Chapter 8
Rachel sat at Gabriel’s breakfast bar Thursday morning, drinking a latté
and poring over French Vogue. It was not her normal reading material. Rachel’s nightstand in Philadelphia was covered with books about politics, public relations, economics, and sociology, all in the hope that someday one of her superiors would ask for her opinion, rather than asking her to photocopy someone else’s. Now that she was on a leave of absence from her job, such as it was, she had time to read beyond mayoral politics.
She was feeling better this morning. Much better. Her conversation with Aaron the night before had gone well. Although he continued to be disappointed that the wedding was off, he told her over and over again that he would rather have her than a wedding.
“We don’t have to get married right away. We can delay the wedding until you’ve finished grieving. But I still want you, Rachel. I’ll always want you. As my wife, as my lover…Right now, I’ll take whatever I can get, because I love you. Come back to me.”
Aaron’s words burned through the haze of depression and grief that clouded Rachel’s mind. And suddenly, everything was clear. She’d thought she was running away from Scott and her father and the ghost of her mother. But perhaps she was running from Aaron too, and to hear him voice those words…as if it was possible for her to leave him. As if she could even contemplate staying away from him.
His statement had almost broken Rachel’s heart and made her realize how much she truly wanted to be his wife. And how determined she was not to make him wait too long to be her husband while she sorted herself out. Life was too short to be miserable. Her mother had taught her that.
Gabriel entered the kitchen wearing his glasses, kissed the top of her head, and slid a wad of bills in front of her. She glanced at the cash suspiciously and flipped through it, her eyes widening.
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“What’s this for?”
He cleared his throat and sat down next to her. “Aren’t you going shopping with Julianne?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s Julia, Gabriel. And no, we aren’t. She’s working on some project all day with a guy named Paul. Then he’s taking her to dinner.”
Angelfucker, thought Gabriel. The expletive sprang into his mind, unbidden and uncensored, and he tensed, rumbling low in his chest.
Rachel slid the money back to him and returned to her magazine.
He placed the cash in front of her again. “Take it.”
“Why?”
“Buy something for your friend.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “Why? This is a lot of money.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“This is five hundred dollars. I know you have money to waste, but jeepers, Gabriel, that’s a bit much.”
“Have you seen her apartment?”
“No. Have you?”
He shifted on his bar stool. “Just for a moment. She was caught in the rain, and I drove her home and…”
“And?” Rachel draped an arm over his shoulder and leaned toward him with a delicious grin. “Spill.”
Gabriel pushed her arm off his shoulder and glared. “It wasn’t like that. But I saw her place briefly while I was dropping her off, and it’s awful. She doesn’t even have a kitchen, for God’s sake.”
“No kitchen? What the hell?”
“The girl is as poor as a church mouse. Not to mention the fact that she carries around this loathsome excuse for a book bag. Spend all the money on buying her a decent briefcase, I don’t care. But do something. Because if I see that knapsack one more time, I’m going to burn it.”
Gabriel raked his hands through his chestnut hair and finally kept them there, hunching his tall frame over the breakfast bar. With the power of perception only possessed by a sister, Rachel regarded him carefully. Gabriel appeared to be the ideal poker player: impassive, unemotional, cold. Oh, so very cold. Not merely cool, like a breeze, or water from a stream in the autumn, but cold. Cold like a rock against your skin in the shade of
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the setting sun. Rachel believed that his coldness was his worst character flaw — his ability to say and do things without regard for the feelings of others, including his family.
Despite his failings, Gabriel was her favorite. And as the baby of the family and ten years younger, she was his favorite too. He’d never fought with her the way he’d fought with Scott or their father. He’d always and only protected her — loved her, even. At his worst, there was no possibility of Gabriel intentionally hurting Rachel. She’d only been hurt by watching him hurt everyone else. Especially himself.
She knew that upon closer inspection Gabriel would make a lousy poker player. He had too many tells, too many ways he revealed his inner turmoil. He shut his eyes when he was close to losing his temper. He rubbed his face when he was frustrated. He paced when he was distressed or afraid. Rachel watched him begin to pace and wondered what he was afraid of.
“Why are you so worried about her? You weren’t that friendly when she was here for dinner. You won’t call her Julia.”
“She’s my student. I have to be professional.”
“Professionally mean?”
Gabriel stood still and scowled.
“Fine. I’ll take the money for Julia, and I’ll buy her a briefcase. But I’d rather buy her shoes.”
Gabriel sat back on his bar stool. “Shoes?”
“Yes. What if we were to buy her something to wear? She likes pretty things, she just can’t afford them. And she’s cute, don’t you think?”
Gabriel twitched beneath his gray wool trousers. He brought his thighs closer together to hide the disturbing fact from his sister.
“Spend the money on whatever you like, but you must replace the book bag.”
“Good! I’ll buy her something fabulous. But I’ll probably need more money…and we should take her somewhere special so she can show off her new clothes.” Rachel batted her eyes playfully at her older brother.
Without argument or negotiation, he removed a business card from his wallet, picked up his Montblanc fountain pen, and slowly unscrewed the cap.
“Do normal people still use those kinds of pens, or just medievalists?” She leaned over inquisitively. “I’m surprised you’re not using a quill.”
Gabriel frowned. “This is a Meisterstück 149,” he said, as if that should mean something.
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Rachel rolled her eyes as he used his sparkling eighteen karat gold nib to write a brief note on the back of his business card in a confident but old-fashioned hand. Her brother was beyond pretentious.
“There.” He slid the business card across the counter. “I have an account at Holt Renfrew. Show this to the concierge, and he will direct you to Hilary, my personal shopper. She’ll place everything on my account. Don’t go completely mad, Rachel, and you can keep the cash for yourself. Happy Birthday, six months in advance.”
She leaned over to press a light kiss to his cheek. “Thank you. What’s Holt Renfrew?”
“The Canadian Saks Fifth Avenue — they have everything. But you must replace the book bag. That’s all I care about. The rest are just…inconsequential details.” His voice sounded gruff all of a sudden.
“Fine. But I want you to explain why you’re so agitated about an L. L. Bean knapsack. All the undergrads had one. I had one, for crying out loud. Before I grew up and discovered Longchamp.”
“I don’t know.” Gabriel removed his glasses and began rubbing his eyes.
“Hmmm. Should I add lingerie to my shopping list? Do you like her — like her?” Rachel grinned annoyingly.
He snorted. “How old are we, Rachel? Remember, she’s my student. It isn’t about romance — it’s about penance.”
“Penance?”
“Penance. For sin. My sin.”
Rachel snorted. “You really are medieval. What sin have you committed against Julia? Apart from being a jackass! You don’t even know her…”
He replaced his glasses, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was twitching at the mere thought of sin and Miss Mitchell. Together. In the same room. With him. And nothing else…except perhaps a pair of couture stilettos…which he could finally touch…
“Gabriel? I’m waiting.”
“I don’t need to confess my sins to you, Rachel. I just need to atone for them.” He snatched the magazine out of her hand.
She set her teeth. “How good is your French? And your knowledge of women’s fashion?”
Gabriel glanced down to find the magazine open to a photo of an airbrushed and spread-eagled model wearing a très petite white bikini. His eyes widened.
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Rachel crossed her arms in annoyance and glared at him. “Don’t bark at me. I’m not one of your students, and I’m not going to put up with your shit.”
He sighed and began to rub his eyes again, minutely adjusting his glasses to do so.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, returning the magazine, but not before he gave the model one more serious look, purely for research purposes, bien sûr.
“Why are you wound up so tight? Are you having girl troubles? Do you even have a girl right now? When was the last time you had one? And by the way, what’s with those photos in your…”
He interrupted her quickly. “I’m not having this conversation with you. I don’t ask who you’re fucking.”
Rachel bit back an angry response and took a very deep breath. “I’m going to forgive you for that remark, even though it was insensitive and crass. When you’re down on your knees making your penance, include the sin of envy, will you?
“You know I’ve only ever been with Aaron. And I think you know that what we do together goes way beyond what you said. What’s wrong with you?”
Gabriel muttered an apology and refused to make eye contact. But his warning shot across the bow had accomplished what he wished it to, and that was to divert her attention from one of her questions. So he felt no remorse. Not really.
Rachel toyed with her brother’s business card for a moment as she tried to calm down.
“If you don’t like Julia, then you must feel sorry for her. Why? Is it just because she’s poor?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed and shook his head.
“Julia brings out the protective side in people. She was always a little sad and a little lost. Although make no mistake, she has steel in her bones. She survived an alcoholic mother and a boyfriend who…”
Gabriel’s blue eyes shifted to hers with interest. “Who?” he prompted.
“You said you didn’t want to know about her personal life. It’s too bad, really. If you and she weren’t in a professional relationship, you might have liked her. You might have been friends.”
She smiled at him, testing the waters, but Gabriel kept his eyes on the breakfast bar and began rubbing his chin absently.
Rachel drummed her fingers on the countertop. “Do you want me to tell her the briefcase and the shoes are from you?”
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“Of course not! I could get fired for that. Someone will jump to the wrong conclusion, and I’ll be hauled in before the judicial committee.”
“I thought you were tenured.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
“So you want to spend all of this money on Julia, and you don’t care if she knows that they gifts are from you? It’s a bit like Cyrano de Bergerac, don’t you think? I guess your French is better than I thought.”
He stood up, effectively ignoring her, and walked over to the large espresso machine on one of the counters. He began the somewhat laborious process of making the perfect espresso, keeping his back to his annoying sister.
She sighed. “All right. You want to do something nice for Julia. You can call it penance, if you like, but maybe it’s just kindness. And it’s doubly kind, because you want to do it in secret and not embarrass her or make her feel like she owes you something. I’m impressed. Sort of.”
“I want her petals to open,” Gabriel breathed softly.
Rachel dismissed his admission as incoherent mumbling, because she couldn’t believe that he’d said what she in fact heard. It was too bizarre. “Don’t you think you should treat Julia as an adult and tell her the gifts are from you? Let her make her own decision about whether she should accept them or not?
“She wouldn’t accept them if she knew they were from me. She hates me.”
Rachel laughed. “Julia is not the type of girl to hate people. She’s far too forgiving for that. Although if she hates you, you probably deserve it. But you’re right — she doesn’t accept charity. She would never let me buy things for her except on very special occasions.”
“Then tell her it’s for a backlog of Christmas presents from you. Or tell her it’s from Grace.” A meaningful look passed between the siblings.
Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. “Mom was the only person Julia would accept charity from, because she thought of Mom as her mother.”
Gabriel was at her side in an instant and wrapped her in his arms, trying to comfort her as best he could.
In his heart, he knew exactly what he was doing by persuading his sister to buy some pretty, girlish things for Miss Mitchell. He was paving hell with energy — buying an indulgence, forgiveness for sin. He’d never reacted this way to a woman before. But no, Gabriel wouldn’t indulge himself with that line of thought. That would serve no purpose, no purpose at all.
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He knew he lived in hell. He accepted it. He rarely complained. But truth be told, he desperately wished he could make his escape. Unfortunately, he had no Virgil and no Beatrice to come to his aid. His prayers went unanswered, and his plans for reform were almost always thwarted by something or other. Usually a woman wearing four-inch heels and long blond hair, who would scratch long fingernails down his back while screaming his name, over and over and over again…
Given his current state of affairs, the best that he could do to reform himself would be to take the old man’s blood money and lavish it on a brown-eyed angel. An angel who couldn’t afford an apartment with a kitchen, and who would blossom a little when her best friend gave her a pretty dress and a new pair of shoes.
Gabriel wanted to do more than buy her a briefcase, although he would never admit what he truly wanted; he wanted to make Julianne smile.
While the siblings were discussing penance, forgiveness, and ridiculous abominations of book bags, Paul was waiting for Julia just outside the entrance to Robarts Library, the largest on the campus of the University of Toronto. Although Julia could only guess at this, in the short time in which he had known her Paul had grown quite fond of her.
He was used to having lots of friends, many of them women. And he’d dated his share of both well-adjusted and troubled girls. His most recent relationship had run its course. Allison wanted to stay in Vermont, and be a schoolteacher. He wanted to move to Toronto and study to become a professor. After two years of a long distance relationship, it was not meant to be. But there was no malice — no slashing of tires or burning of photographs. They were friends, even, and Paul was proud of that fact.
But now that Paul had met Rabbit, he began to appreciate how a relationship with someone with whom he shared common interests and common career goals could be very exciting and very fulfilling.
Paul was old-fashioned. He believed in courting a woman. He believed in taking his time. And so he was perfectly content only to build a friendship with the beautiful and shy Rabbit until he knew her well enough to express his feelings. And until he was confident of her regard for him. He was determined to spend time with her and treat her properly and pay her a lot of attention, so that if someone else came along in the meantime and tried to muscle in on him, he’d be close enough to tell that individual to back the fuck off.
Julia was sorry that she would miss out on shopping with Rachel, but she’d already promised Paul that she would spend the day with him
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at the library. She needed to get started on her thesis proposal now that Professor Emerson had agreed to be her supervisor. She felt more than a strong motivation to perform well in his class and to dazzle him with her proposal, although she knew based upon his previous behavior that she was likely to do neither.
“Hi.” Paul greeted her warmly and immediately slipped her heavy knapsack off her shoulder and transferred it to his. He barely felt its weight on his massive shoulder.
Julia smiled up at him, relieved to be unburdened for a little while. “Thanks for agreeing to be my guide. The last time I was in here I got lost. I ended up in an obscure section on the fourth floor that was entirely devoted to maps.” She shivered.
Paul laughed. “It’s a huge library. I’ll show you the Dante collection on the ninth floor and take you to my office.”
He held the door open for her, and Julia floated by, feeling very much like a princess. Paul had excellent manners, and he did not use them as a weapon. Julia considered how some people, who-would-not-be-named, used manners to intimidate and to control, while others, like Paul, used them to honor and to make others feel special. Very special, indeed.
“You have an office?” she asked, as they flashed their student id cards at the security guard who sat by the elevators.
“Sort of.” He held the elevator door open, waiting for Julia to enter before he joined her. “My study carrel is next to the Dante section.”
“Can I apply for a carrel?”
Paul grimaced. “They’re like gold. It’s almost impossible to get one, especially as an MA student.”
He read the question in her eyes and hastened to add, “I think MA students are just as important as PhD students. But there aren’t enough carrels to go around. The one I have isn’t even mine — it’s Emerson’s.”
If Paul hadn’t allowed Julia to push the button for the ninth floor, he would have seen her skin turn slightly green and heard her sharp intake of breath. But he didn’t.
Once they arrived on the ninth floor, he patiently guided her through the Dante collection, showing her both the primary and secondary sources. And he watched with delight as she trailed her hand across the spines of the books lovingly, as if she were greeting old friends.
“Julia, would you mind if I asked you a personal question?”
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She stood very still, fingering a quarto volume that had a tattered leather binding. She inhaled its scent deeply to keep herself calm and nodded.
“Emerson asked me to pull your file from Mrs. Jenkins and — ”
She turned her head to face him, eyes large and unblinking. Oh no, she thought.
He held his hands up to reassure her. “I didn’t read it. Don’t worry.” He chuckled softly. “There’s nothing too personal in those files anyway. Apparently, he wanted to remove something he’d put in there. But it was what he did afterward that surprised me.”
Julia raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to spit it out.
“He telephoned Greg Matthews, the chair of the Department of Romance Languages and Literatures at Harvard.”
She blinked slowly as she reflected on what he said. “How do you know?”
“I was dropping off some photocopying, and I overheard Emerson on the telephone. He was asking Matthews about you.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you. He demanded to know why they didn’t have generous enough funding for their MA students. He’s an alumnus of that department, you know. Matthews was the chair when he completed his PhD.”
Holy shit. He was checking up on me? Of course. He wouldn’t believe I actually got into Harvard, just like him. Julia closed her eyes, her fingers clutching the bookshelf for support.
“I couldn’t hear everything that Matthews was saying. But I heard Emerson.”
She kept her eyes closed and waited for the other shoe to drop. She only hoped that Paul would drop it quickly and not directly on her toes.
“I didn’t know that you got into Harvard, Julia. That’s pretty amazing. Emerson asked if you’d really been accepted into their program and how highly you were ranked in their admissions pool.”
“Of course,” she mumbled. “I’m from a small town in Pennsylvania. I went to a Jesuit university of about seven thousand students. How could I get into Harvard?”
Paul frowned. Poor Rabbit. That sick fucker really did a number on her. I should seriously kick his ass. And then I should go to work on him…
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“What’s wrong with Catholic schools? I did my undergrad at St. Mike’s in Vermont, and I got a great education. They had a Dante specialist in the English Department and a Florentine specialist in History.”
Julia nodded as if she heard him. But she hadn’t really.
“Listen, you haven’t heard the whole story yet. The point is that Matthews tried to persuade him to send you back for your PhD. Said you were very highly ranked. That’s pretty good, considering the source. I applied to that department and was rejected outright.” He smiled somewhat half-heartedly, not knowing how she would react to that piece of information. “So if it isn’t too personal, why didn’t you go to Harvard?”
“I didn’t want to come here,” she whispered, her voice low and guilty. “I knew he was here. But I had no other choice. I have thousands of dollars in student loans from Saint Joseph’s…I just couldn’t afford to go to Harvard. I was hoping to finish my MA quickly and go to Harvard next year. If I win a larger fellowship, I won’t have to borrow money for my PhD.”
Paul nodded reassuringly, and as Julia distracted herself by turning around to examine the books more carefully, he regarded her, entirely oblivious to the small piece of information she had unknowingly revealed. The piece of information that told him much more than why she hadn’t gone to Harvard.
As he watched her opening and closing the dusty volumes, her eyes widening and a smile playing across her lovely lips, he realized that the nickname Rabbit was an even better fit than he’d initially thought. For yes, she was very much like a rabbit one might find in a meadow or some such place. But she was also very much like The Velveteen Rabbit.
Paul would never have spoken such words aloud, and if you’d asked him if he knew the book, he would have lied while looking you straight in the eye. But Allison had loved that book, and early in their relationship she had demanded that he read it so that he could understand her properly. And Paul, all two hundred plus pounds of Vermont farm boy, had read the damn thing surreptitiously because he loved her.
Although he wouldn’t admit it, he loved that story too.
In looking at Rabbit, he had the feeling that she was waiting desperately to become Real. Waiting to be loved, even. And the waiting had taken its toll on her. Not on her outward appearance, which was very attractive (although Paul would have said she was clearly too thin and too pale, something a good deal of Vermont milk and dairy products could have improved). Not that, but on her soul, which he thought was beautiful but sad.
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Paul wasn’t even sure he believed in souls until he met Rabbit. And now that he knew her, he had to believe. He hoped privately that some day she would become what she wanted to be, that someone would love her and she would transform from a frightened rabbit into something else. Something bolder. Something happy.
Not wanting to indulge himself in too many literary flights of fancy, Paul swiftly decided that he needed to distract Rabbit from her sorrows, and so he smiled at her again. Then he led her to a door that had a brass nameplate on it that said in very elegant cursive script: Professor Gabriel O. Emerson, Department of Italian Studies.
Julia noticed with interest that none of the other doors had brass nameplates on them. She also noticed that Paul had taped an index card with his own name on it underneath the nameplate. She imagined Professor Emerson coming along and ripping the card off out of spite. Then she noticed Paul’s full name: Paul V. Norris, MA.
“What does the V stand for?” She crooked a finger at the homemade sign.
Paul looked uncomfortable. “I don’t like using my middle name.”
“I don’t use mine either. And I can understand if you don’t want to tell me.” She smiled, turning her gaze expectantly at the locked door.
“You’ll laugh.”
“I doubt it. My last name is Mitchell. It’s nothing to be proud of.”
“I think it’s nice.”
Julia reddened but only slightly.
Paul sighed. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“Of course. And I’ll tell you my middle name: it’s Helen.”
“That’s beautiful too.” He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he waited. When he could hold his breath no longer, and his lungs were clamoring for oxygen, he exhaled quickly. “Virgil.”
She stared incredulously. “Virgil?”
“Yes.” He opened his eyes and studied her for a minute, worried she was going to laugh at him.
“You’re studying to be a Dante specialist, and your middle name is Virgil? Are you kidding?”
“It’s a family name. My great-grandfather was named Virgil…He never read Dante, trust me. He was a dairy farmer in Essex, Vermont.”
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Julia smiled her admiration. “I think Virgil is a beautiful name. And it’s a great honor to be named after a noble poet.”
“Just like it’s a great honor to be named after Helen of Troy, Julia Helen. And very fitting too.” His eyes grew soft, and he gazed at her admiringly.
She looked away, embarrassed.
Paul cleared his throat as a means of lessening the sudden tension between them. “Emerson never uses this carrel — except to drop things off for me. But it belongs to him, and he pays for it.”
“They aren’t free?”
Paul shook his head and unlocked the door. “No. But they’re totally worth it because they’re air conditioned and heated, they have wireless internet access, and you can store books in here without checking them out at the circulation desk. So if there is anything you need — even if it’s reference material that you can’t check out — you can store it in here.”
Julia looked at the small but comfortable space as if it were the Promised Land, her eyes wide as they wandered over the large built-in workspace, comfortable chairs and floor to ceiling bookshelves. A small window offered a very nice view of the downtown skyline and the cn tower. She wondered how much it would cost to live in a carrel rather than in her not-fit-for-a-dog hobbit hole.
“In fact,” said Paul, clearing some papers off one of the bookshelves, “I’ll give you this shelf. And you can have my extra key.”
He fished around and came up with a spare key, writing a number down on a piece of paper. “That’s the number on the door, in case you have trouble finding it again, and here’s the key.”
Julia stood, gaping. “I can’t. He hates me, and he won’t like this.”
“Fuck him.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“I’m sorry. I don’t usually cuss — that much. At least, not in front of girls. I mean, women.”
She nodded, but that was not exactly why she was surprised.
“Emerson is never here. You can store your books, and he’ll think they’re mine. If you don’t want him to catch you, you don’t have to work in here. Just drop by when I’m around — I’m here a lot. Then if he sees you, he’ll think we’re working together. Or something.”
He smiled sheepishly. He really wanted to key her — to know that she could drop by at any time. To see her things on his shelf…to study and to work next to her.
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But Julia didn’t want to be keyed.
“Please.” He took her pale hand in his and gently opened her fingers. He felt her hesitate, and so he ran his thumb across the back of her hand just to reassure her. He pressed the key and the paper into her palm and closed her fingers, taking great care not to press too hard lest he bruise her. He knew that Emerson had bruised her enough.
“Real isn’t what you are; it’s something that happens. And right now, you need something good to happen to you.”
Julia started at his words, for he had no idea how true they were.
Is he paraphrasing from…? Impossible.
She looked up into his eyes. They were warm and friendly. She didn’t see anything calculating or crude. She didn’t see anything underhanded or harsh. Maybe he truly liked her. Or maybe he simply felt sorry for her. Whatever his mysterious motivations, in that instant Julia chose to believe that the universe was not entirely dark and disappointing and that there were still vestiges of goodness and virtue, and so she accepted the key with a bowed head.
“Don’t cry, little Rabbit.”
Paul reached out to stroke away a tear that had not yet fallen. But he thought better of it and placed his hand at his side.
Julia turned away, ashamed of the sudden and intense rush of emotions she was having, over being keyed of all things, and having him cite beloved children’s literature to her. As she frantically looked for something, anything, to distract herself, her eyes alighted on a cd that was sitting by its lonesome on one of the bookshelves. She picked it up. Mozart’s Requiem.
“Do you like Mozart?” she asked, turning the jewel case over in her hand.
Paul averted his eyes.
She was surprised. She moved as if to put the cd case back, worried she had embarrassed him by going through his personal effects, but he stopped her.
“It’s all right, you can look at it. But it’s not mine. It’s Emerson’s.”
Once again, Julia felt cold all over and slightly sick.
Paul saw her reaction this time and started speaking very quickly. “Don’t tell anyone, but I stole it.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“I know — it’s terrible. But he was playing one track from the damn thing over and over and over again in his office, while I was cataloging part
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of his personal library. Lacrimosa, lacrimosa, lacri-fuckin’-mosa. I couldn’t take it anymore! It’s so damned depressing. So I stole it from his office and hid it here. Problem solved.”
Julia laughed. She closed her eyes and laughed.
He smiled with relief at her reaction.
“You didn’t do a very good job of hiding it. I found it in what, thirty seconds?” She giggled and tried to hand him the cd.
He cautiously pushed her long hair back behind her shoulders so he could have an unobstructed view of her face. “Why don’t you hide it at your place, instead?”
Instinctively, she stiffened and took a step backward.
Paul watched her head go down and her teeth clamp onto her lower lip. He wondered what he’d done…should he not have touched her? Was she worried that Emerson would find out she had his cd?
“Julia?” His voice was quiet, and he made no move toward her. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”
“No. It’s nothing.” She glanced at him nervously and placed the cd on the shelf. “I love Mozart’s Requiem, and Lacrimosa is my favorite part. I didn’t know he liked it too. I’m just…um…surprised.”
“Borrow it.” He placed it in her hand. “If Emerson asks, I’ll say I have it. But at least if you borrow it you can upload it to your iPod and give it back to me on Monday.”
Julia looked at the cd. “I don’t know…”
“I’ve had it all week, and he hasn’t been looking for it. Maybe his mood has shifted. He started listening to it after he got home from Philadelphia. Not sure why…”
Julia impulsively slid the cd into her decrepit knapsack. “Thanks.”
He smiled. “Anything for you, Julia.”
He wanted to hold her hand. Or at least to squeeze it for an instant. But she was skittish, he could see, and so he gave her a wide berth as he led her into the hallway so that he could continue giving her a tour of the library.
“Uh, the Toronto Film Festival is on this weekend. I have a couple of tickets to some films on Saturday. Would you like to join me?” He tried to sound casual as he led her to the elevators.
“What films?”
“One is French and the other is German. I prefer European films.” He smiled half-heartedly. “I could trade the tickets for something more local…”
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Julia shook her head. “I like European films too. As long as they’re subtitled. My French is almost non-existent, and I only know how to swear in German.”
Paul pressed the button for the elevator and turning, gave her a very long, very studious look. Then he grinned mischievously. “You can swear in German? How did you come by that?”
“I lived in the International House at Saint Joseph’s. One of the exchange students was from Frankfurt, and she really liked to swear — a lot. By the end of the semester, we were all swearing in German. It was kind of a res hall thing.” She turned a light shade of pink and shuffled her sneakers.
Julia knew that Paul was a doctoral student, which meant that he’d already taken language courses in French and in German, in all probability. No doubt he would make fun of her amateur linguistic skills, as Christa had after a seminar. She waited for a snide remark or a dismissive wave of the hand.
But he only smiled and held the elevator door open for her. “My German is terrible. Maybe you can teach me to swear in it — that would be an improvement.”
Julia turned to him and smiled back. Widely this time. “Maybe. And I’d like to go to the movies with you on Saturday. Thanks for inviting me.”
“No problem.”
He was pleased with himself. The lovely Julia was coming to the Film Festival with him, and afterward, there would be dinner. He had yet to introduce her to his favorite Indian restaurant. Or perhaps he should do that tonight and take her to Chinatown after the double feature. Then he would take her to Greg’s for homemade ice cream…and invite her to accompany him to the Art Gallery of Ontario to see Frank Gehry’s architectural addition next weekend.
As they continued their tour, Paul resolved in his heart to be patient. Very, very patient. And cautious, whenever he reached out a tentative hand to offer her a carrot or to gently stroke her soft fur with his fingers. Or else he knew he would frighten Rabbit away, and he wouldn’t have the opportunity to help her become Real.
P
Gabriel’s Inferno
81
The next morning Julia sat on her narrow bed with her old laptop, working on her thesis proposal and listening to Mozart. Professor Emerson’s choice of music surprised her. How could he go from listening to Nine Inch Nails to this? Was he only listening to it because of Grace? Or was there some other reason he was torturing himself by repeating the same depressing track over and over again?
Julia closed her eyes and concentrated on the words to Lacrimosa, sung loudly and hauntingly by the multi-voice choir in Latin…
Day of Weeping,
on which will rise from ashes guilty man for judgment.
So have mercy, O Lord, on this man.
Compassionate Lord Jesus, grant them rest.
Amen.
What is wrong with Gabriel that he listens to this over and over again? And what does it say about me that I can’t help but feel close to him when I listen to it? All I’ve done is replace his photograph with his cd — I’m just not sleeping with it under my pillow.
I am one sick puppy.
Julia shook her head and tried to concentrate on her thesis proposal, distracting herself from the sound of classical weeping with thoughts of Paul and the previous day’s activities.
He’d been very helpful. In addition to giving her a key to The Professor’s carrel, he’d offered advice about how best to structure her thesis proposal, and he’d made her laugh more than once — more than she had laughed in a very, very long time. He was a gentleman; he opened doors and carried her ugly, heavy knapsack. He was chivalrous, and Julia could not help but like him. It was nice to be around someone who was both handsome and sweet — an oft overlooked and frequently rare combination. She was grateful for his guidance, as well. For truly, who better than Virgil, who had shepherded Dante through the Inferno, to guide her through her thesis proposal?
She wanted her proposal to impress Professor Emerson, to make him realize that she was a capable student and somewhat intelligent. Even then she knew he would likely disagree with her on both points, no matter what Professor Greg Matthews of Harvard had said about her. And she’d be lying if she said that she wasn’t trying to subliminally jar Emerson into remembering her.
Sylvain Reynard
82
She wondered what was worse — that Gabriel had forgotten her? Or that Gabriel had become Professor Emerson? Julia was sickened by the second arm of the disjunction, and so she refused to even consider it — much. She would far rather Gabriel had forgotten her but remained the sweet and tender man she kissed in the old orchard, than for him to become Professor Emerson, with all of his vices, and still remember her.
Julia’s thesis proposal was straightforward. She was interested in a comparison between the courtly love manifested in the chaste relationship between Dante and Beatrice, and the passionate lust manifested in the adulterous relationship between Paolo and Francesca, two characters Dante placed in the circle of the lustful in The Inferno. Julia wanted to discuss the virtues and drawbacks of chastity, a subject she had more than a passing interest in, and compare it with the subliminal eroticism of The Divine Comedy.
As she worked on her proposal, she found herself staring back and forth between Holiday’s painting, which hung over her bed, and a postcard with the image of Rodin’s sculpture The Kiss. Rodin had sculpted Paolo and Francesca in such a way that their lips weren’t touching; nevertheless, the sculpture was sensual and erotic, and Julia had not purchased a replica of it when she visited Musée Rodin in Paris because she found it too arousing. And too heartbreaking.
She had settled for a postcard and taped it to her wall.
In addition to her boulangerie and fromagerie French, she knew enough of the language to realize that the title of Rodin’s sculpture, Le Baiser in French, was part of its subversion. For baiser in French could mean either the innocence of a kiss or the animalistic quality of a fuck. One could say le baiser and refer to a kiss, but if one said, Baise-moi, one was begging to be fucked. Both innocence and begging were wrapped up in the embrace of these two lovers whose lips never touched: frozen together, yet separated for all eternity. Julia wanted to free them from their frozen embrace, and she secretly hoped her thesis would allow her to do so.
From time to time over the years, Julia had indulged herself in thinking about the old orchard behind the Clarks’ house, in reliving her first kiss with Gabriel and some of what came afterward, but mostly she did so in her dreams. She rarely, if ever, thought of the morning after and its tears and hysterics. It was far too painful a memory. It was a memory of betrayal she revisited only in her nightmares…and unfortunately for her, that was all too often. It was the reason she had never sought him out.
Just then, her cell phone rang, interrupting her homework.
Gabriel’s Inferno
83
“Hey, Julia. Do you have plans tonight?” It was Rachel. Julia could hear Gabriel talking gruffly in the background.
Immediately she hit the mute button on her computer so that he wouldn’t hear Mozart over the telephone. She waited with bated breath to see if he had heard…
“Julia? Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
From the sounds of Gabriel’s muttering, Julia couldn’t tell if he was angry or simply complaining. Not that either behavior would have surprised her.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yes, fine. Um, no plans. No plans tonight.” Julia bit her lip as a wave of relief washed over her. He hadn’t heard the cd. Or so it seemed.
“Good. I want to go to a club.”
“Oh, come on. You know I hate those places. I can’t dance, and it’s always too loud.”
Rachel laughed heartily. “Funny you should say that. Gabriel said almost the same thing. Minus the dancing part. He thinks he can dance — he just refuses.”
Julia sat up very straight on her bed. “Gabriel would come with us?”
“I have to fly home in two days. He’s taking me somewhere nice for dinner, then I want to go to a club. He isn’t happy about it, but he didn’t say no. I thought it would be fun if you joined us after dinner. So how about it?”
Julia shut her eyes. “I’d love to, Rachel. But I don’t have anything to wear. Sorry.”
Rachel giggled. “Wear a little black dress. Something simple. I’m sure you own something that would work.”
At that instant, the doorbell rang, interrupting the call.
“Hang on, Rachel, someone is at my door.” Julia walked out into the hall, noticing a deliveryman standing outside the front door to the building.
She opened the door. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Julia Mitchell. You her?”
She nodded and signed for what turned out to be a very large rectangular parcel.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, sticking the parcel under her arm and shifting her cell phone to her ear. “Rachel, you still there?”
Sylvain Reynard
84
Rachel sounded as if she was laughing. “Yes. What was that?”
“Some kind of delivery. For me.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s a big box.”
“Open it.”
Julia locked her apartment door behind her and put the box on her bed. She propped her phone between her ear and her shoulder so that she could still talk while she opened the package.
“The box has a label on it — Holt Renfrew. I don’t why someone would send me a present…Rachel, you didn’t!”
Julia could hear peals of laughter over the phone.
She opened the box and found a beautiful violet-colored, single-shouldered cocktail dress with crisscross panels. Julia didn’t recognize the name on the label, Badgley Mischka, but it was probably one of the most feminine dresses she’d ever seen.
Nestled in a shoebox next to the dress she discovered a pair of black patent leather Christian Louboutins. She looked incredulously at the red soles and the very high heels. The shoes had a pretty velvet bow on each toe, and Julia knew that they were probably worth about a month’s rent, at least. Tucked into the corner of the box, almost as an afterthought, was a small beaded handbag.
Julia felt momentarily like Cinderella.
“Do you like everything? The sales clerk put it all together. I just asked to look at purple dresses.” Julia could hear Rachel’s hesitance over the phone.
“It’s beautiful, Rachel. All of it. Wait a minute, how did you know what sizes to buy?”
“I didn’t. You looked as if you were the same size as you were in college, but I had to guess. So you’ll have to try the dress on and see if it fits.”
“But it’s too much. The shoes alone…I just can’t…”
“Julia, please. I’m so glad we’re friends again. Apart from running into you and being able to get close to Gabriel, nothing good has happened to me since my mom got sick. Please, don’t take this away from me too.”
Rachel really knows how to lay on a guilt trip.
Julia inhaled slowly. “I don’t know…”
Gabriel’s Inferno
85
“It’s not my money. It’s family money. Since Mom died…” Rachel trailed off, hoping that her friend would derive her own (erroneous) conclusion.
And that’s exactly what Julia did. “Your mom would have wanted you to spend her money on yourself.”
“She wanted everyone she loved to be happy, and that included you. And she didn’t have much of a chance to spoil you after…after what happened. I’m sure she knows we’re talking again and she’s smiling down on us. Make her happy for me, Julia.”
Now she felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes. And Rachel felt guilty for being so manipulative. Gabriel felt neither tears nor guilt and wished that the two girls would settle things already so that he could use his own damn telephone to make a call.
“Could I pay for part of it? Could I pay for the shoes — over time?”
Gabriel must have heard Julia, because she could hear his cursings and loud protestations in the background. He was muttering something about a mouse and a church. Whatever that meant.
“Gabriel! Let me handle this,” said Rachel.
Julia could hear bits and pieces of an argument that was brewing between the two siblings.
“If that’s what you want, that’s fine. (Gabriel, stop it.) But it’s our last night out together, and I want you to come with us. So wear it and join us, and we’ll work the money out later. Much later. Like when I’m back in Philadelphia. And living on social security.”
Julia sighed deeply and offered a silent prayer of thanks to Grace, who had always been good to her. “Thanks, Rachel. I owe you one. Again.”
Rachel squealed. “Gabriel! Julia is coming too!”
Julia held the phone away from her ear so she couldn’t hear her friend shrieking.
“Be ready around nine — we’ll pick you up at your place. Gabriel says he knows how to get there.”
“That’s pretty late, are you sure?’
“Please! Gabriel chose the club, and he says it doesn’t even open until nine. We’re going to be early as it is. Just spend some time getting ready, and we’ll see you tonight. You’re going to look hot!”
Sylvain Reynard
86
And with that Julia ended her phone call and began to admire her beautiful new dress. Rachel shared her mother’s generous and charitable spirit. It was too bad some of that spirit hadn’t rubbed off on Gabriel…
She wondered how she was ever going to be able to dance in those sexy and dangerous shoes. She contemplated the exciting and slightly frightening prospect of dancing with a certain Professor.
But Rachel said he doesn’t dance. Figures.
In a fit of inspiration, Julia walked over to her dresser and cautiously opened her underwear drawer. Without looking at the photograph that was hidden at the back, she quickly withdrew a small and sexy string of cloth that could charitably be termed underwear if and only if one thought that anything worn underneath one’s clothes counted as underwear.
Julia held the string in the palm of her hand (for that is how tiny it was) and meditated on it as if it were an image of the Buddha. And in a snap decision, she decided that she would wear it, hoping that like a talisman or a charm it would give her the courage and the confidence to do what she needed to do. What she wanted to do. And that was to remind Dante of how much he had lost when he abandoned her.
There was to be no more lacrimosa for Beatrice.
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