Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

A contrast of shadows and sharp angles. Strength and softness. Those eyes of hers…wow.

As she tipped up her chin a little, he smiled, hoping to dazzle her with what he’d been told was an irresistible grin. She didn’t seem impressed; in fact, she seemed to not notice at all.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” she questioned.

He frowned for a moment, as he asked, “Is what supposed to be funny?”

The woman in front of him merely shook her head while she let out a huff of breath.

“Never mind.” She sighed, exasperated. “My uncle told me to come in here and find Mr. Tibideau. I’m supposed to tell him that they’re done for the day.”

He thought the whole exchange was slightly bizarre. Everyone knew that only he and Penelope lived in the house.

Doesn’t this woman know that I am Mr. Tibideau?

“Well, mission accomplished. He now knows, and he’s now intrigued,” he told her, taking a step closer.

Her aggravation only enhances her beauty, he thought as he ran his eyes over every detail of her face.

He had to admit that he found it unusual she hadn’t yet commented on the fact that she knew who he was. “You don’t recognize me?”

An ironic smile finally tipped her rose red lips as her uniquely colored eyes blinked once. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you by sight,” she replied with sarcasm. “I’m starting to think you might be blind, Mr. Tibideau.”

As she turned away from him, she raised her arm and flicked her wrist, extending a retractable cane from her palm.

How did I not notice that before?

All of a sudden, everything about the exchange made perfect sense. Every word and gesture she had made now shined through with amazing clarity. All he could think was perhaps he was the blind one because everything else had disappeared with one look at her face.

* * *

Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Phillipe as he walks over to where I’m madly scribbling in my notepad. When he’s finally standing near, I glance up at him, frowning.

“You’re leaving?” I ask. “We only just started.”

He points to the journal. “I’ll be back in a little bit. The next part you need to know is in there.”

Turning, he walks to the door and then stops to look back at me. The man is beautiful. That’s the only word to encompass his appeal, and I am still staring at him, holding my pen midair.

“Do you want a coffee, Gemma?”

I shake my head. “No, but I’d love some tea.”

“Tea, it is. See you in a few,” he replies before disappearing out the door.

Finishing off my final note, I put the pen and paper down, reaching for the leather journal. It’s a bulky thing bound by a leather strap. I unwind and open it to the page directly after the one where I left off, and I run my fingers over the typed entry. It’s hard to imagine her sitting at her braille typewriter, punching out each word smoothly and efficiently, but she did it with constant dedication for quite some time. Now, here I am, reading her most private thoughts.

Sitting back in the chair, I look down at the typed words and start reading.

* * *

His voice was what moved me—the sound of it when he spoke to me.

It was deep and smooth, and it reached inside and calmed me to my very core.

Phillipe didn’t even realize that I’m blind. When was the last time that had happened?

He treated me like he would anyone else. He made me feel…normal.

I didn’t want to come to France. I admit that I was more than a little bit annoyed and offended when my mother had suggested I “go and live a little, and see the world.”

Was that some kind of ironic blind person joke? No. That was my mother’s way of saying, stop living in fear.

That makes me wonder. Is that what I’ve been doing? I don’t know. I don’t think so.

But here I am, staying with my Uncle Beau and running into a man in a French vineyard.

Not exactly where I saw my life going.

Life, I have discovered, has always had a different idea in mind for me.

Oh, but his voice. “You don’t recognize me?”

He asked that like it was an everyday God-given right to be able to see someone and know who he was.

If only it were that simple.

He called me spectacular as though he had never seen anything like me.

I find myself wanting to go back to the chateau tomorrow.

Wanting to talk to him.

Wanting to be moved.

* * *

I stop for a moment and look around the studio where I’m sitting.

The space isn’t overwhelming in size. On the other hand, it isn’t exactly small either. It seems to have a personality all on its own.

When I first arrived, it was cloaked in darkness until he illuminated a small slice of his personal space to my eyes. Now, as I sit here on my own, I really have the chance to see his studio, and I realize that it’s a room that captivates me.

Splattered on the rough hardwood floors are obvious reminders of his profession. There are speckles of brown, white, and black mottled across the original wood floorboards. The floor marked up in such a way must not bother him because he has left it as is. Maybe it’s even his way of making it his own.

The desk he has set up for me is old and wooden. It creaks every time I apply any kind of pressure to it, but like the room itself, it seems to fit. Pushed up against the right wall, it’s situated so that I can either face his chair, which is nestled into the corner, or I can turn to the window and the easel that is set up on the opposite side of the space on the far left.

The walls of the west turret have been built from brick that’s the color of burnt cooper. It’s been left exposed on the interior of the studio, which I’m sure in the sunlight gives the room a spectacular glow. Right now, with the shutters closed and the room in shadows, it just makes the studio seem dark and volatile. Like a dormant volcano in nature, the room is silently smoldering but almost certain to one day explode in a blazing fiery rain of heat.

I don’t sense that this is a place of joy for him. Even with the lights on, the room doesn’t feel bright or happy. No, it actually feels intense and somewhat intimidating.

In the soft glow of the light, this room seems to shimmer with an underlying passion I have yet to understand. A passion for art or a passion for her? I cannot tell which one it is yet.

At the moment, I am seated facing his chair, which looks soft and cozy. It’s covered with an ivory-colored fabric that seems so neutral for this space. Maybe that’s what he needs to help calm him.

Beside the chair is a set of shelves. Atop one of the lower shelves, are several paintbrushes of all different sizes stuffed into a jar. The brushes appear to have clean bristles, but the wooden handles have dried-up paint spotted around them. On the shelf above them is a stereo. Maybe he likes listening to his music when he paints. It’s inspirational, I’m sure.

It’s obvious this is where he spends most of his time. His subtle fingerprints appear on nearly every surface throughout the room.

Turning around from where we have set up, I look again at the easel that’s been covered with a sheet since I arrived. Perhaps it’s something he is working on?

I’d love to go and look, but I know that would be a major invasion of privacy. Instead, I turn back to the journal in front of me.

What must it be like not being able to see? As I reflect, I’m struck with another completely inappropriate and selfish thought. It has to do with the man I’m working with. Imagine not ever knowing how attractive he is?

It doesn’t seem fair that this woman, Chantel, missed out on that. It doesn’t seem fair that she didn’t know what the man—a man she inspired—looked like.

Glancing back at the journal, I decide to continue reading, starting at the second entry on the same page. Pushing aside my worries that Phillipe will suddenly appear to stop me from going further, I sit back, determined to finish this small typed entry before he returns.

* * *

Second Opinions ~

I went back today, just like I had said I would. I needed to talk to him again.

It took me a while to track him down.

He wasn’t where we had last run in to one another. This time, he was down behind the chateau. He was by the old arbor—well, that was what my uncle told me when he led me down the pebbled path to what felt like a shaded area. My uncle greeted his employer, the man I now knew as Phillipe, and then he told me he would be over in the vineyard if I needed him.

I stood there silently, waiting for Phillipe to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, I heard him moving around. It sounded like he was shifting his stance from foot to foot. Each time he changed the weight of his footing, I heard the pebbles crunch. When I heard a swivel sound in the gravel, I knew instantly that he was facing me.

I have to admit that I felt a little apprehensive. I’m not good with strangers, and I don’t handle change well. That was why I put on my sunglasses today. Yes, I know how ridiculous that seems, but I enjoy the privacy they afford me and the courage they seem to instill in me.

“You came back,” he said to me.

I swear that I felt his voice travel up my body, taking my breath away. I took a step closer.

“Do you need some help?” he asked.

Immediately, I sensed him beside me.

I turned in the direction where I felt him move, and I took a deep breath. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the smell of him, and it was so intoxicating. I remember consciously licking my lips because it made me hungry—hungry for him.

“No, I don’t need any help,” I responded.

Then, I berated myself because he moved away from me.

“Tell me your name,” he demanded softly. “I didn’t get it yesterday.”

I smiled for the first time in months, as I flirted with him. “Well, you didn’t ask.”

If I thought his voice was sensual, his chuckle was wickedly hypnotic.

“You’re correct, so let me rectify that. Mademoiselle, please tell me your name.”

That was the moment—the moment I went back there for. That was the moment I knew that this man was going to change my life forever. Suddenly, I found myself wanting to change his.

“Chantel,” I informed him. “Chantel Rosenberg.”

I felt him step up close to me.

Not many people do that. I think my handicap scares them, but it didn’t seem to bother him as he whispered, “Chantel, you’re beautiful. I think I’ll call you…Beauty.”

* * *

I close the journal in a room that is still empty. The clock has just turned 11 a.m.

I have been sitting here for two hours. One of those has been on my own, and I have a feeling that for the rest of the afternoon, I will be hard-pressed to find the man who doesn’t want to be found.

As I make my way down to the main dining room later that night, I find myself stopping in front of the painting by the stairs. Again, I discover that I want to reach out to stroke my fingers along the round curves. This time, I actually make the move toward the image, and just as I raise my arm, I hear the sound of a throat clearing from the landing below.

Almost as though I’m being pulled from a dream, I turn and find Phillipe standing at the foot of the stairs. Unflinchingly, his eyes lock with mine. This is the first time that I’ve seen him since he left me this morning. That’s how it had felt. He left me. What an odd way to feel.

“She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” he asks me.

I have no idea how to answer him. I’m so entranced, and at the same time, I’m shocked by the image because I never expected to feel so many emotions from observing the female form.

He saves me from having to answer him by making a move. He grips the wooden banister and takes each step one at a time, slowly ascending to where I am paralyzed. When he finally reaches me, he moves into the space between the railing and my body. At this stage, I’m sure I should feel uncomfortable, but all I feel is anticipation.