At least I did that part right.
As his eyes moved over his workers, he was surprised to spot a woman with Beau, his foreman. He’d never seen her there before. From where he was standing, all he could make out was long black hair. He could see she was wearing some kind of flowing white peasant skirt and a blue blouse that kept shifting with the slight breeze.
Almost as if she could feel his eyes on her, she turned around, looking up to the window where he was standing. As their eyes met, he felt something in the air change.
Desire, he thought as he gripped the window frame. Strange, intense, and unexplainable desire.
Before another moment passed, he turned and made his way to the stairs, determined to get to her. He was determined to meet her.
Taking the steps two at a time, he became almost desperate to get outside. He needed to meet the woman who had felt his stare and had turned to meet his gaze as if he had called out to her.
Rounding the corner of the kitchen, he pushed open the door and made his way out to where he had seen her. As he hurried around the side of the west turret, he literally ran into the woman he had been searching for.
“Well, hello.” He chuckled, raising his hands to grip her shoulders.
Unable to brace herself, it seemed as though she hadn’t seen him at all.
“Please let me go,” she replied almost instantly.
“Oh, good. You’re American.”
Removing his hands immediately, he took a step back as eyes the color of misty gray looked beyond him. He glanced over his shoulder and then turned back to her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there,” he explained, hoping to get her attention. “Actually, no, I’m not. You’re even more spectacular up close.”
Her face was spellbinding. Her beauty was stunning, not in a Hollywood kind of way, but more natural. Like nothing he had ever seen before.
A contrast of shadows and sharp angles. Strength and softness. Those eyes of hers…wow.
As she tipped up her chin a little, he smiled, hoping to dazzle her with what he’d been told was an irresistible grin. She didn’t seem impressed; in fact, she seemed to not notice at all.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” she questioned.
He frowned for a moment, as he asked, “Is what supposed to be funny?”
The woman in front of him merely shook her head while she let out a huff of breath.
“Never mind.” She sighed, exasperated. “My uncle told me to come in here and find Mr. Tibideau. I’m supposed to tell him that they’re done for the day.”
He thought the whole exchange was slightly bizarre. Everyone knew that only he and Penelope lived in the house.
Doesn’t this woman know that I am Mr. Tibideau?
“Well, mission accomplished. He now knows, and he’s now intrigued,” he told her, taking a step closer.
Her aggravation only enhances her beauty, he thought as he ran his eyes over every detail of her face.
He had to admit that he found it unusual she hadn’t yet commented on the fact that she knew who he was. “You don’t recognize me?”
An ironic smile finally tipped her rose red lips as her uniquely colored eyes blinked once. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you by sight,” she replied with sarcasm. “I’m starting to think you might be blind, Mr. Tibideau.”
As she turned away from him, she raised her arm and flicked her wrist, extending a retractable cane from her palm.
How did I not notice that before?
All of a sudden, everything about the exchange made perfect sense. Every word and gesture she had made now shined through with amazing clarity. All he could think was perhaps he was the blind one because everything else had disappeared with one look at her face.
Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Phillipe as he walks over to where I’m madly scribbling in my notepad. When he’s finally standing near, I glance up at him, frowning.
“You’re leaving?” I ask. “We only just started.”
He points to the journal. “I’ll be back in a little bit. The next part you need to know is in there.”
Turning, he walks to the door and then stops to look back at me. The man is beautiful. That’s the only word to encompass his appeal, and I am still staring at him, holding my pen midair.
“Do you want a coffee, Gemma?”
I shake my head. “No, but I’d love some tea.”
“Tea, it is. See you in a few,” he replies before disappearing out the door.
Finishing off my final note, I put the pen and paper down, reaching for the leather journal. It’s a bulky thing bound by a leather strap. I unwind and open it to the page directly after the one where I left off, and I run my fingers over the typed entry. It’s hard to imagine her sitting at her braille typewriter, punching out each word smoothly and efficiently, but she did it with constant dedication for quite some time. Now, here I am, reading her most private thoughts.
Sitting back in the chair, I look down at the typed words and start reading.
His voice was what moved me—the sound of it when he spoke to me.
It was deep and smooth, and it reached inside and calmed me to my very core.
Phillipe didn’t even realize that I’m blind. When was the last time that had happened?
He treated me like he would anyone else. He made me feel…normal.
I didn’t want to come to France. I admit that I was more than a little bit annoyed and offended when my mother had suggested I “go and live a little, and see the world.”
Was that some kind of ironic blind person joke? No. That was my mother’s way of saying, stop living in fear.
That makes me wonder. Is that what I’ve been doing? I don’t know. I don’t think so.
But here I am, staying with my Uncle Beau and running into a man in a French vineyard.
Not exactly where I saw my life going.
Life, I have discovered, has always had a different idea in mind for me.
Oh, but his voice. “You don’t recognize me?”
He asked that like it was an everyday God-given right to be able to see someone and know who he was.
If only it were that simple.
He called me spectacular as though he had never seen anything like me.
I find myself wanting to go back to the chateau tomorrow.
Wanting to talk to him.
Wanting to be moved.
I stop for a moment and look around the studio where I’m sitting.
The space isn’t overwhelming in size. On the other hand, it isn’t exactly small either. It seems to have a personality all on its own.
When I first arrived, it was cloaked in darkness until he illuminated a small slice of his personal space to my eyes. Now, as I sit here on my own, I really have the chance to see his studio, and I realize that it’s a room that captivates me.
Splattered on the rough hardwood floors are obvious reminders of his profession. There are speckles of brown, white, and black mottled across the original wood floorboards. The floor marked up in such a way must not bother him because he has left it as is. Maybe it’s even his way of making it his own.