What My Flowers Said Ch. 04-06

She rolled her eyes, "Très funny."

"I think it's pronounced 'phony'."

She glowered at me, unamused, "Are you done?"

I shrugged, playing coy.

"About your commission, Penny. Your patron. Your Medici. L'illustre inconnu. Mon crisse! It's like pulling teeth with you," she clapped, "Now, be honest. Was he handsome? Hideous? A Hapsburg inbred? Did he wear epaulettes, and a sash?"

I giggled, crossing my legs, and tried to imagine Mr. Caine posing for Galkin's Portrait of Nicholas II. It was less of a stretch than I expected.

"No epaulettes. No sash," I sighed, "There's really not much more to tell," I lied, "He says he wants me to do the chapel again, but bigger. And he wants it done in a week."

"So soon?" She squinted, "Is that enough time?"

It's really not. My brow furrowed.

"It'll be fine," I glanced uneasily out the window, "But it probably wouldn't hurt to get started. Would you mind terribly?"

She eyed me once over. She always knew when I was hiding something.

"Ouais, vas-y," she pursed her lips, still suspicious, "But here, I must show you this first."

She fanned her fingers over the newspaper. Beside the cruciform letters of her crossword, I saw she'd scrawled a few lines of effeuiller la margueritein the margin.

"Here," she pointed to my horoscope in the opposite column, and twirled the text to face me, "Read this, and try to tell me it's just a coincidence."

I squinted and skimmed, fighting hard, for both our sakes, not to roll my eyes.

"Do you see? Old wounds? Opportunity? Un étranger mystérieux?" She eyed me keenly, "There is something in the stars for you, no?"

Sosotris. Cicatrix. I shook my head, digging some charcoal out of my satchel, and arranging it alongside the silverware. The fault, dear brute, is not in our scars.

"Could be..." I shrugged, spinning the paper back to her, "But what about you? I take it things went well with Serge?" I tapped her little lovesick scribbles.

That did the trick.

"Oh, you have no idea," she fell back in her chair, sighing, and laid a dreamy palm on her cheek, "I tell you, he is a stallion, Penny."

I blushed, and began sketching out the bare lines of the chapel—the sweep of its spires, the slant of its steep Norman roof—as she delved far deeper into the kinetics of their sexual chemistry than I ever in a million years would have asked for. Outside, the churchgoers were still trickling onto the sidewalk, buttoning up coats and slipping on mittens. I tried not to listen too closely, but Marie wasn't making it easy. She spared no detail, and neither did I, smearing a soft shadow beneath the bronze Virgin's breast.

"But listen—this was the craziest thing of all," she leaned in, lacing her long ivory fingers, and dropping her voice to a whisper.

I braced myself for the worst.

"He asked me to produce the show with him."

"...Wait, what?"

I quit shading mid-smudge. She beamed at me, and my mouth fell open.

"Are you serious?" I blinked, "That's amazing, Marie!"

"I know," she nodded, "I just hope he really meant it. I was going down on him when he asked."

Ugh. I wrinkled my nose, and bit my tongue. Serves you right for listening.

"You know in some cultures that's considered a binding contract," Sébastien appeared, and slid in beside us, handing off a frothy latte to Marie, and a steaming mocha in a stoneware mug to me, piled high with fresh whipped cream.

"I suppose you would know, wouldn't you?" Marie rolled her eyes, taking the mug with two hands, "This boy. I swear, he sucked his thumb until he was seven. Can you say oral fixation?"

I flushed a shade darker, mumbling my thanks to Sébastien, and praying not to get sucked into their squabble. As usual, there was no such luck.

"Do you see what I put up with, Penny?" He wrapped his arm around his sister, "This, from the girl our high school hockey team called Marie-couche-toi-là."

She jabbed him in the ribs. He pinched her on the arm. I sniggered, watching the two of them scuffle, and took a long, decadent slurp from my mocha. The cream tickled the tip of my nose.

"Okay, okay, I give," Sébastien threw up his hands, surrendering beneath his sister's swats, "Christ, are they really going to let you produce a ballet?"

"Co-produce," she grinned, basking in her victory, "But yes, I think so. And our Penny here is climbing the ladder without even taking her socks off. Or so I assume..." She pushed a Rabelaisian tongue into her cheek, "She has been very coy about the whole thing, no?"

"Like I said," my cheeks burned scarlet, "There's really nothing much to tell."

She frowned at me, and pursed her lips.

"Incroyable. One sniff of success, and she already forgets who her friends are."

"Mais non," I blew the steam off the top of my mug, "I would never forget Sébastien."

She feigned taking an arrow through her chest, and giggled.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you," he smirked.

"You know, there's a picture in here from the gallery. last night," Marie plucked up the paper, leafing through its pages, "I feel bad for standing Claude up," she glanced at me, "Did he miss me much, do you think?"

"I wouldn't worry," I bit my lip, remembering the curator's two leggy twins, "He seemed to have his hands full."

"Trés bien," she nodded, finding the article.

My jaw tightened as I spied Monsieur Boucher's name in the byline.

'Quétaine...'

His invective still rang cold and clear in my head. But the sting only lingered a moment, because there in the photo, poised right beside her scandalous painting, stood none other than Evelyn X, just as sullen and sultry as ever—but still more unsettling were the two blurred figures hovering behind her. One I recognized as the creepy man I'd bumped into by accident. But the other... My breath bated, I narrowed my eyes.

Yes, I thought. It was him. It had to be. Half-masked by a jagged shadow, and glaring dead-on into the lens. Dmitri.

I must've gone pale. Marie asked me if I'd seen a ghost. I shook my head, my stomach still twisting.

"That's him," my breath quaked. "Right there. That's the guy who hired me."

"What? Who? Where?" In unison, the siblings snatched up the paper, and buried their noses in the photo.

"Penny..." Sébastien peaked out, squinting, "You don't mean Monsieur Caine, do you?"

My eyes went wide, "You know him, too?"

"Not exactly," he scratched his head, "Know of him, is more like it. But he's stopped in here for coffee before. Always early. Never stays." His cheeks pinkened, and he flashed a sly grin, "It's not really a face you forget."

"No. No, it is not..." Marie whistled, her eyes still glued to the grainy photo, "Penny," she scolded, "you might've mentioned he looks like Nureyev."

The dancer? Or the stallion? I shrugged, trying and failing to seem nonchalant.

"I didn't think his looks mattered," I murmured, shaking my head, "What do you know about him, Sébastien?"

"Not a lot," he leaned back, "About as much as you, I imagine. Very rich. Kind of a recluse. Blue eyes. Black coffee. I don't think he's ever said much more to me than his morning order." He dropped his eyes, "Although..."

"What?" Marie gripped his arm, "What is it?"

"I uh, I guess it was a few weeks back. Just after I hung up your first canvas," he furrowed his brow, "He actually asked me if he could buy it."

He what?

I cringed as Marie slapped her brother hard across the back of the head.

"And why, cher frère, are we only hearing about this now?"

"Mea culpa," he shrugged, blocking her second blow, "I mean, I wasn't even sure she wanted to sell it."

"Neither was I..." I sighed, rubbing my eyes.

Why? Why the hell did he want them so badly? It made absolutely no sense to me.

"I think all those handstands must've damaged your brain," Marie chided, "I mean, think—Penny could have made her first sale weeks ago."

"Peut-être," Sébastien nodded, "But all's well that ends well, no? Monsieur Caine got what he wanted."

He probably always does, doesn't he? I slumped back in my seat.

"I just...I don't get it."

Marie turned, "Don't get what?"

"Him," I frowned, "this fixation of his. He was so stubborn last night," my toes curled under the table, "I don't get why he's obsessed with my painting."

"Perhaps it's not your painting that has caught his eye?" She flashed a mischievous grin.

"Very funny," I flushed.

"Je ne plaisante pas, Penny," she tossed her curls, "How do you know he isn't interested?"

"He's not. And neither am I, for that matter," I shook my head, "Gazillionaire stalker really isn't my type."

"No?" Marie leaned closer, reaching for me, "I wonder sometimes—is anyone your type, mon amie?"

"Just drop it," I frowned, "Please. Don't I have enough to worry about? I mean—" my voice faltered, and I dropped my eyes to the floor, "I just... I don't know. I wish I knew what the hell he wants from me."

"Well you could just ask him yourself," Sébastien stood up, propping his flour-dusted hands on his hips, "Isn't that him, just there?"

Say what?!

He pointed, and my blood ran cold. Marie shot up so fast her head bumped the hanging glass lampshade above us.

"Mon Dieu!" She rasped, pressing her nose to the window, "Penny, is it him?"

The lamp swung to-and-fro on its chain, casting sharp, shifting shadows all across our little corner. I blinked, and blinked again. I was sure it was an illusion; sure that the caffeine, the incense, the sacramental wine, or some toxic concoction of all three had poisoned me. Yet there he stood on the stone steps of the chapel, darkly dressed in a long coat and red scarf. The tousled hair. The brusque gait. Like his picture in the paper, there was no mistaking. It was definitely him.

My lips went cold, "...Dmitri?"

6

I couldn't believe it. I didn't believe it.

"Tabarnak," Marie read my mind, "You don't think he followed you, Penny?"

I shook my head, though admittedly it was one of the first dreadful thoughts to flash through my mind. Once reason caught up, however, it occurred to me that I might've just stumbled unwitting into the lion's den; that this was place where he went to mass.

Is that why he wants the painting? I wondered. Didn't seem the God-fearing type last night, did he? My thumbs tapped nervously on my sketchpad, and a chill moved down my spine. Did he... did he see me in there? Did he watch me kneel? My brow furrowed. Did I see him, and not know it? I stole another glimpse out the window, watching him trot down the steps.

No. Not possible. I swallowed a sigh. His cheekbones alone could cause traffic accidents. There was just no way I'd looked at those eyes again, and moved on.

He stalked across the boulevard, coming closer to the café. I kept deadly still, watching him through the window like a shark at an aquarium. His face was still unshaven, and in his dark topcoat he cut a sharp chiaroscuro against the white snow. Underneath, I could make out the broad contour of his shoulders, shifting rhythmically as he came closer and closer.

"Mon Dieu!" Marie's breath fogged the glass, "I think he's coming inside."

I tensed, realizing too late she was right. In a panic, I slouched low in my seat, trying to hide behind my sketch pad, and flipped a spoon halfway across the table. The bell tolled above the door. A gust of cold air trailed him inside. I shivered, and shrank lower. My heart pounded. My toes curled. I really don't know why he made me so nervous.

"Oh, Penny..." Marie whispered, folding her hands beneath her chin, "The photo does not do him justice."

Sébastien nodded to her and abandoned us, sauntering off to the counter. I sat by, still cringing, too petrified to look.

"What do you think," Marie nudged, "Should we wave him over?"

Don't, I glared, don't you dare.

"Best not to bother him," I murmured.

"Mmm. Too late," she shook her head, "Seems he's spotted you."

He what? I shot a frantic glance over the spiral edge of my sketchpad. He was standing at the counter, his back to both of us, talking idly to Sébastien. Marie snickered, and I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to pummel her.

"Désolée. I could not resist," she nodded, a libidinous lilt in her voice, "But the view. Ooph! I think it is worth it, no?"

My cheeks reddened, and I rolled my eyes. Truth be told though, she was right. I bit my lip, ashamed of the way I was acting; of the power his presence had over me. Men like that—the ones who fill up a room with their silence, who can make you melt, make you burn, with little more than a side-glance and half-smile—I doubt they really know how dangerous they are. I doubt they realize how easy, how devastating it can be to break a stranger's heart. Or maybe they do... I bit harder, remembering. Either way, hidden there behind my side bangs and my sketchbook, I was fairly certain I'd never met a man in my life who affected me quite so severely as Dmitri Caine.

My leer lingered longer than it should have, and soon caught Sébastien's eye. He gave me a wink, and a telltale nod. Shit, I cursed myself for staring.

Mr. Caine didn't miss a beat. He whirled, and I felt the color drain from my face as his eyes locked with mine.

"Miss Foster?"

His tone was cool, and just a little off-key. I think I'd caught him off guard.

"...Mr. Caine?" Reluctantly, I sat up, "I um, I didn't see you come in."

It was a pitiful lie, but he let it pass, stepping over to our table. A few snowflakes still dusted his coat, and his red scarf swayed like a priestly stole.

"Marie, this is—" I squirmed, turning to her for help, "This is the man I was telling you about."

"No! In the flesh?" she played along, clapping a hand to her cheek.

He nodded, laying his hand on the back of my seat, "A friend of yours?"

I shrugged, undecided at the moment, "This is Marie."

"A pleasure," his eyes narrowed.

"Tout le plaisir est pour moi, Monsieur," she out put her hand, and he shook it.

My face flushed darker, embarrassed for both of us. Whenever they met her, I was accustomed to men needing that awkward extra moment or two to undress Marie with their eyes. It actually startled me when his gaze glossed right over her, without so much as a second glance.

"I trust you made it home safely last night," he turned to me, "No more accidents?"

"No, sir."

'Sir'? Are you kidding me, Penny? I pinched my knee. Try as I might to bury them, my Mother's good southern manners had an annoying way of resurrecting themselves whenever I got nervous. He reached down, touching the top leaf of my sketchbook. A streak of black charcoal was smeared across its surface, demarcating the steeple, and the rigid weathercock at its tip.

"Already slaving away, I see," he nodded, "Very good."

My skin sizzled. It was absurd. Here he'd hardly even said 'hello,' and already I was slipping back under his spell.

"I was um, just getting started, really."

He nodded again, "So it seems."

His hand slid lower. Marie tossed her tresses, smiling wickedly ear-to-ear.

"Monsieur Caine, why don't you join us?" She patted the empty seat beside her, "Penny was just about to take a break. Isn't that right?"

Oh my God. My eyes widened. What the hell is she doing?

"S'il vous plaît," she batted her lashes, dodging discreetly as I tried to kick her under the table, "I'm dying to hear about this piece you have her working so hard on."

I'm going to kill her. I am. I'm going to murder her with a butter knife. My fist closed around the flatware, but Sébastien interceded before I could strike. He slipped in sidelong, and snatched his busybody sister by the wrist.

"Excusez-moi, sœurette," he tugged, "May I please borrow you in the kitchen?"

"For what?" She gave a puzzled look.

"Just come. C'est une question de mie ou de mort." He pulled her up, "If you will excuse us, Monsieur. I'll have your coffee out in a moment."

Et tu, Brute? I felt the knife twist in my side, realizing he had no intention of rescuing us. He'd only come to remove his meddling sister. Marie caught on, her mouth curling in a devious grin.

"Bien sûr, cher frère," she stood, "Now don't disappear on me."

They made their escape, and I glared daggers after both of them. Mr. Caine raised a quizzical brow, but said nothing.

I'm sure they both felt they were doing me a favor, leaving me alone with him. They couldn't have guessed I was still licking my wounds from last night; that any more one-on-one time with him might be enough to finish me off. I mouthed a silent plea for mercy to Marie just before she rounded the corner. She stifled a giggle, and answered me with a vulgar pantomime. I flushed crimson, cursing her in my head as the two of them vanished from view.

Once again, we were alone. Just like the night before, Mr. Caine was looming over me. Like the night before, I felt the heaviness, the gravity of his gaze, burning two blue holes through my body.

What? My jaw clenched. What the hell is he staring at?

"Forgive me," he raised a finger to the tip of his nose, "you have cream on your face, Miss Foster."

Oh, for the love of—

My cheeks seared as I buried my nose in a napkin. When I looked up again, his lip was stiff, suppressing a smile. Petite cochonne. That's what he's thinking, isn't he? Honestly, I couldn't blame him. If I hadn't been completely mortified, I might've found it funny myself. The whole ordeal after all was ridiculous. Our running into each other out of the blue—it was farcical; the pipe dream of some opium-puffing Odettian Sphinx. I could almost smell the smoke rings. Her painted petals. His lingering smile. I bit my lip, gazing up at him. It was like I'd chased the white rabbit through a snowy door into Wonderland. I was meeting the Mad Hatter for tea.

"Go on," he nodded, "While it's still hot."

I swallowed my pride, and took a sip—this one much daintier than my first. I set the mug down on my sketchbook, and sighed. His eyes didn't leave me for a moment.

"Now then, if you really were taking a break," he cocked his head, dragging out the chair opposite mine, "I think I will join you."

"Please..." I breathed.

I'm not sure whether I was offering the seat, or just begging him to leave me be. Either way, he wasn't waiting for permission. He sank down across from me, breaking his gaze only to fastidiously straighten the silverware.

"Your coffee, Monsieur," Sébastien returned with another mug, "May I fetch you two something to eat as well? Some crêpes, perhaps? I make them special this morning."

Again Sébastien winked at me, and I gave him a blistering glare. Sure. Keep playing Cupid. My fists balled. I'll tell you right where to stick your next arrow.

"Are you hungry, Miss Foster?" Mr. Caine asked coolly.

"I'm fine," I shook my head, but my stomach betrayed me with plaintive and audible growl.

His eyes flashed, and I dropped mine to my lap, more humiliated by the moment.

"She'll take the crêpes," he poured a splash of cream in his coffee.

Our traitorous waiter beamed, "Oui Monsieur. And yourself?"