What My Flowers Said Ch 14 16

*Please note - this is part of a longer erotic series with a slow build, and the following chapters do not contain explicit sex.

14

I clutched the brush like an oxeye daisy, plucking its stained and splayed bristles one-by-one.

Un peu, beaucoup... À la folie. Pas du tout.

The petals fell. The glass was cold. I sat with my back to the window, staring across the room at the canvas. The canvas stared back, unblinking. Snow was still falling. I could almost hear it; the feathered edges of each flake, whispering against the glass. I sighed, and pulled my ankles in closer. Sitting there on the cold cement floor, I couldn't decide whether to smile, or cry.

The thought of him haunted me. His kiss. His lips. The rough touch of his stubble. Those last few words he said to me. They'd left me smoldering for thirty-six hours, and even in my few fretful minutes of sleep, I couldn't escape what had happened. The only reprieve I could find was to drown myself in the work. Like Sisyphus, wrestling his limestone boulder uphill, I couldn't bear to think about why. If I tried, I'm sure the weight of it would've crushed me.

I picked at the cardinal paint beneath my nails—idling, obsessing.

Here's the church. Here's the steeple. Penny for a spool of thread. Penny for a needle. Take the key. Here comes a candle. Take the key. Here comes a candle. Jack jumped over. Jack fell down. A pocket of posies. Pudding and pie. Ashes. Ashes.

The whip snapped, and I stood up, stepping over to stab a few more strokes onto the swirling, crimson canvas.

Here's the bell. Here is the chapel... You owe me three farthings, two sticks, and an apple.

Every thought had jagged edges. Even slaving away here had done precious little to dull them down. I wanted to work until exhaustion dropped me. Until I collapsed in a deathly, dreamless sleep. I swept a dry brush back and forth over the edge of the steeple, beating it like a hummingbird's wing.

Yes

.

Dmitri kissed you

.

Yes, it was good.

And yes, I'd been ruminating on it every second since. It left an ache in me. An emptiness, begging to be filled. It was cruel, really, the way he did it. Cruel and unusual. Unjust.

I mean, what right did he have?

I brushed harder.

To toy with me? To screw with my head? To touch me. Kiss me. To turn cold, and tell me whatever the fuck it was finished—without the slightest word as to why?

I glowered.

That much, Mr. Caine. You owe me that much.

My wrist started cramping. Still, I didn't stop. The paints blended. The colors softened. It was good—much better, really, than I could've imagined—and in a sick and twisted sort of way, I knew it was all because of him. However lost I was, however much pain he put me though, standing there, the tip of my nose nearly scraping the canvas—I knew it was right where I wanted to be. In spite of everything, it would never have happened without him.

Or without Evelyn, you mean...

I sniffed

. Whatever.

I didn't care anymore. I didn't care if I'd never see him again. I didn't care what his real reasons were for pushing me into this. All I cared about now was the painting. And the harder I worked, the more I poured myself into it, the more its disparate pieces melded together. I tried to smile. Finally, for probably the first time since I left home two years ago, something in front of me was falling into focus. My gaze fell to the clock, glowing beside Madame's smeared and smudged porcelain palette.

You're going to be late,

I sighed, plopping my brush in a jar of turpentine. I felt my jaw start to clench.

Earlier, I'd made the egregious mistake of agreeing to meet Marie and Serge at the café, knowing full well that 'company' was the very last thing on Earth I needed tonight. But Marie, as always, was relentless, and telling her no had never really been my forte. The two of them were just back from Toronto, and she'd been very cagey so far about what they were up to. Not that I had any room to talk. I never told her a word about my arrest, nor my night at Lacoste. I didn't even tell her about Peter's proposition.

But now she was back, and there were bound to be questions—not the least of which would be why the bathroom window was broken, despite my pitiful efforts to patch it up with some shoebox lids, and painter's tape. I guess just as Mr. Caine owed me his

apologia

, I probably owed her mine, too. And much as I loathed the idea of leaving the studio, meeting up would at least let her to rip off all the bandages at once. I'd take a

coup de grâce

with Marie's questions over death by a thousand cuts every time.

Still, even that might not have been enough to pry me away from the painting. It was something else that wore me down—something she said when she called earlier. With a little electrical little flutter in her voice, for probably the first time since we met, she told me she needed my help.

I paced to the window overlooking Peter's workshop, wiping my hands on a rag. His spotlights were on, but the scaffolding was empty. I sighed and fixed my bun, using my faint reflection in the glass for a guide. Though I'd been spending every free second I had at his studio, I'd scarcely spoken to him since retrieving my keys. But that wasn't just because I was avoiding him. He, too, had been hard at work.

When I got back that first morning, I found him sculpting a fresh mold of his sylphic little model, Cécile. Already out of sorts, and hardly holding myself together, it caught me off guard, walking in on the two of them. He had her nude, lying on a tuft of wine-red drapery, her pale skin irradiated by the beaming lights above.

It's strange to say, I know, but she played dead rather beautifully. She didn't stir in the least when I stumbled into the studio—not even when Peter turned to talk with me, and apologize for not answering my calls. More than once over the past few days, I'd seen her keep stone-still for him for hours at a time, the illusion betrayed only by a subtle rise and fall of her chest. It made me glad, really, that I hadn't fallen into the trap of posing for him. I couldn't have possibly given him what he needed. And with his hands caked in wet plaster, sometimes I almost forgot he hadn't sculpted the girl himself.

Pygmalion.

I pursued my lips.

'I sold flowers, Monsieur.' A pocket of posies. Pudding and pie. Gérôme did it worse than Rodin.

I smirked. Having turned my ankle slipping on her thong, it's easy to say we got off on the wrong foot. But in the handful of times she'd sauntered upstairs to use the washroom, or get herself dressed at the end of the night, I confess I'd warmed up to Cécile. Like Marie, she was local, and like me, she was painfully shy. I'd also learned she was younger than both of us—only nineteen, and studying photography at Concordia. I guess tuition was getting away from her when she found Peter's flyer a few weeks ago. The rest was easy enough to imagine.

I tried not to judge, and I suppose they both were getting what they needed. But I'd be lying if said what he was doing didn't bother me a little. Those two or three times I'd glanced down at the wrong moment, to catch him caressing her, leaving a streak of white plaster on her thigh, or stealing a kiss off the lips of his limpid, almost lifelike model—Peter preyed upon her. And seeing it, being complicit, made me feel guilty as sin.

You sure you're not just jealous, Penny?

I shut my eyes.

Can't believe I almost fell for it

. There was a knock at the door, and I jolted, rushing to cover the canvas with a drop-cloth. It's superstitious, and stupid, but I didn't want anyone seeing before it was finished.

"Hey," Peter poked his head in, "You about ready?"

I squinted, "Ready for what?"

"Serge and Marie," he shrugged, "Figured we'd ride together."

I shook my head, taken aback, "She invited you, too?"

"Well yeah," he slipped his hands in his pockets, "Said it's all hands on deck. Any clue what this is about?"

"None at all," I spun, tossing my rag on the table.

I really didn't want to be angry. But I had a sneaking suspicion I was about to be swept up in another of Marie's signature matchmaking fiascos. I tapped my foot, stewing. I wondered if it was too late to cancel.

"Well, whatever she's planned, I hope it's worth it," he crossed his arms, "I already paid Cécile for the full five hours."

A light went off, and my foot quit tapping.

"...Is she coming with?"

"No," he scratched his head. The question seemed to annoy him, "I mean, why would she? I'm sure she has plans."

"Did you ask her?" I needled.

"...Ask me what?"

The girl appeared on the stairs behind him, barefoot, and clutching her robe closed. I smirked.

"Peter and I are meeting some friends uptown," I nodded, reaching to rinse out my brush, "We were just wondering if you want to come."

A broad, toothy smile spread over her lips.

"

Vraiment

?"

Glaring, Peter gave a stiff nod.

"Oui, j'adorerais ça!" She beamed, brushing her hand over his arm as she scurried past, "Just one moment while I change!"

The door to the washroom latched. Peter rubbed his brow.

"What are you doing, Pens?"

I shrugged, trying to look naive as I set my brushes up to dry, "What? You don't want her?"

He stared at me over the rims of his glasses. "No. Not really..." he stepped closer.

"Why not?" I shook my head, "She's pretty, isn't she? I think she likes you a lot."

"I'm aware," he crossed his arms, "But—"

I arched a brow.

"I mean, I was hoping to spend some time with

you

tonight," he cocked his head, "Y'know, you come in and you work up here. But I feel like I've hardly seen you at all."

And whose fault is that, I wonder?

I picked some dry paint off my elbow.

"You and me. I mean, we really connect," He leaned his shoulder against the wall, "Cécile. She's sweet. And she's a great little model. But talking to her, it's like—I don't know. Like talking to..."

"A teenager?" I cut in, turning sharply.

"Well, when you put it like that..." he wrinkled his nose.

"Look, I don't want to tell you what to do," I paused, "I just know if it was

me,

and you really weren't interested," my eyes fell, "I think I'd want you to keep your hands to yourself."

"Ah..." he blushed, backing away, "You uh, you saw that, huh?"

"Not like I was spying," I frowned.

He rubbed his brow, silent a moment, and sighed.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right."

No shit I'm right

. I bit my tongue.

"I'm sorry," he slipped his hands back in his pockets, "I've been kind of an ass, haven't I?"

I didn't look up. My words had startled me. And I had a creeping feeling they weren't really meant for Peter.

"Hey," he nudged me with his knee, "Did you uh, hear about that painting that got arrested?"

My ears pricked.

"Yeah," he shrugged, "I heard it was

framed

."

I smirked, in spite of myself, "Ass."

He chuckled softly, entirely too pleased with himself, "Still friends?"

"Yeah," I murmured, "Yeah, whatever."

He reached for the drop-cloth, about to peak at my canvas, and I slapped his hand.

"Fine, geez," he stepped back, still chuckling, and I watched as his smile sink. "You know, I still don't like it, Pens," he nodded, "I don't like why you're doing it. Don't like who you're doing it for," he drew his mouth to one side, "But I have to say, I'm impressed," his brow furrowed, "You've come a long way, y'know?"

I blushed, muttering an anxious and awkward '

thanks

'. He reached up to grab my coat, poking his thumb through the hole, and held it open for me with a smirk. I let him fix my collar as I slipped my arms through the sleeves. He took a long, soft sniff of my hair, and I did him the courtesy of pretending not to notice. He still wanted to say something. I could feel it. It was right there, burning behind his sealed lips. But whatever it was, I could only guess. I watched him swallow the words back into his chest.

"I'll uh, I'll get the truck warmed up," he stepped back, "Hit the lights on your way out?"

15

It was a quiet ride south along the Saint Lawrence. We sat three across in the front of Peter's flatbed, with little Cécile between. I don't know why I call her 'little.' She was easily three or four inches taller than me. The rattle and clank of the engine precluded any talking, and frankly I was grateful for it. I can't imagine what could've been said. I let my head lean on the window, staving off a headache as the smell of diesel swirled through the air.

To the west, we passed along the pine-speckled foothills below Mont Royal. I squinted, trying to spy some telltale sign of Lacoste. There was nothing. I shut my eyes and sighed. I was starting to wonder if I'd just dreamed the whole thing.

Peter dropped us at the door to the café and went to park. My hackles rose at the sight of the

Bonsecours

across the street, all lit up and engulfed in grim, crisscrossing shadows. I hadn't been back there since that morning with Dmitri.

'Une saison en enfer,'

I shuddered, and pulled my coat closer,

Je l'ai injuriée. Je me suis enfui.'

Sébastien usually closed up the café after lunch, but once in a while he'd leave the doors open after dark for one of Marie's wrap parties, or an old-fashioned bacchanal whenever his old circus friends came rollicking into town. It still wasn't clear to me what tonight's festivities were meant to entail. But by the mass of bodies already bustling in the windows, it was plain to see that whatever Marie had up her sleeve was anything but intimate.

Good

. I bit my lip. At very least, it meant she probably wasn't trying to set me up with Peter. Cécile and I edged closer, approaching a cluster of boys in tight jeans on the curb, joking and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

"Hullo, Miss Penny," the tallest one turned and waved, "Fancy seeing you here."

It took me a second to recognize Sébastien, with his bushy beard shaved down to a Sandow-esque moustache.

"Osti!" I clapped a hand to my mouth, "Your face, Monsieur!"

"Yeah," he grinned, "Turns out it was here the whole time. Who's your pal?" He tapped his ash in the snow, putting on a faux-American accent.

I took Cécile by the hand and introduced her. She trembled a little at my touch.

"Ahn-shawn-tay," he drawled, tipping an invisible hat, "Do you come here often?

She giggled nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear, "Non, c'est la première fois."

"Well, you're in for a treat," he winked, "Any clue what the hell we're doing here, Penny?" He squinted, "Marie's got half the city inside."

I shook my head, "Your guess is as good as mine.

"Well I hope she's planning to show up, at least," He sniffed.

"What? She isn't here yet?"

"Have you met my sister?" He smirked, stamping out his butt in the slush, "She said she's making some big announcement. She's been real tight-lipped about it."

Announcement?

My blood chilled.

Oh, Lord. They're not getting married, are they?

"I see..." my brow creased, "Well, we'll see you in there, I guess."

"I guess. If'n we don't freeze to death first."

Sébastien bowed, bid us

'ah-doo

,' and started rolling another cigarette.

Inside the café was as packed as I'd ever seen it. The air was stifling, and people stood elbow-to-elbow, hollering at each other over a din of clacking glass, manouche music, and the scrape of oak chairs across the warped wooden floor. I kept Cécile close, trying not to lose track of her as we wove our way to the counter, where a girl with a half-shaved head was pouring drinks.

"What do you like?" I yelled.

She smiled at me sweetly, and nodded. I rolled my eyes.

Seriously

.

Not my scene, Marie

, I cursed her in my head.

Too crowded. Too loud.

I got us each doubles of something strong, hoping to take the edge off. I could feel my anxiety mounting by the minute. We made our way to a wobbly little table off in the corner, drinks in hand, and sat down. I sipped, relieved to find a spot where I could almost hear myself think. Cécile followed suit, shivering.

"Sébastien seems nice," she wrapped her hands around her glass.

"He is," I nodded, "I live with his sister. She's supposed to be meeting us..." I glanced through the throng, "Not really sure what's going on."

"Oui, quel bordel," she flipped her hair.

"Hope Peter can find a spot," I pursed my lips, "That truck of his is enormous."

She glanced away, and took a deep gulp from her drink.

"Miss Penny," she swallowed, "May I ask you something?"

I smirked.

"Nobody calls me that. Sébastien was just being weird."

"Oh. Désolée," she pinkened, dropping eyes.

"Don't sweat it," I shook my head, "What's up?"

"I'm sorry. It's sort of personal," she shrank, downing her drink.

"Hey, easy," I squinted, "Don't want to be scraping you up off the floor later on."

"Encore désolée," her ice sloshed, "I am so nervous."

Well, that makes two of us.

I tucked a thread of hair behind my ear, wondering what had her so worked up.

"I just..." she paused, drawing a little web of circles in the sweat of her glass, "I need to know what's between you and Peter," she scrunched her nose, "...romantically, I mean."

My brows arched.

"Me and Peter?" I repeated.

She nodded her head.

"Nada. Zilch," I waved my hand.

"Please, do not lie," in spite of the heat, she shivered, "I've seen him with you. How he smiles. How he looks at you," she quit drawing on her glass, "Even when I'm posing for him, I can feel it. His eyes don't see me anymore. I start disappearing..." She swirled her ice, "like I'm a ghost."

"Cécile," I sat back, rubbing my head, "I'm serious. There's nothing there."

She wouldn't hear it. She shut her eyes, and I watched as a tiny runnel of tears trickled down her face.

"You know, he called me a few days ago. He said not to bother coming back to the studio," she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, "He said he had finally found his

muse

." Her voice quavered and cracked, "I cried my eyes out when he hung up. But then he called back the next day. He took it all back, pretending like nothing had happened," She half-giggled, half-sobbed, "I thought we'd forget all about it," her words burned, "...But that is the day I met

you

, Miss Penny

.

"

I felt a knot ball up in my throat.

"I um, I'm sorry..." I breathed, "I mean, I won't lie to you. He did ask me to sit for him." I glanced down," I figured he asks a lots of people."

"Je vois," her nails clicked nervously on the tabletop, "And you turned him down?"

I bit my lip, "yeah. Something like that."

She hid her face in her hands, and again started sniffling.

"Hey. Hey, now," I tried to soothe her, taking her hand, "It's alright. No need for that now."

A couple more teardrops fell, mingling with the melting ice in her glass. I took a tissue from my purse and passed it over. She dabbed her eyes, and caught her breath.

"I'm sorry," her lips trembled, "Please. I did not want him see me this way."

I nodded slowly, resting my head on my hand.

"You're pretty wild about him, huh?"

"Allez, is it so obvious?" A pained little smile flickered over her lips, "I know it's not serious. He does not want me that way. I can see that now," She shook her head, "But I just..." she dried her eyes again, shutting them tight, "Vraiment, I really thought Peter would be my first."

"Um," My eyes narrowed, and my breath went flat, "Your first

what

, Cècile?"

She was silent, and a cold stone sank in the pit of my stomach.

Oh God.

I quivered.

It's worse than I thought.