Turning, he looks to where she is sitting up beside him. He brokenly confesses, “I don’t know if I can.”

Compassionate eyes hold his while she reaches across them both, placing her other hand against his heart.

“Will you try?”

* * *

I can feel his sorrow as if it is my own as I grip his hand tightly. The hand he clutches around his sweater is locked against his chest. As he turns his head and eyes away from mine, I remove my palm but continue to hold his hand.

“I wanted to paint her here,” he starts softly.

Holding my breath, I try not to make a sound. I don’t want him to stop, but I have no idea if I’ll be able to handle what he is about to tell me.

“It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, and it was warm, not like now.” He stops for a moment and frowns.

He licks his lips nervously before continuing. “I had this idea. It was a vision of her.” He releases his grip over his sweater and drops his hand into his lap. “I always thought she was so…” He stutters here, and a shudder racks him as he continues holding my hand. “Ethereal. She was always so ethereal-looking. Her skin was so white and perfect.”

Turning his head, he pins me with his stare, and I notice for the first time that his eyes have tears in them.

“She was perfect.” Shaking his head, he looks back to the water or across it in the darkness.

“I asked her if she would mind posing in the water.”

Laughing a little, he squeezes my hand again. My heart thumps harder at every word that is coming from his mouth.

“She smiled and asked if she had to be naked. I told her, ‘No, I want you to be in a dress, a white dress.’”

The tight grip he has on my hand loosens, and I feel him slipping away from me. I try to think of something, anything, to keep him talking in the moment.

I ask, “So, you wanted her in a white dress? Why?”

This time, when his eyes meet mine, they look tortured. They look haunted as he turns back to face the water.

Out into the empty darkness, he whispers, “I wanted to paint her as I saw her, like my own gift from God. I wanted her to look like an angel.”

I try to imagine how he is feeling, but I find I have no words. Instead, we sit silently for I don’t know how long on the grassy bank of the Fleuve Sauvage de Fleurs. I can feel her presence in a way I never have before.

His angel is here.


Chapter  Twenty-Six ~ Deceptive