What My Flowers Said Ch. 14-16

"You don't mean," I breathed, "You mean you two haven't?"

She shook her head.

"Close..." she sighed, "But no. I so wanted it to be him."

Damn it, my brow tensed. Where the hell is Marie? I searched the crowd again. Hands down, she would've made for far better counsel in this area than me. I had no fucking clue what to say. Cècile, meanwhile, looked like she was about to shatter.

"Look..." I murmured, testing the waters, "I um, I know Peter seems like a great guy. And he is," I jutted my jaw to one side, "But guys—I mean, even great ones," I swallowed, "They hurt you, you know? One way or another. Whether they mean to or not," my stomach churned, "they can't help it. They're either swine, or they're dogs," I shook my head, grasping around for the words, "You can't ask them to be anything else."

I glanced up. Her eyes were still welling. But she'd stopped shaking at least, and was looking at me with a kind of ludicrous gratitude.

"Can I, um... can I tell you a secret?" I bent closer, wondering why I was still talking, "Something no one else in the city knows?"

She dabbed her eyes, and nodded.

"I've been in love before," my voice quavered, "...I was married, actually, when I was your age."

She set down her tissue, and I dropped my eyes.

"Vraiment?"

I nodded tensely, bracing myself, "Just a few years ago," the words felt like bubbling tar on my tongue, "I mean, it's not like I had a choice, really. But still..." my breath burned, "I um, I really thought I'd spend the rest of my life with him." I swallowed, "so I sort of know how you feel..."

Her eyes dilated, "No choice?"

Why? Why the hell are you telling her this, Penny? I squirmed, digging my nails into my knees, and trying hard not to slide down the chasm. Why are you doing this to yourself?

"Our families. They're both really Catholic," I bit my lip hard. I tasted blood, "And I um, I was... you know."

She stared at me, glassy-eyed. Please, I begged, don't make me say it. I breathed in, and breathed out.

"...I was pregnant, Cécile."

Her lips split.

"Mon Dieu," she rasped softly, "but what happened?"

I couldn't speak. My words weren't working. And though I knew by the bleariness of my vision there were tears in my own eyes now, I felt nothing. I was hollow inside. I was empty.

"I, um..." I bit harder, my voice trembling like a reed, "I lost it. About a month after the wedding."

She shook her head, reaching to stroke my hand. I didn't let her. I slipped back, crossing my arms tight across my chest.

"I'm so sorry..." she said softly.

I shrugged, taking a tissue for myself.

"It happens, right?"

'One-in-five before twenty-four weeks.' That's what Doctor Foster told me. I felt my blood begin to simmer, and sear. Doesn't mean anything. It's just a number, Penelope. Thirty-two feet per second per second. Did Icarus die when he hit the water? 'Those are pearls that were his eyes.'

"But your husband," she nodded, and I cringed at the word, "He took care of you, yes?"

"He tried," I crushed the tissue in my fist, "At first, anyways."

She cocked her head.

"You know how it goes. Time passed. He moved on," I shook my head, "...I didn't."

She stared at me, silent.

"He um, he blamed me for it... The marriage—felt like I'd tricked him into it," I tried to smile through the tears, and a hot knife sliced along my arm, "He started pulling away. He got cold," my eyes fell, "Then he got cruel."

She blinked twice, "...You left him?"

I swallowed, and squeezed my shoulder.

"Doesn't matter," I murmured coldly, ending it, "My point is, way back when it started, I had this whole perfect love-story laid out in my head," I shut my eyes, "The high school romance. The big, white wedding. Our little cottage by the sea. Our little girl, making castles in the sand..." Something wretched inside me, and I fought off a wave of nausea. "I m-mean, for so long... For so, so long—I'd have given anything to keep it," I choked, "to keep him. I thought if I lost him, I lost myself. I'd thought I'd lost everything."

I shook my head, and shut my eyes tight. My throat burned with the smell of salt. The smell of smoke. White-hot needles. Flames, and rain. The cold salt-spray. I'm not sure how long I stayed silent. But it felt like half an eternity.

"What was his name?" She gazed at me softly, a morbid curiosity in her eye.

I dug my nails deeper.

"Jason..." my voice quaked, "His name was Jason."

She nodded, embarrassed for asking, and fell quiet.

"Look..." I breathed, fighting to shake loose from the shadows, "You think Peter's perfect. You might even think you can't live without him. But you can..." I leaned back, taking long, deep gulp from my glass, "And even if you decide you don't want to," I swallowed, "you've got nothing worry about from me."

She smiled, her cheeks still pink and glistening.

"Merci," she whispered, "You are very kind to me, Miss Penny."

I let it go.

"Pourtant," she wiped her eyes dry, "I do not think you understand," she shook her head, "Not truly."

My brow furrowed.

"That flyer he posted—back when I first started posing for with him," she pursed her lips, "It was very, very specific..."

I wrinkled my nose, and she glanced away, her shoulders tense and trembling.

"He asked for pale skin. For dark hair. Light eyes. One hundred fifty to one fifty-five centimeters. He even had weights, and measurements, and a little sketch of his ideal face. I thought it was fate at first—how he described me to a tee," she dropped her eyes, "But now..." She stiffened, mirroring me, "I think the only reason he picked me, Miss Penny—the only reason he keeps me around," she sighed, "is because I remind him of you."

I felt a chill cut through me. That can't be true. Can it? I eyed her up and down, trying to see what she saw, and glared at myself in her bright, glassy eyes. Mariana at the mirror. Mariana in the South. I shook my head. Double, double, toil and trouble. Amor sacro y amor profano. La Maja desnuda, la Maja vestida. Jan van Eyck, Bathsheba bathing. I bit my lip. Which hand held the cloth?

I felt dizzy. I felt sick. I tried to stand, thinking I'd splash some water on my face, but as soon as I started to move, two long slender arms wrapped round my throat, choking me like Laocoön's serpents.

"Penny!" Marie squealed, "Oh, I'm so happy you came!" She beamed at me, "And look who I found prowling outside."

Peter stood behind her. I hugged her back with one arm, avoiding his gaze as he slid in beside Cécile.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I murmured bitterly, "...So are you going tell me what we're all doing here?"

"Soon," she plopped down, still grinning like a loon, "I need you here for this. Serge and I have big news."

"Tabarnak," Sébastien slinked over, tailing them, "You're not pregnant, are you?"

Cécile caught my eye nervously, and I shook my head, begging her to be silent.

"Mais non," Marie sneered, "nothing like that."

"Dieu merci," he clapped, "then what are drinking?"

"Something strong, I think..." Cécile sniffed, swirling the ice in her glass.

"I like where your head's at," he winked.

Marie leapt to her feet.

"We'll grab this round," she tugged my arm, "Penny, help me carry?"

I let her tow me off, grateful for an excuse to get away from the table. I could feel Peter's eyes on me as I made my escape. A rowdy crowd had gathered up around Serge. Marie blew him a kiss as we skirted the edge to the counter.

"Alright, spill it," I nodded, flagging down the girl with the half-shaved head, "What's this all about? You said you needed my help."

"Okay," she smiled, side-eyed, playing coy, "Can you keep a secret?"

Apparently not. I massaged my temples, still in a fog after my confession to Cécile.

"Sure," I raised my right hand, "with wine as my witness."

She giggled.

"It's about the show," her voice dropped, "It's big."

About the show? Is she serious? I rolled my eyes, though Marie didn't seem to notice.

"So listen, it was just a few days ago," she tossed her hair, grinning ear-to-ear, "I'd just met up with my tarot reader."

Oh, Lord. My nostrils flared. Here we go...

"I drew 'le mat' last. And the woman, said to me, 'your destiny waits beneath dust, Mademoiselle.' Très mystérieux, no?" She pantomimed the whole thing for me, flailing her arms, "She said if I was not careful, I could walk past by my fate without noticing," She shook her head, "Naturally, I was terrified."

"Naturally," I struggled to listen, watching the girl stir our drinks.

"So that's what I was thinking about when I passed that old theatre up in the Village," her voice fell even lower, down to a mousy, sparkling whisper, "You know the one on Saint Catherine? With the Art Deco doors, and that curved brass marquee?"

I nodded. I knew the place. And I was pretty sure it had been boarded since the reign of King George.

"There were some men outside, surveying. I thought perhaps someone was planning to fix the place up," she shrugged, "I thought, what a wonderful spot for our first show, you know?"

I tilted my head, starting to worry about where she was headed.

"I stopped and talked to them," she pursed her lips, "But they just wanted to tear it down. Make way for more condos. A parking garage, peut-être. They said the owner was selling on the cheap—that nobody needed another dusty old theatre," she shook her head, "And that's when it hit me."

"Marie..." my eyes narrowed, "What did you do?"

She smirked slyly, reaching in her purse, and laid a long brass key on the counter.

"It's ours," she breathed, "Serge and I. We just signed the contracts down in Toronto."

My jaw dropped.

"Y-you... you bought a theatre?" I stared, "I mean, how? Why?"

The drinks arrived, and she snatched up a glass.

"Serge had a nest egg saved up," she beamed, no longer bothering to suppress her glee, "Of course he needed some persuasion."

She winked and clinked her glass with mine. I shuddered, praying she'd spare me the details.

"You think I am crazy, don't you?" Her eyes danced over to the crowd around Serge.

À la folie, pas du tout. I bit my lip.

"Yes," I sipped, "yes, I do. But you're also really brave."

She smiled and sighed, "I'm not a fool. I put every penny I have into this. The place is falling apart, and I'm absolutely petrified... But I am thrilled, as well," She flagged down the girl again, and had her pour us two little shots of pastis, "Serge wants to throw a big fundraiser for the restorations. He's announcing it tonight." She slipped the key back in her purse, "We'll have to move up the premiere, too, just to make the next payment," she swallowed, "We're opening the week before Christmas."

Christmas? My brow furrowed, "Is that enough time?"

"Qui sait?" She shrugged, though her face looked tense.

"Well," I murmured, "I mean if there's any way I can help—"

A beguiling smile crept over her lips.

"So funny you should ask," she handed me a shot glass, and I scrunched my nose at the milky-green liqueur, "We were going to have Peter design the set. But with us opening early now," she nodded, "He won't have the time to do it alone."

Oh, no. No, no, no. She toasted, and tossed her back. I tried my best to choke it down.

"Me and Peter?" I coughed, glancing back to the table, "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

She squinted at me, "Oh no?"

I got a cold, sinking feeling in my chest. I didn't want to lie to her. But I also couldn't tell her the truth.

"It's just—you know I'm already so busy with this painting. And Madame really needs me down at the shop," I dropped my eyes, "I don't think I can do it, Marie."

"Je t'en prie, Penny," she reached for my hand, "I don't want to do this without you."

I clenched my teeth. You do owe her, Penny. About a thousand times over.

"Well. I mean—I don't know. I guess we'll see..." I stammered, "Either way, I couldn't start til next week."

"Ah, Dieu merci!" She squeezed me tight, "What I would do without you, mon ange?"

I frowned, hugging her back. Well, you'd have a window in your bathroom, for one. I don't know why I couldn't just come clean, and tell her. More alone time with Peter was about the second-to-last thing my nerves needed. I guess I felt guilty. Marie had done so much for me, and never asked for anything in return.

"OK," she grinned, gathering up the rest of the glasses, "Let's get back. Serge will be making his speech soon."

I stepped back, taste of bitter anise still lingering on my tongue, and with an swirl of giddiness, I realized I'd had too much too fast.

"You guys go on," I rubbed my eyes, "I should probably just call it a night."

"Mais non!" she spun to me, pouting, "So soon?"

I nodded, glancing anxiously back to the table, "Early morning. Lots of work."

She traced my gaze, "Je vois. And this would have nothing to do with Peter's little pixie over there, would it?"

"Be nice," I gave a weak grin, "And no. I just need to stay focused... If I don't finish that canvas on time, I think Mr. Caine might have me flogged."

She flashed a lascivious smirk, and cracked her whip.

"Say no more. But you will tell me everything tomorrow, yes? I am dying hear more about Mister Medici."

Where would I even begin? I clenched my jaw, and nodded, amazed she was letting me off so easily. We hugged goodbye. I buttoned my coat and pulled up my collar, doing my best not to stumble as I made for the door. Christ. What the hell was in those drinks?

The cold air woke me up a little. So did the dismal shadow of the chapel, looking overhead. I hurried. I was already around the corner, crunching over the ice to the station when I heard someone calling my name. I froze in my tracks. It was Peter, huffing a little as he jogged to catch up.

"Hey! What the hell, Pens?" he panted, "Just gonna duck out without saying goodnight?"

I shrugged, "I mean, I'll be back over tomorrow."

"Well, yeah but," he slipped his hands in his pockets, and swept his boot through the snow, "...I mean, you're kinda the whole reason I came out tonight."

I bit my lip, blushing, "Sorry to disappoint."

"C'mon. Just one more drink," he pressed, offering his arm, "I owe you one. Remember?"

"Have one with Cécile," I shrank back, shivering, "You owe her one, too," I turned, "...I think she's in love with you."

"Pens," he scratched his head, "C'mon, don't be like that."

I blushed a shade deeper, and summoned up something resembling a smile for him.

"Some other time. Promise," against my better judgement, I reached out to squeeze his hand, "Goodnight, Peter."

He sighed, and stepped back, his brown eyes still begging.

"G'night, Pens..." his voice was tense, "Stay warm."

I nodded. And without a word more, he leaned in, laying a soft peck on my lips.

I could've stopped him. I could've ducked away like I did last time. But I didn't. I let him have it. I told myself it was harmless. And I wondered—I wondered what, if anything, I supposed to feel. He was still standing in that spot when I reached the train station. I glanced back and saw him there, his hands in his pockets. The snow in his hair. Watching me—just watching me walk away.

I sighed. It was almost eleven by the time I got back. I fumbled for my keys, praying not to repeat the other night's fiasco, and collapsed on the sofa as soon as I got inside. I breathed deep. My eyes fluttered. I started to doze off, still dressed. I think it was an issue of inertia. Physically moving, up to then, was pretty much the only thing still keeping my body awake.

'G'night, Pens.' I touched my lips where he kissed me, still numb from the frigid air. 'Stay off your toes... Elevation and ice.' I shivered, nestling in, and raised my ankle onto the arm of the sofa. You're going to have nightmares, Miss Penny. I sank deeper. They hurt you. Whether they mean to or not. That's all.

There was a rap on the door, and my eyes shot open. I had no idea how long I'd been out—or if I'd even really slept. Marie's bedroom was still empty. Her light was off.

I smirked, creeping over to the peephole. Perhaps I'm not the only one who loses her keys. I peered through, expecting to spot her there, shivering and shaking her fist at the door.

But it wasn't Marie. My brow creased. It was a tall, narrow woman in her mid-forties, maybe, with platinum blonde hair and expensive-looking pumps. On her shoulder, she carried a satchel on a thin leather strap. She didn't look dangerous, by any means. But she also didn't look like she belonged on a Saint-Michel door stoop in the middle of the night. I cracked the door.

"Can I help you?"

"Penelope Foster?" Her lips were tight.

I nodded to one side, feeling leery.

"Diane Blair. I represent Estoty," she edged closer, "Monsieur Caine has asked me to meet with you. Is this an opportune time?"

He what? My toes curled. Right now?

"It's a little late, isn't it?" I frowned.

She nodded, "It's time-sensitive, Madame. We've been trying to track you down." She unfastened her satchel, and began rooting through some briefs, "Would it be alright if we spoke inside?"

I swallowed nervously. Track me down? The whole thing seemed awfully suspicious, and I hesitated before releasing the latch.

"Sure... I guess," I drew the door open slowly, "Just make it quick. My roommate will be home soon."

She scraped her heels on the mat, and stepped in. I watched anxiously as she set some pale folders on the table.

"Tea?" I offered, and she shook her head.

"You were arrested on Monday. Is that correct?"

It didn't really sound like a question. I nodded, feeling more on edge by the moment.

"There won't be any charges. We've sorted that out. But your name flagged while they were processing you," she opened up the first folder, and handed me a dense memorandum with a North Carolina seal at the top.

"What's this?" I squinted.

"An extradition request," she tapped with her long, lacquered nail.

Extradition? My heart leapt into my throat.

"Y-you mean," I breathed, "you mean they're sending me back?"

"No," she snatched it back, "That's not what Monsieur Caine is paying me for."

I cringed.

"The request came from the Dare county sheriff's department. But it's baseless," she opened up her next folder, "There's no warrant. No criminal charges," she shook her head, "Honestly, I don't know why they bothered."

I think I do... I could feel my tongue turn to ash.

"The officer at the station," I breathed, "She um, she said I was wanted for questioning..."

The woman nodded, pursing her lips, "Yes. We should be able to settle that with a phone call. A written statement, at most. But it can wait," She slid open her third and final folder, "Our biggest issue right now is your visa," she clicked a pen, "I've drafted an extension on your behalf. Sign here, and we'll get it filed tomorrow," she pointed, "But to fix it for good, you'll need to find stable employment in your field."

"My field?" I squinted.

"You're an artist, are you not?"

Again, it didn't sound like a question. I mean, am I?I sighed and signed, shaking my head.

"So... what was it?" I breathed, already dreading the answer, "Back home. What do they want to ask me?"