What My Flowers Said Ch. 04-06

He gave his order and dismissed Sébastien, who trotted back to the kitchen looking entirely too pleased with himself. Mr. Caine stirred his coffee with a steel spoon. I watched the cream swirl, feeling my insides churn in tandem.

Is this really happening? I swallowed. Do I really have to eat with him? He raised the steaming mug to his mouth. Those lips. A quiver slipped down my spine. That kiss. He sipped, and stirred again.

"I've never much cared for sugar," he spoke idly, the grounds whispering round in an eddy, "Black treacle, if anything. Very bitter. Just a hint of sweetness," he tapped his spoon. "But you. I'd imagine you're the opposite."

I squirmed nervously in my seat, "...Meaning?"

"Chocolat," his eyes dropped to my decadent mocha, "Very sweet. A slight bite at the end," he cocked his head, studying me, "Would you say you have a sweet tooth, Miss Foster?"

'Sweet, sweet, sweet poison.' I bit my lip, clutching my mug with both hands. Nerves, unfortunately, had done nothing to calm my empty stomach, and the smell of Sébastien's crêpes sizzling in the kitchen was already making my mouth water. It was a cruel kind of torture, really. After the cream, I knew there wasn't a snowflake's chance in hell I could eat with him there, breathing right down my neck, and watching every little motion I made.

"Yes, sir..." I nodded absently, like one entranced, "I suppose I do."

He leaned closer, stroking his jaw, "If I may, Miss Foster?"

My brow furrowed as he reached over the table with his spoon, and scooped away the frothy cleft where my lips had left their impression. He tasted.

"Sweet," he smirked, "But subtle." He set the empty spoon on his saucer, "...I could learn to crave it."

My cheeks and chest burned. Sugar and spice. Pudding and pie.

"Sébastien has talent," I shrugged, trying to look less alarmed than I felt.

"He's not the only one," he nodded to the bare wall at my back, "You know it pained me to see your paintings disappear. But just imagine my pleasure," he paused, leveling his gaze, "when I found them there at the gallery. Mine for the taking," his fingers drummed across the tabletop, "That is—until you went and stole them back from me."

I dug my nails into my knee, and took another long, slow sip of my mocha. The mug was warm, sweating slightly. On the sketchpad beneath, it left a semi-circular ring over the steeple, hanging like an emaciated moon.

"You know you could've just told me it was your chapel," I bit my lip, frowning, "It would've saved me a lot of heartache last night."

His eyes narrowed, "How do you mean?"

"I was so flustered about why you wanted my oils," I sighed, "When I saw you walking out today—I don't know, it all sort of clicked."

"I see," he nodded, "Then, I'm afraid you're still mistaken."

I squinted at him, taken aback.

"Before this morning, Miss Foster, I hadn't set foot in that church in eight years."

The number hung in the air between us, a couple of osculating smoke rings.

I rubbed my eyes, more lost than ever, "But why today, then?"

He leered, running his hand languidly along the edge of his mug, "Because of you, I'd imagine."

Come again?

"Mr. Caine," my voice cracked, "You don't really mean you were following me?"

He chuckled dryly. Apparently, my terror amused him.

"Would it flatter you if I said 'yes'?"

I glared at him, and he had his answer.

"No, Miss Foster," he shook his head, still grinning, "I hadn't hoped to run into you. But I'm glad that I did."

I crossed my arms, still wary, "So, what? You just woke up and thought, 'Hey, I'm feeling kinda Catholic today'? Let's head to the chapel?"

"Pas vraiment," he chuckled again, and straightened his knife, "I think your oils must've stirred me. Blew the dust off a memory or two. But understand," he leaned toward me, "I'm a godless man, Miss Foster. I worship beauty. Nothing else."

Blasphéme, I bit my lip, Monsieur D'Albert. Does that make Evelyn his La Maupin?

"Beauty..." I breathed, "Is that why you collect art, Mr. Caine?"

His eyes flashed, "Among other things. Yes."

"Well, I still don't get it," I glanced down, hooking my ankles around the legs of my chair, "My stuff isn't beautiful. Far from it. And I think you know that."

"A beautiful thing," he growled, "is seldom perfect. Isn't that what they say, Miss Foster?"

He looked me over again, lingering on the little on the rip in my jacket. The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end. Like the night before, some deep, primeval part of my brain was whispering; warning me to get up, and run.

I shrugged it off, trying too hard to look calm, and aloof.

"...I think Phidias would disagree."

"Fair enough," he grinned, "Perhaps beauty is in the 'phi' of the beholder."

I rolled my eyes, so high I was afraid they might get stuck. Still, I couldn't help cracking a smile.

"That's not as clever as you think."

He touched his temple, "It doesn't matter what I think," his tone dropped, "It doesn't matter why I went to mass. And it doesn't matter why I bought your oils. I'm only a gaze, Miss Foster. A pair of eyes, devouring," he raised his mug up to his lips. "What does matter—at least to me," he sipped, "is what's pushing you to paint," his eyes narrowed. "You could've picked anything. Anything at all. So tell me," he nodded, "why the Bon Secours?"

Why? I knitted my brow. The question caught me off guard. "I don't know, I um," I stammered, "I just like the looks of it, I guess. I mean, isn't that what 'beauty's' all about, Mr. Caine?"

"Seven times," he shook his head, setting his coffee aside, "Seven. Smacks of wiederholungszwang, no?"

Gesundheit. I grimaced as he lifted his spoon again, and stirred. He had a strange, unsettling way of using his hands without looking at what he was doing. I think he probably could have sharpened a knife blindfolded. But for me, all this sustained eye contact was getting tricky. If I'd tried to follow suit, I probably would've wound up with a spilled mocha, and some third-degree burns in my lap.

"Well..." my foot tapped nervously under the table, "well, I um—"

"Stop that," he quit stirring.

My brows arched, "Stop what?"

"Saying um," he cocked his head, "You're a sharp girl, Miss Foster. I can see your wheels spinning. Your complications—like a Swiss watch," he leaned in again, even closer, "I want to hear you speak your mind. And I don't want to hear you say 'um' every time I ask a question. Understood?"

The hell? I glared at him, and a cold sweat beaded on the back of my neck. I knew very well I had a few nervous tics. It was all part of the blushing, shuddering, stuttering Penelope Foster circus fire. But I was pretty sure it was nothing I could control. For real, my jaw clenched, does he just get off on humiliating me?

"I said, am I understood, Miss Foster?" He repeated, his words curving off into a growl.

I nodded stiffly, steaming, but too nervous to cross him.

"Now," he pressed, "about the chapel..."

You're kidding, right?

"Right..." I ground my molars together, "Well I—" carefully, I caught myself, and excised the um, "...I guess it reminds me of a church back home."

I heard the words leave my lips, and honestly until that moment, I don't think I'd ever consciously realized it before. Apart from its color—and of course the French Gothic embellishments, which it wore like a lurid bridal parure—the Bon-Secours was a near doppelgänger of the little seaside chapel where my oldest brother got married. I was barely thirteen at the time. It was my first time as a bridesmaid, instead of a Stabian flower girl.

Bouquet of violets. I sniffed. Face in my flowers. 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.' Mademoiselle O... Wasn't just your brother, was it?

"Back home," Mr. Caine's voice cut through the curtain, "The States?"

"In Nags Head," I nodded, wiping my eyes, "We spent summers there. The rest of the year, it was Asheville."

"And your family's still there?"

"Most of them," I shifted, "the east coast, anyways."

"What brought you to Montreal?"

"School," I answered, maybe a bit too quickly, "Just school. I was studying Art History at McGill."

"Was?"

"Was," I frowned, mon crisse, he asks a lot of questions, "I dropped out of my Masters program."

"Why?"

"So I could sit in cafés, and paint pictures of chapels."

He chuckled dryly again, flashing his wolfish, white teeth. I, meanwhile, was still perched on pins and needles.

"Touché," he touched his lips, half-hiding his grin, "And did you have a favorite Masterat school?" He nodded, "Botticelli? Or El Greco? Your oils reminded me a little of Les Nabis."

"No," My brow furrowed, "...I don't think so. I can't idolize an artist," I sank my incisors into my lip, "I love the paintings. I pity the painters."

His face darkened, and his wry smile seemed to fade.

"Fascinating," he cocked his head, "Explain."

"I don't know," I squinted, "it's just—it seems like the better they were, the more they suffered. Like van Gogh. Kahlo. Even O'Keefe."

"And yet," his tone was stiff and solemn, "you still want to paint."

"Touché," I gave him back his lopsided smirk, "But I'm not that good. So I shouldn't have to worry."

"But you could be," he bent closer, "You could be great. If you're not afraid, Miss Foster," His words chilled me head-to-toe, "Are you afraid to suffer for what you want?"

"...no," I murmured, dropping my eyes to the floor, "I think I'm afraid not to."

Neither of us spoke for a moment. He breathed a low, rustling sigh, and for probably the first time since sitting down with me, he shut his eyes. It was a strange and pregnant silence. What it was carrying though, I couldn't begin to say.

You shouldn't have said that, Penny. I bit my lip harder. Why did you say it?

"So you're staying, then," at last he spoke, his tone more barbed than before, "How? Your study permit will expire."

"I've got a job," my toe tapped, "If I keep my nose clean, I think I'll be fine."

"You're staying illegally," he nodded, "Is it in your nature to ignore the rules?"

I shrugged, and shrank lower, "Not really. I'm kind of a goody two-shoes, Mr. Caine."

"A good Catholic girl?"

I rolled my eyes, "That's an oxymoron."

"Strict Mother? A distant Father?" He frowned, "He was the disciplinarian, I take it?"

I swallowed, but didn't nod. I didn't need to. Suppose next he'll want to know if he spanked you, Penny. My toe tapped faster. I was trying to stay civil. I really was. But he wasn't making it easy on me, and this line of inquiry was getting awfully intimate.

"He tried not spoil me, if that's what you mean."

"I don't doubt it. But I have to ask," his eyes narrowed, "How do you imagine your Father would feel, Miss Foster, knowing his good little girl was living outside the law?"

Good little girl? I shook my head, simmering, "Why don't you ask me again in a few weeks, Mr. Caine. I'll be a proper delinquent by then."

He let it alone. He must have sensed the venom in my voice. But still, he wasn't done with me. He sipped his coffee, eyeing me coolly.

"So no longer a student," he scratched his chin, undaunted, "Are you still living on campus?"

"I moved out," I crossed my arms, guarding myself. "I run the register at a little bric-à-brac shop up in Saint-Michel."

"Saint-Michel," he set his cup down with a clack, "That can be a rough neighborhood."

I shrugged, "Around the edges, maybe."

"You live alone?"

My brow furrowed. Is that any of your damn business?

"I have a roommate," I murmured.

"A man?"

My stomach dropped. It took me a moment to decide whether or not to lie.

"I'm staying with Marie," I said softly, "I mean, at least until I get up on my feet."

"I see," he nodded, folding his hands on the tabletop, "And do you feel safe where you are now?"

I never feel safe, Mr. Caine. I shifted nervously.

"My friend grew up there. She's never had any major problems."

"She's not the one who concerns me," He leveled his gaze, "Are you telling me there's no one who looks after you, Miss Foster?"

Seriously. I swallowed, has he never heard of 'boundaries' before? I shuddered, remembering how forward he'd been at the gallery; how he'd cornered me, and kissed my hand—how blunt he'd been about my scar. And I remembered Peter's ominous warning about him. Should I be telling him all this? My throat tightened. Should I be talking to him at all?

"...I don't see how it's any of your business, Mr. Caine," I breathed coolly, doing my best not to shrivel up under his stare, "but I have five older brothers. Not one of them thinks I need'looking after' up here."

For a second, he was silent. I winced, waiting for him to rebuke me again. But it never came. Instead he leaned back, letting me breathe, and rubbed the stubble along his jaw. Again, he was grinning—as if enmity amused him.

"You're the youngest?"

I nodded cautiously.

"Only daughter?"

I nodded again.

"And your brothers," he arched a brow, "Were they protective of you growing up?"

Good Lord. I almost snorted. Should I just ask if he wants a memoirs instead of a painting?

I thought back about all the bruises, grass stain, and skinned knees from being shoved around by my brothers; all the caterpillars they'd dropped in my hair while I was drawing, and that time they tied me to the crooked sycamore behind our house with my jump rope, and left me there, cussing and spitting til well after dusk. They were rough enough with me. But back then, I confess—I liked any kind of attention over being ignored. I needed it. Like water, or air. And it wasn't until later, when I started 'developing'—which for me, was awfully early—when they suddenly quit roughhousing with me, quit barging in on me in the bathroom to brush their teeth, and pretty much quit talking to me altogether, that I had to go looking for attention elsewhere.

Suppose that's how you got yourself into this mess. I shivered, and tensed my arm. Did they protect you then, Penny?

"No," I dropped my eyes, answering, "I, um... I can't say that they were, Mr. Caine."

He let my lapse slide, eyeing me coldly.

"There's a rip in your shoulder, Miss Foster."

I almost choked. For a moment, I thought must be reading my mind. But then he nodded to my coat, and I breathed a bit easier.

"Right," my fingers quivered as I pinched the frayed edges shut, "Meant to sew that up."

"See that you do," his tone was forbidding, "You're exposed enough as it is."

I squinted, wondering what exactly he meant. But before I could think up some snide retort, Sébastien returned, sliding a steaming pair of plates between us. I tried to catch him beneath the table, desperate to bring someone in as a buffer, but he smiled and slipped past me, backing away with a silly and obsequious bow. I gritted my teeth, cursing him and his sister.

It didn't help that the food, for all my fury and frustration, smelled amazing. Part of me wanted to grab forkful, and dig in. But the asymmetry of our meals was too embarrassing. My platter, piled high with a trio of chocolate-laced crepes, each folded and stuffed with caramelized apples, looked downright gluttonous next to his two austere slices of rye, and pair of pale poached eggs. He shook the salt and lifted his fork. I left my eyes and hands in my lap.

"Eat," his voice was soft, but strict, "I know you're hungry."

I shook my head, "I think I've lost my appetite, sir."

"Have you lost your sweet tooth as well?" He pierced an egg with the tine of his fork. The gold yolk bled out across his plate. "Go on," he nodded, "You're not allowed to starve, Miss Foster," he tore off a bit of toast, "Not on my watch."

Wheels turning. Swiss watch. I sighed, surrendering, and impaled a little slice of apple. I took a nibble from and shut my eyes, humming to myself as the soft flesh rolled over my tongue. The taste was even sweeter than the smell.

He grinned at me wryly, "you approve?"

I gulped, my face flushing scarlet.

"Like I said..." I dropped my eyes again, "Sèbastien has talent."

"Like I said," he quaffed his coffee, "He's not the only one."

I squirmed, feeling the full weight of his gaze.

"Which reminds me," he nodded, "I imagine you'll be needing some space to paint. You can't possibly have space in your friend's apartment."

"It's not a problem," I glanced away, "I um, I made some arrangements with Peter."

His brow darkened, "The boy from last night?"

I nodded, not at all sure why I'd lied to him. And maybe it was just my imagination, but I could swear I saw a sneer flicker over his face.

"Just as well," he shook his head, "One less thing for you to worry about."

I shrugged, still shaken.

"...Or perhaps there's still too much on your plate, Miss Foster?" He stabbed himself one of my apples.

More puns? A smirk crept over my lips. A Demon's hobby.

He popped it in his mouth, wiggling his brows at me à la Groucho Marx. I giggled, in spite of myself. So cool and cunning Monsieur Caine can play the clown, as well?

"You have a very pretty laugh, Miss Foster," he swallowed and sipped, "Like a bell."

My cheeks reddened, and my toes curled beneath the table as he reached to steal another apple. It's strange. Somehow with food in front of him he seemed less predatory, less lupine—like a shaggy black dog gnawing his bone, instead of the wolf he was before, stalking me through the dark. And though it scarcely stopped him from asking his questions, at least now it was starting to feel more like a conversation, and less like a Spanish tribunal.

He must've asked me about everything. I answered as best I could between bites, while Sébastien stealthily topped off our mugs. He wanted to know what I thought of Camille Claudel, and the caves at Lascaux; about books, and honeybees; which flowers were my favorite (I didn't dare answer honestly), and the name of each pet I'd had growing up. Our two late dachshunds, 'Bromide' and 'Box,' won a smile, while 'Wilbur' the sugar glider made him chuckle aloud.

I settled, feeling warmer now, fuller, and a little less on edge. I remember thinking how easy it would be to get lost talking to him. And before I could remind myself to blink, a whole hour and a half had slipped by.

Our plates laid between us, cold and half-cleaned. I tucked a few strands of hair behind my ear. I wondered. Perhaps I had him all wrong from the start. Perhaps he wasn't too nosy, too pushy, too imperious. Maybe he's just curious, Penny. Maybe you're just too touchy about the questions you can't answer. And there's an awful lot of those, aren't there? Still, I couldn't help noticing that each time I tried to reciprocate—to ask him something about himself—his answers seemed even more guarded and evasive than mine.

He reached over again, plucking a last little morsel from my plate.

"You know I once knew a girl who was deathly allergic to apples," he held his fork up, rolling it over in the light.

'Plena mujer. Manzana carnal.' I bit my lip. She'd make a fine wife for Adam.

"Do you have any allergies, Miss Foster?"

"Penicillin," I gave a lopsided shrug. Again, his interest in Penny Foster minutia seemed to know no bounds, "And nickel, sort of. I just get hives."