A Phantom Enchantment (15 page)

C
HAPTER
15

I
t was strange to have my family visiting in Paris, like my two worlds were colliding. Plus, it conferred on me the status of tour guide and default native of the group.

“Look at you,” Barbara said as they met me in front of my school. “You look so grown-up and sophisticated.”

“It's just the black dress and the scarf,” I said. But I did feel older and more grown-up, like I'd matured several years in a matter of months.

As I led them past the Louvre and across the Pont du Carrousel, it was a gift to see all of them relaxing and enjoying themselves. My father and Barbara held hands as they walked, and at each new monument, my grandmother's eyes lit up like she was eighteen instead of eighty.

I'd never seen my father more in awe than when we entered the van Gogh gallery of the Musée d'Orsay. There in his signature bold colors and swirling brushstrokes were van Gogh's self-portrait, his bedroom, his
Starry Night Over the Rhone,
and my favorite,
The Church at Auvers.
I'd seen the painting in a textbook before, but the actual canvas seemed to glow with intensity and quiver with some kind of spiritual energy.

My father stood before it for at least ten minutes, his focus as intense as when he was reeling in a particularly intractable fish. We followed our museum tour with a simple café lunch of wine and cheese. Barbara squealed with happiness at the creamy richness of the Caprifeuille, a nutty goat cheese melted right onto fresh-out-of-the-oven baguettes. My grandma drank a bottle of Beaujolais all by herself, and the conversation flowed, too.

“So, how are your classes?” Grandma asked.

“Classes?” I said. “What classes?”

“Ha ha,” my father said. “Seriously. How are you doing? Are your AP classes hard?”

“Killer,” I said. “But I'm keeping up with the workload. And I love my opera class.”

“Great,” Dad said. “You're not going to major in opera now, are you?”

“No, but I'm writing one,” I said.

“Really?” Barbara said. “That sounds fascinating. What's it about?”

I told them about the libretto contest and how we'd just advanced to round two and were going to perform our opera for the judges in April. “If we win, a professional opera company could perform our opera next year.”

“Oh, Emma, that's wonderful,” Grandma said.

Barbara touched my dad's arm. “Well, I for one can't wait to see it. John, can we come back to see the performance? Spend April in Paris?”

“I don't think we can afford two European vacations in one year,” he said. “Plus, April's a bad month for me.” In New England, April was when prime fishing season resumed. I knew my family wouldn't get to see us perform, and that actually relieved me.

After lunch, we took a leisurely stroll to the Eiffel Tower. My dad took the opportunity to grill me on my college selections. “Soooo,” he said. “Is it going to be Hampshire or Amherst?”

“I haven't even gotten my acceptance letters yet,” I said. “Who knows? Maybe I'll stay in Paris and go to la Sorbonne.”

“Did you apply there?” he said, looking alarmed.

“No, Dad. I'm only joking.”

I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd applied to all those other schools. Once we were finished with our sightseeing, I tried to convince Barbara that the Métro was perfectly safe, but she insisted on finding a taxi stand, and I accompanied them back to their hotel in the Saint-Germain neighborhood. The plan was to let them get some rest and then meet up later for dinner.

Walking home from their hotel, a strange sense of calm overcame me—and not just the winter quiet of the meandering back streets, but an inner peace that suggested my obliteration of the mirror may have solved my problems. As relieved as I was, I also felt lonelier than ever. Here it was just days before Christmas with my family in town to see me, and I felt like I was completely alone in the universe. The presence that had haunted my steps for the past two months was gone. Gray's ghost, for all its destructive and dangerous impulses, was no longer a part of my world.

When I got back to my room, Monsieur Crespeau was waiting at my door, holding a large cardboard box.

“I hear you are in need of a new mirror,” he said.

“Who told you?”

“Your friend Elise,” he said. “I am sad to hear of the mirror's demise. You know how much I admired it.”

“Well,” I said as I opened the door, “its demise wasn't exactly an accident.”

He followed me into the room and saw the devastation I'd wrought against the piece of glass. “I see what you mean,” he said. “What did you do? Take a crowbar to it?

“Something like that,” I said. “I suppose I just got fed up.”

“Half-sick of shadows?” he said, quoting Tennyson.

“Exactly.”

“And has the curse befallen you?”

“You tell me. A giant Christmas tree just fell on me and my friends.”

He smiled grimly. “Yes, how is your gentleman friend?”

“My gentleman friend is doing better. All but his rib has recovered, and that will heal in time.”

“Yes, time heals all wounds eventually.”

“Does it?” I said.

He raised an eyebrow mysteriously. “Have you told your friend how you feel about him?”

I looked up at him, surprised. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I guess because I'm not sure how I feel.”

“Oh, really?” he said. “When you two were dancing together, you did not look unsure.”

“You saw us? I thought you were playing the piano.”

“The music had ended, and you were still dancing. That's how I knew.”

“Oh.”

“What holds you back?” he said. “Is it the boy you saw in the mirror? Your Lancelot?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Emma, don't be like me, wasting your life on a romantic fantasy.”

“But your life doesn't have to be that way.”

“I'm afraid it does,” he said.

“Why? Why can't you tell her how you feel?”

“I am too afraid of her response. The wrong one could kill me.”

He strolled across the room and began taking out the screws holding the mirror in place. Why hadn't I thought of calling him before? It would have saved me a lot of angst. “I am not so good at the real world,” he said. “This is enough for me. Seeing her? Looking out for her? It gives my life purpose.”

I shook my head, frustrated. I didn't understand all this self-abnegation. “Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Oui.”

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

But when I invited him to come out with us for Christmas dinner, he did me one better. He invited my family to dine with him at his place on Christmas Eve. And he told me I could bring Owen as well, winking at me in the way I imagined Santa Claus might wink.

Since he was playing the part of matchmaker, I figured I would return the favor. That afternoon, I called Mademoiselle Veilleux and invited her to come to Christmas Eve dinner. Unfortunately, she already had plans, but I asked if she might consider coming for dessert. “It would mean a lot to Monsieur Crespeau,” I said, trying to give her the hint.

“You've become very fond of him, haven't you?” she said.

“Yes. He's a sweetheart. And kind of handsome in a rugged way, don't you think?”

She ignored my last comment. “I will see what I can do,” was all she would promise.

My family was thrilled to be dining in an actual home, as Christmas just wasn't Christmas in a restaurant. Owen met me at my room so we could walk to Crespeau's house together. My heart jumped a little when I opened my door and saw him, still a little battered-looking, but cleaned up and looking sharp in a jacket and tie. My mind fled back to that unfulfilled kiss on the dance floor.

“Hey,” I said. “You're early.”

“I know,” he said. “I couldn't wait.”

“You look so much better,” I said.

“Yeah, my face is no longer one giant bruise.”

“I love your face, bruised or not,” I said, my tongue getting away from me.

Owen blushed and came into the room, sitting on my bed while I finished getting ready in my new mirror—an ordinary rectangular one that had probably cost twenty euro at the department store. I could see Owen watching me as I applied my makeup and perfume. He was making me nervous.

I turned around, and Owen smiled. “You look beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, doing a dramatic twirl. I was wearing a black velvet dress cut on the bias, with black strappy shoes studded with rhinestones.

“I got you a little Christmas gift,” he said, pulling out a package from his inner jacket pocket.

“Aw, Owen, I told you not to.”

“I know, but I couldn't resist.” I went over and sat next to him on the bed. “It's not a big deal. And it's as much for me as it is for you.”

“Oh, really?” I said, digging into the shiny silver wrapping paper. Enclosed in a small flat box was a CD hand-labeled:
Emma's Phantom
.

“A friend from the hostel let me borrow his recording equipment, and I made a mock-up of the opera score. All the songs we wrote together are on this CD.”

I reached out and pulled him close. “Owen, this is the best gift ever,” I said.

When I pulled away, he was staring at me with this urgent, expectant look and I found myself wanting to pin him down on the bed. But instead I said, “We should probably go.”

“I thought I was early.”

“Yeah, but you promised to bring wine and I promised to bring dessert.”

We stopped off at a bakery and wine shop on the way and still got to Crespeau's house about ten minutes before everyone else. Honestly, I had never pictured Crespeau anywhere other than in the halls of our school. His house was a tiny slate-roofed cottage in the heart of the Marais. But what really surprised me were the colors inside. Crespeau was one of the most understated people I knew. While he was hard to miss with his six-foot-three frame, he didn't like to call attention to himself and dressed in simple, neutral-colored clothing.

But as he gave us a tour of his home, I saw that he'd painted the walls of each room a different color: sunset orange for the living room, Provençal blue for the dining room, lemon yellow for the kitchen. I was reminded of van Gogh's paintings, the irrepressible joy and color in his canvases that belied the depression and madness of their creator.

It was no wonder Crespeau had loved the mirror in my room; it would have fit in perfectly here among all his antiques. A fire blazed in an old fireplace in the corner of the living room, classical Christmas music poured forth from his record player, and dozens of wineglasses and brandy snifters sat lined up on a sideboard waiting to be filled. It seemed Monsieur Crespeau was the perfect host.

My family arrived shortly after us, and we made the introductions, with Crespeau insisting everyone call him Nicholas. I hadn't even known his first name. Once everyone had drinks in hand, conversation began to flow. Barbara admired Crespeau's taste in stemware, my father commented on the delicious appetizers, and Grandma commented on the brandy. Well, mostly she drank the brandy. And then she started flirting.

“So I see you like antiques,” she said to Monsieur Crespeau. “I've always found that the older something is, the more value it has.”

“Yes, that has been my experience, too,” Crespeau said, going along with the joke. Too bad she was at least thirty years too old for him.

For dinner, Crespeau had cooked duck in wine and herbs, and we had all pitched in on the sides. My dad and Barbara brought oysters and foie gras, my grandmother brought truffles and champagne, Owen brought wine and cheese, and I brought a rich chocolate cake drizzled with cranberry ganache.

“So you live here all alone?” Barbara said during dinner.

“Oui,” he said.

“What a pity,” Barbara said. “This place could use a woman's touch.”

“Barbara,” I said. “This house is perfect. I want to live here!”

“It is lovely,” Barbara conceded, “but a woman would hang lace curtains in these windows to catch the light, and she'd have flowers on the table.”

“Oh, I did forgot the flowers,” Crespeau said, winking at me.

“And I could polish up this silver for you in no time,” she said.

“Oh my God,” I muttered to Owen, who squeezed my thigh under the table.

Barbara rambled on about the feminine improvements to be wrought by some imaginary girlfriend, but all I could think about was Owen's hand on my thigh. Had he meant to squeeze my hand instead? I wanted to sneak a look at him, but I didn't dare.

“What do you think of these oysters?” my dad asked.

“They are very good,” said Crespeau.

My father made a satisfied groan. “They're different from the ones we get at home. Better.”

“Yes, each region produces its own distinct oyster,” Crespeau said. “Do you know much about seafood?”

“Oh yes,” my dad said, laughing. “I'm a fisherman.”

“Emma did not tell me,” Crespeau said. “What kind of fish?”

Then the two of them were talking about trout and carp and grayling and the best places to fish in Normandy and the Dordogne.

But I was still distracted by that hand on my thigh. Crespeau got up and refilled my grandma's champagne glass and then mine, which I downed rather quickly.