Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

“Thank you for allowing me to do this.”

“Thank you for accepting my terms. Not everyone would have packed up their lives and moved to France for a couple of months.”

I laugh to hide my first-day nerves. With a smile, I tell him, “Really? Well, those people are crazy. This is a wonderful opportunity. France is beautiful. It will give me an authentic feel for your story and your life. After all, it did take place here, didn’t it?”

He forms a steeple with his hands in front of his nose, and I watch as those serious green eyes move to mine.

“It did happen here, yes.” Closing his eyes, he leans his head back on the chair. “The important parts anyway.”

Regarding him carefully, I probe. “When would you like to begin? Tonight or in the morning?”

His eyes open as he raises his head. I can feel the full impact of that penetrating stare.

“Tonight. Let’s start now,” he replies.

Clearing my throat, I grab the notepad and pen from my bag. When I look back at him, he is leaning forward, holding out a bound leather book to me. Glancing down, I reach forward and take it as he settles back in the chair. He tries to appear calm, but he doesn’t succeed. Instead, he just looks uncomfortable.

“What is this?” I ask the obvious question.

“It’s a journal. You’ll need that for any of this to make sense.”

He doesn’t seem to want to say more, so I nod while I move to open it.

“No, not yet,” he instructs.

I find it hard not to flip it open just for a peek, but I’m here to listen. I want to learn about his paintings and what really happened that night, but since he says not to look at it yet, I place the bound journal on the desk.

“Okay, let’s start at the beginning.”

He takes a deep breath, and for some reason, I hold mine before he finally blows his out.

“Go ahead.”

Shifting in my seat, I begin. “What inspired you to paint your critically acclaimed series?”

He lifts a hand to stroke the stubble lining his cheeks and chin, and then he replies so softly that I almost miss it.

“Beauty.” There’s a pregnant pause before he repeats himself louder. “Beauty inspired me.”

Scribbling this down, I ask my next question without looking up. “Beauty of the world?”

Not missing a beat, he replies, “No, beauty of a woman. One woman.”

Looking up at him, I instantly know he means her, and I swallow deeply. I now understand the reason for his focus on every intense stroke of the painting that hangs center stage on the wall by the staircase, lit up as though it is the pride and joy of the house. That painting is beauty, and she is the one woman. She is the woman that has captured the attention of the entire world, bringing probing questions to this man’s door.

Urging my brain to catch up, I remind myself to be professional, to ask only what I need to, and to build up to the parts of the story I so desperately want to know from this very private man. Instead of following my own directions, I blurt out, “What moves you?”

He seems to think about this question longer than I expect him to before he deflects with one of his own. “You don’t want to ask me the most obvious question first, Miss Harris?”

Immediately, I know what question he means, but I’m not ready to ask that yet. I’m here to learn about the vision behind the images and his side of this terrible nightmare. So, no, I don’t want to ask him the obvious…yet.

“I thought we decided on you calling me Gemma,” I point out, trying to keep our conversation light.

Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head in a mock bow. That’s my signal to continue.

“What moves you?” I ask again.

For some reason, I anticipate him having an answer ready. Instead, he sits there in thought while I picture the woman in the painting, knowing he is thinking of her.

“What moves me?” he repeats my question.

I nod and wait, gripping the edge of my seat, and this is only my second question.

“The answer to that is the same to your first question, Gemma. Beauty moves me.”

After scribbling that down, I bring my eyes back to his. “And beauty is one woman?” I clarify just to be sure.

His eyes remain steadfast on mine, and without a shred of doubt, he tells me, “Beauty is Chantel.”

Finally, the woman in the painting, Chantel, has been invited into the room.

Day Two

First Sight ~

I need to type something, and I need to type it now.

Something happened to me—a moment, I believe.

I’ve always held on to the idea that moments happen to shape who we are and who we will become, and I’m almost one-hundred percent positive that I had a moment of clarity today.

In wine country in Bordeaux, France, I met a man.

Yes, today out in wine country, I met a man, and something about that man moved me.

Something about that man changed me.

* * *

Closing the journal, I look out the window to the sun that’s now shining brightly, casting a beautiful morning glow over the vineyard.

Phillipe instructed me to read no further than the natural end of each journal entry. Every page is a time capsule of precisely inked words typed meticulously letter by letter, old-school style. All of the words have been methodically tapped out by the hands of a very unique individual. It’s obvious by the way he had the pages bound together that they mean the world to him and now he is entrusting it to me.

Honestly, I know there’s no way Phillipe would ever know one way or another, but I can’t stop remembering the firm tone in his voice and the steely determination in his eyes when he handed me the journal with strict instructions and a request that I meet him this morning.

Looking at the clock, I watch the hand as it slowly moves to nine, and then I turn and head up to the studio to wait for Mr. Tibideau.

* * *

Today is going to be painful, like opening an old wound.

Phillipe stands in the drafty kitchen with a cup of coffee, listening to Penelope, his housekeeper, hum as she bustles about making pastries.

Today, he’s going to allow himself to look back, remembering a time he’d rather lock away and keep to himself. He knows that if he doesn’t tell the story the way he wants it to be told, he’ll forever be judged. He’ll never be left to live his life in peace—well, at least be left to live it alone. Peace is just a selfish illusion now.

He notices it is 9 a.m. Turning on his heel, he brushes a kiss on Penelope’s cheek, and then he makes his way up to his studio.

When he arrives, he sees the assiduous Gemma Harris sitting at her desk with her notepad open.

She put on a courageous face yesterday. He saw the apprehension in her eyes when they first met. She probably remembered all the things she had read in the tabloids about his artistic temper or the even worse headlines that he couldn’t bring himself to think about.

Well, no matter what she had heard, Gemma is presenting a steady and strong composure, and he has to admit that he is impressed.

She set up her laptop, but the screen is blank. He has a feeling that she takes notes first, and then she goes back to write her story. He respects that. He understands an artist’s mind, and in a way, Gemma is an artist, just like he is.

As he makes his way into the room, she looks up at him. He detects the slight tightening of her fingers around her pen.

Ahh, not so calm.

“Good morning, Gemma. I trust you slept well?”

She monitors him closely as he moves into the room. “Like a baby. This place is so quiet at night.”

Nodding his agreement, Phillipe makes his way over to the chair he favors and sits down. “So I’ve been told.”

Gemma turns in her chair to face him, pen in hand and notepad on her lap. When it’s clear he isn’t going to say anything, she licks her bottom lip before speaking. “I read the journal entry this morning. I have to admit, from a journalistic point of view, it will be extremely difficult for me to stop reading and wait until our next meeting.”

Phillipe smiles briefly. “But did you?”

“Did I what?” she responds, staring at him with wide, guileless eyes.

“Wait?”

She shifts in the chair and nods. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I waited.”

“Good, Gemma. That’s good. Trust me when I tell you that waiting is often the best part of a story,” he explains. “After all, once you know the story, it’s over.”

Leaning back in his chair, he waits as she scribbles something down.

“I’m ready when you are,” she says.

Looking her over, he feels his heart actually start to ache as he closes his eyes.

* * *

It just wasn’t happening for him today.

No matter what he did or didn’t do, he couldn’t seem to find inspiration in anything. Sighing, he threw the rag down onto the drop cloth beneath his bare feet. Some days, he really felt like giving up on the whole fucking thing.

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to have a masterpiece. Maybe he was just supposed to be a mediocre painter who would sell his pieces in a little gallery for ten dollars each, so people could hang them over their mantles and never even look at them.

Fuck that, he thought in disgust.

He didn’t want to paint something for some suburbanite to hang up and dismiss every time she walked into her living room. He wanted to create something that moved people—a piece so fucking brilliant that people would cry when they looked at it. He wanted to alter their emotions and to touch their soul.

A little over a year ago, when he’d been living back in the States, he’d found out through his father’s will that he had acquired an old family vineyard in France. Having lost his mother at an early age he had seen no reason to remain in America and decided he might as well try his luck in France.

He had somehow stupidly assumed that he’d move over there and suddenly create the next world-renowned artistic piece. What he hadn’t expected was to feel absolutely nothing.

Walking over to the window in his studio, he watched the workers who were picking the grapes from the vines. He’d decided that if he was going to take over this property, he wanted to revitalize the vineyard that made Chateau Tibideau.

At least I did that part right.

As his eyes moved over his workers, he was surprised to spot a woman with Beau, his foreman. He’d never seen her there before. From where he was standing, all he could make out was long black hair. He could see she was wearing some kind of flowing white peasant skirt and a blue blouse that kept shifting with the slight breeze.

Almost as if she could feel his eyes on her, she turned around, looking up to the window where he was standing. As their eyes met, he felt something in the air change.

Desire, he thought as he gripped the window frame. Strange, intense, and unexplainable desire.

Before another moment passed, he turned and made his way to the stairs, determined to get to her. He was determined to meet her.

Taking the steps two at a time, he became almost desperate to get outside. He needed to meet the woman who had felt his stare and had turned to meet his gaze as if he had called out to her.

Rounding the corner of the kitchen, he pushed open the door and made his way out to where he had seen her. As he hurried around the side of the west turret, he literally ran into the woman he had been searching for.

“Well, hello.” He chuckled, raising his hands to grip her shoulders.

Unable to brace herself, it seemed as though she hadn’t seen him at all.

“Please let me go,” she replied almost instantly.

“Oh, good. You’re American.”

Removing his hands immediately, he took a step back as eyes the color of misty gray looked beyond him. He glanced over his shoulder and then turned back to her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there,” he explained, hoping to get her attention. “Actually, no, I’m not. You’re even more spectacular up close.”

Her face was spellbinding. Her beauty was stunning, not in a Hollywood kind of way, but more natural. Like nothing he had ever seen before.