What My Flowers Said Ch. 04-06

He nodded, "Ever been hospitalized?"

"Once," I glanced away, "...Not for allergies."

He eyed me again, his gaze drifting down to my shoulder, and the gaping rip in its seam. I squirmed and crossed my arms, growing nervous again as he stared.

Seriously, I stewed, how could any of this possibly interest him? Why the hell is he wasting his time with you, Penny?

All at once, my nerves were on the verge of boiling over again. My foot tapped. My eyes darted—looking at anything, anywhere but into his. By sheer chance they landed on the newspaper, the corner of which was still peaking from beneath my sketchbook. I clenched my teeth and slid it out, exposing the photo of him and Evelyn X.

"That's you," I breathed, pointing.

He nodded but said nothing, and sank his teeth into the apple.

"Her..." I tapped, pressing harder, "How do you know her?"

He glared down, "Evie?"

I flushed crimson, "I saw you walking together last night," I dropped my eyes, "You two. Are you close?"

He set down his knife and slid back.

"Is there a reason you want to know?"

My brow furrowed, "Is there a reason you don't want to answer?"

He glared back a moment, and sighed.

"We were close, once. Yes," his eyes narrowed, as if peering straight through the photo, then raised his piercing gaze back to me. "I was married to her, Miss Foster."

I felt my throat tighten, and a half dozen knots winding tight in my stomach.

"I see," I murmured, "Then, the 'X' in her name?"

"After Gautreau," he shook his head, "For publicity. It's nothing to do with us."

'Us...' The knots wound tighter.

"But allow me to be clear about something," he pushed the paper aside, reading my mind again, "My relationship with Evelyn—if you can call it that," his eyes blazed, "these days, it's no different from any other artist who interests me," he nodded darkly, "Yourself included, Miss Foster."

No different from you and your ex-wife?

I frowned, "Forgive me. I find that very hard to believe."

"Be that as it may..." he bent closer, "it's true. I do what I can to support her work. Her creativity. I take pleasure, on occasion, in her company," he cocked his head, "I should like to do the same with you."

I dropped my eyes; my jaw locked tight as a vice.

"But, why?"

His brow creased, but he made no answer.

"Honestly," I rubbed my eyes, coming at last to the end of my rope, "Why do you want me to paint for you? Why not her? Why not anybody? I mean, I'm—I'm nobody. I'm nothing. I'm—"

"I told you once," he cut me off, "Why has nothing to do with it," his tone was strict. "Now I've given you a task, Miss Foster. You'll either complete it to my satisfaction, or you won't. The rest is rhetoric."

I shivered. The frost on his breath dropped my blood ten degrees. But I shook it off. I had to. I knew if I didn't push now, I'd probably never get another chance at knowing.

"I'm sorry. It's just..." my voice felt thin, and frail, "You know, you being here, and asking me all these questions," I stammered, "I guess I just thought—"

"Please," he silenced me, raising his hand, "I didn't mean to mislead you," his eyes flashed, "Suffice to say I find you intensely interesting, Miss Foster. And I prefer to know the people with whom I conduct my business."

I stared back at him blankly.

"...Business?"

"Do you believe you're a bad investment, Penelope?" He nodded, leveling his gaze, "I'm not in the habit of making bad investments."

I felt a venomous sting in my ears.

"Penny," I corrected him, and his lips curled into a wry and roguish grin.

"Penny..." he agreed, "I have a suspicion. I think you have a very precious, natural talent, Penny. And what I want from you—what I really want," he lowered his voice, "is to find out if I'm right."

I shut my eyes, blushing even deeper than before. Back then, I thought it was just flattery. I hadn't the slightest inkling of what was really looking for—of what was really going on in his head.

"Well, um, thanks... I guess," I breathed.

His hackles rose.

"I mean, thank you," I caught myself, "Mr. Caine."

He nodded, draining his mug for the second time. A text message flashed on his phone. 'SOS,' I read. He glanced down and cleared it, then inspected his watch.

Swiss. I bit my lip, lingering on its soft leather strap. I can see your wheels spinning, Penny.

"...Somewhere to be?" I murmured.

He scowled, slipping an excessive sum onto the table, and nodded off to one side.

"I'm afraid so," he shifted, "Anyways, I've kept you from your work long enough."

He rose up, glaring down at me darkly.

"Six days, Penny. Do you have what you need?"

I shrugged, taken aback by his sudden exit. I wondered what the message might've meant. I wondered—I wondered who might've sent it.

"Yes, sir," I breathed, "I think I do."

"Good girl," he set his hand on my shoulder, "Get to."

A warm throb moved through me, emanating from beneath his palm. Another smirk flickered over his face, more fleeting than the last. Strange to say, I know, but it was almost bittersweet to see him go. The rationalist in me was relieved to escape his scrutiny. But the masochist—she could've talked to him all day and night, if only to listen to his voice a little longer.

He swung his heavy coat over his shoulders, stalking back toward the door. There was a creak of hinges, a bell's knell, a gust of cold air, and he was gone. The spell was broken.

I breathed out, feeling winded, and puffed out my cheeks. I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath. His empty mug sat on the table, a long black stripe staining its exterior. My teeth clenched. It's hard to explain, but it felt as if at any moment, he might to return to reclaim it; to measure my progress, and chastise me if it didn't please him. It was like he was still there with me. Watching. Waiting. Biding his time.

'I'm just a gaze, Miss Foster. A pair of eyes, devouring.'

I shivered, and snatched up my charcoal, fully intending to sketch. But then I spotted something strange. There on the newspaper photo—somehow without my even noticing—he'd drawn in two devil horns on his head, and a little grey halo over Evelyn. I shook my head, wondering how and when he'd done it—and why. I squinted. Scribbled neatly next to the photo, he'd left a cryptic quotation in dusty black cursive.

'Comme une saison en enfer, Penny. J'ai assis la Beauté sur mes genoux... Je l'ai injuriée.'

I read, and reread, hoping if I stared long enough, the letters might rearrange themselves into a message that made some sort of sense. The words, at least, I knew vaguely. It's Baudelaire, isn't it? Or maybe Verlaine? But what he meant by them, why he'd left them for me, was a mystery.

My head was swimming. Whatever dim hope I'd had that seeing him again could help clear the air, could bring the previous evening into focus, had shattered. I didn't have any more answers. Instead, he'd left me with nothing but a thousand new questions, each more splintered and jagged than the last.

No. It's Rimbaud. Finally it came back to me. 'Je est un autre,'I gulped, 'Je me suis enfui.'

I flipped the paper over, not wanting Marie or Sébastien to see as they hurried back to the table, foaming at the mouth for details. On the back page was a grim headline about some young girl they'd fished from the river. Someone who jumped from the Jacques Cartier bridge. I shuddered, and an icy chill moved through my chest. 'Thirty-two feet per second per second.' I kept sketching, smearing swathes of black dust over the page, as the giddy siblings reclaimed their seats.

'Jadis.' That's how it starts, isn't it? Did Icarus drown?