeaux the third?” I ask again.
“Well, let’s see.” He ponders. “It depends how crazy I am over her,” he admits, his eyes boring into mine.
“Have you ever been made crazy over someone?”
“There is this one woman.”
“What is she like?”
“She is completely and utterly maddening.”
“Really?” I ask, my eyebrows reaching my hairline.
“Oh yeah, the kind of person you just want to throttle,” he replies. “She is also crazy competitive, all because she loves this new chateau she inherited.”
“Well, maybe she finds you equally as annoying.” I sniff.
“Oh, I am certain she does, but what she doesn’t know, I secretly love it.”