The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  “Madame Senard, your husband made it very clear—”

  “And let me be even clearer: no!”

  I ignore them both, letting them duke it out, knowing Nathalie will win. I’m deeply immersed but see them from the corner of my eye as though I’m on a fast train and they are passing images. Sadly, I will never recapture all the years I’ve lost as an artist. But now I’m no longer feeling shattered. It’s as though I’ve suddenly been put back together: the woman, the mother, the chiseler, the cobbler, the archaeologist, digging through stone until uncovering my hidden treasure. I stand back slightly, as Eve’s right foot finally emerges from the block of marble like a baby from its womb. I turn to Nathalie for approval. It’s her foot, not mine, I remind myself.

  The room is silent.

  “Slimmer toes. The third one especially. It’s not precise. Fix it,” she says, closing one eye. I walk over to the foot, stand back. She’s right.

  Claudia retreats to her corner of the studio, knowing better than to challenge Nathalie, who refuses to stop the momentum as I spend the next few hours fixing that toe, and then the others. Tomorrow I will refine it, polish it, and then on to the other foot. When I’m done, I look up at Nathalie and she nods her approval. Her lips are pressed together, her eyes are illuminated. She glances at Eve’s new toes, clasps her hands together—it’s exactly what she envisioned. I know—we both do—Eve, her muse, my daughter, is finally being grounded.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  AS I PACK UP TO LEAVE FOR THE DAY, NATHALIE ASKS IF I WOULD CARE TO JOIN her in the garden, have a glass of wine, perhaps? Her husband is not expected home from Paris until later that night and she would love the company. Can she drink wine with all her meds, all that weed, being that sick? I don’t ask, I say yes.

  I help Nathalie into the wheelchair and together we head over to the house. Staring at the back of her scarfed head, my heart breaks thinking about everything she’s going through, all that she’s lost. I recall the unwavering look in her eyes earlier—that she’d rather die before allowing Eve’s toes to be less than perfect and not meet her vision. She is a perfectionist, and while time races, she stubbornly refuses to skip any steps. Eve is keeping Nathalie alive, the way Ava in my darkest moments is what keeps me going.

  I grip the handles of the wheelchair tightly, pushing it over the pebbled walkway. I wish I could somehow take away Nathalie’s pain, her daily disintegration, but I can’t. It’s out of my control. Once again, I can’t fix it. All I can do is this.

  Claudia opens the door, taking control of the chair, and I trail behind them. The wine will definitely be a great segue into the evening. I’m having a late dinner with Jean-Paul and Lea in the village of Saint-Paul. I follow Nathalie and Claudia through the house. This time, I walk slowly, taking in the incredible art collection hanging along the hallway. The paintings—both figurative and abstract—are magnificent.

  “These are stunning,” I say, observing the myriad landscapes and seascapes, several nudes, followed by a provocative series of young lovers.

  “Mr. Senard’s work,” Claudia says.

  Of course, it is. How they must inspire each other. I look down at my hands self-consciously. “Nathalie, do you mind if I wash up a bit?” My hands are grubby, my fingernails are dirty, and I feel the powdery dust from the marble covering me.

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Use my bedroom up ahead to your left. You will find everything you need in there. Claudia—show her the way, please.”

  Claudia leaves Nathalie where she is, and quickly ushers me into the master bedroom, points to the bathroom in the far corner and waits and watches from the doorway until I walk inside. That woman is more than an aide to Nathalie—she’s a bodyguard and a watchdog.

  Entering the bathroom, I stand perfectly still against the door until I hear Claudia leave and walk back down the hallway. I wait a few seconds longer, take a deep breath, and then I tiptoe back out into the bedroom.

  That painting.

  I lean against the nearest wall and stare at the large framed canvas suspended over the king-sized bed I passed on my way to the bathroom. I place my hand to my chest. My heart begins to palpitate as I absorb the painting. It’s so realistic that it feels as though the scene is happening right in front of me. A naked woman lies on a bed, rosy nipples erect, her legs splayed, as a nude man stands over her. She is exquisite, her body is graceful yet carnal, like a ballet dancer and a pole dancer in one. Her eyes are closed and her thick, golden halo of hair fans her face as she pleasures herself. I can actually feel the rapture in the strain of her eyes. But it is the man, gazing upon the woman with raw sexuality, who magnetizes. His lustful expression, the hungry way his lanky, defined body leans over her, desires her, is the most erotic image that I have ever seen. Two people who are intimate but who never actually touch, like Rodin’s sculpture The Kiss. All of my senses are aroused at once.

  It’s them—Nathalie and Luc Senard.

  I recognize her face, those prominent cheekbones, that swanlike neck. It is the image of her before; when her incomparable beauty had not yet been ravaged by cancer. Nathalie in all her glory, naked, sensual, and commanding. And the man in the painting is clearly Luc, and so is the artist. The bold, expressive brushstrokes are identical to the paintings in the hallway.

  I can’t help it. I’m reminded of the sculpture I created for Gabe in our bedroom, the two of us at the height of our passion, just like this. What does Holly the nurse think when she sees that sculpture in our bedroom? And Gabe—what does he think of it now?

  When Nathalie’s gone, how will Luc feel about that painting, and it’s just him lying in that bed? Alone, without her, next to an unslept-on pillow that may still have her lingering scent.

  I walk toward the bed, and gaze at a small framed photo of Luc as a young artist on the nightstand. The photographer had captured him in his studio, canvases and art supplies surrounding him. Luc was dreamy, in that Alain Delon French-movie-star way. Piercing green eyes, close-cropped dark hair, full almost-womanly lips, three-day neat stubble over a sculpted jaw. He wore a crisp white T-shirt, worn jeans, and, of course, the requisite loosely wrapped gray scarf around his neck. A face that demands to be photographed, painted, sculpted. What’s he like now?

  I stare again at their bed, and again at that spectacular oil above it. Such love and such loss. My heart no longer races, it seems to have stopped beating. This is where that painting once came alive for them, and this is where it’s going to die.

  I hear approaching footsteps coming from down the hall. I shouldn’t be here, a stranger in their bedroom, snooping around, prying into the most intimate side of this prominent couple—a side that belongs only to them. I quickly step back into the bathroom, turn on the sink water at full blast to buy myself a little time to pull it together. I stick my parched mouth under the faucet, drink, then wash away the dusty remnants of Eve still stuck to me.

  “Is everything okay?” Claudia knocks lightly on the door.

  “Yes.” No. Maybe. I don’t know.

  I pull my hair up into a clip and quickly leave the bedroom, closing the door behind me and walking with Claudia back down the corridor, without looking at the paintings this time. Up ahead, through the window, I see Nathalie outside on the patio, in her large chair surrounded by pillows, waiting for me. Two glasses of red wine have already been poured.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk toward her, somewhat afraid—not of her, but for me. Olivier, Jean-Paul, Lea, Nathalie, and soon Luc. This is my new life; a new cast of characters linking up like those plastic red monkeys. Where do I belong? Who do I hold on to, and will I fall off once again?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  JEAN-PAUL AND LEA SIT ACROSS FROM ME IN THE BISTRO, HIS ARM DRAPING HER bare shoulder. They fit. Best friends, lovers, cocreators, and strangely, my only friends here.

  We decided on Le Tilleul. It’s a perfect night and we sit outside dining and drinking around the famous tree at its center. Everything they orde
red so far has been beautifully displayed—the salad niçoise, the foie gras, the linguini with clams—but my head is still in that painting, not the meal.

  “Tell us where you’ve been hiding,” Lea says, clasping her hands together. “We haven’t heard from you in three days.”

  “I haven’t even seen you at the hotel,” Jean-Paul chimes in. “You’re gone before I get there and still not back before I leave.”

  They look at me, expecting an answer, as though they are my parents. “I’ve been, well, actually . . .” I throw up my hands. “I’ve been helping out an artist, but I can’t really talk about it.”

  “Yes, you can,” Jean-Paul says, pouring us all more wine.

  I shake my head. “No, I can’t. Really. I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

  They look at each other. Jean-Paul reaches over and places his hand on mine while squeezing Lea in closer. I look around. No one seems to care. “Sounds exciting. Tell us.”

  “I wish I could. One day, I promise.”

  He glances at Lea, who shrugs. “Well then, we will revisit that later,” he says, digging into the salad. “We wanted to tell you something.” He winks at Lea. “The hotel has asked me to fill in at a sister hotel in Capri for a month—and how could I refuse? The good news is that Lea got permission to take time off from the gallery and can join me. So, we are both going.” He drops his fork, smiles broadly, his face lights up as he wraps his arm tightly around Lea, and she leans into him. I feel warm inside just watching them, but sad for me. I will miss them. I try to hide what I’m feeling.

  “That’s fantastic,” I say effusively, hoping I sound genuine. “I’m so happy for you both.”

  “We are going to miss you, Sophie . . . it all happened so quickly,” Lea adds. “We have to leave tomorrow evening. No time—it’s crazy. But we want you to stay in our place while we’re gone.” She leans forward. “No is not an option. You’ve probably spent thousands of dollars at the hotel. It’s enough. Stay, water our plants, and take in our mail. Yes?”

  I sit back in my chair, hearing muffled music pulse from the building next door. How grateful I am that I met these two—so open, inspiring, and generous. Lea is right. The hotel has been ridiculously expensive. Staying at their apartment sounds perfect, actually. A month buys me time, and now I don’t have to look around right away for a sublet. “I would love that. I have been thinking that I need to start searching for a place. But please let me pay you whatever you would have charged someone else. I insist or no deal.”

  Jean-Paul shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

  “We will revisit that,” I joke. “But I’m paying for dinner and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Absolutely yes.” Lea laughs. “Tell us about the art, at least a little . . .”

  I look around. No one I know. “Well, I’m sculpting again, and I am so happy to be back in the studio.”

  “And your hands? Are you in pain?” Lea asks.

  I smile at her. With all her tough talk, she’s very caring. “Not at all, that’s the crazy part.” I’m dying to tell them everything about the Senards, but I can’t. “I really wish I could talk about it with you both. Please understand.” I reach over and squeeze Lea’s hand while my eyes meet Jean-Paul’s. Is it wrong that I want to be with them again? That I don’t want to go home alone tonight? I say nothing, but they feel my vibe anyway. These two familiar strangers who play by their own rules sense my silent longing, know the cues. The sculpting alone would have been enough to make me feel this way, so charged. But that painting taps into something deeper that I cannot describe but that feels famished.

  “You look different. You look . . . ,” Jean-Paul says slowly, lightly rubbing the inside of my wrist.

  The word he is looking for is “hungry.” I look hungry.

  “Come back to our place with us tonight.” Lea knows. She doesn’t look at Jean-Paul for permission. “You want to.”

  “Yes.” My eyes bore into hers, then his. “I want to.”

  I LIE NAKED ON THEIR BED, JUST LIKE SHE DID IN THE PAINTING. ON MY BACK, ONE arm extended overhead, the other hand touching myself. Jean-Paul, also nude, stands over me. Lea sits naked on a chair near us. They let me call the shots, not knowing that I am reenacting the painting. They are so young and accepting, so passionate and patient. They don’t ask questions. Jean-Paul is clearly aroused. I’m flush with wine, loose with longing, and I’m ready for the two of them in a way that I was not before. I’m no longer the student. This time I’m in control, the artistic director.

  I sit up against the headboard, see Lea in front of me, watching us, and I begin to explain myself though she asks nothing of me. “I saw this erotic painting today that made a huge impact on me. And I—”

  “Tell us exactly what you want . . . what you need,” she implores, understanding me completely.

  “I don’t know what I want.” I search her face. “It’s weird, right?”

  She looks at Jean-Paul, who nods. “Not weird at all. You’ve been lost. What you really desire from your time here is to find yourself. You’re still searching, Sophie, and it’s okay. Discovery is not a destination, it’s a process.” She folds her arms, tilts her head. “Do you want me to paint you like that, just as you are now?”

  It’s uncanny how this young woman seems to understand me so much more than I ever will. “Yes,” I whisper. “Paint exactly how you see me.” I look up at Jean-Paul who appears ready for action, and not to stand still and pose with an erection. “This was not your plan.”

  He gives me an open-handed surrender. Lea is in charge and he accepts it. “Let things roll. That’s my only plan.”

  Exactly, I think. I am so grateful to both of them. So much so that I get up off the bed, walk over to Lea, lift her chin upward and kiss her. Her lips are soft against mine. My tongue dances with hers, and then I walk over to Jean-Paul and kiss him too. His mouth is rougher, his breath warmer, his tongue hotter. I feel his excitement rise, becoming firmer, and I slowly pull away. I lie on the bed and tell him to stand over me again, but not to touch me yet. I instruct Lea to paint us, just like that, the moment before.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I DRIVE WITH TREPIDATION, SLOWING TO A CRAWL AS I APPROACH Nathalie’s driveway, and then punch in the gate code. I can hear the crunch of the pebbles beneath my tires as I advance toward the studio. I spot the sleek silver BMW sports car parked in the driveway and I know Luc is there with her inside the studio. I park and then carefully open the heavy studio door. I notice my hand is unsteady against the doorknob.

  Luc’s back is facing me. He is standing across the studio with Nathalie, who looks exhausted, unwell. But when she sees me enter, her whole face lights up. He turns around, squinting slightly as though trying to place me as I slowly walk toward them.

  “I’m Sophie,” I say, extending my hand, which he takes.

  “I heard all about you from Nathalie. I’m Luc.” He smiles broadly, speaking in English for my benefit. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Nice work on the foot, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” I smile back, trying not to stare, to appear normal—whatever that is. Casually dressed in jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt, Luc is even handsomer than the younger version in that old photograph. And the more recent photo with Nathalie taken in the exotic garden does not even begin to do him justice. In real time, he’s more sophisticated, more chiseled. His eyes are an even brighter shade of emerald. Say something. Tell him how inspired you were by his paintings that you saw in their home. No, don’t say anything. You’re the ghost sculptor, remember. Simply here to help his wife, to lie low. It’s not about you or him, but all about Nathalie. I glance over at her. She really looks sick today. Her face is pallid, and there appear to be deeper, darker circles beneath her concave eyes.

  “Luc.” Nathalie interrupts my thoughts. “You need to go now. You’re stealing our time.” Time that she no longer has, we are all thinking.

  He turns away from me, eyes his wife affectionately, as thoug
h happy to see her still alive, still bossy. He leans down, places his hand over her gaunt shoulder. “Not too much today. You need rest. Claudia told me—”

  “Don’t listen to Claudia,” Nathalie snaps, then offers him a hint of a grin. “We need to work. I will rest when I’m dead. See you at lunch.”

  Luc shakes his head, as in why even bother telling his wife what to do. He turns to me, still trying to place me. “It’s Ava. You look so much like her. That must be it,” he says.

  And then it dawns on me. My daughter has met Luc. Did he see her posing naked? My breath catches in my throat.

  We hold each other’s gaze a second too long for two people just meeting. Maybe it’s only in my head. My mind briefly flashes back to last night, keeping up with the millennials, as we acted out Luc’s painting. If he only knew what his gifted brushstrokes inspired . . . a night so wildly unexpected. I was insatiable, somebody I didn’t recognize at all. Unleashed, raw, and voracious.

  I try to shake off the memory. If Nathalie knew that I had re-created her husband’s artwork in Lea’s bedroom, that I assumed her role . . . A crimson flush spreads across my cheeks. I feel the heat beneath my skin. Can they see it? We are all artists here. It’s all in the details, the nuance, the unsaid. We perceive those things invisible to the naked eye.

  I quickly avert my gaze, reach for the pitcher of water on the small, nearby table overloaded with the fruit, crackers, and various cheeses that Claudia lays out each day. From the corner of my eye, I see Nathalie and Luc talking quietly. I down a glass of water, then head to the other side of the studio to prepare my tools—Nathalie’s tools. I feel their eyes on my back, watching me. Ignore it, focus. Turning slightly, I see Nathalie kiss Luc goodbye. He waves to me on his way out.

  “I will begin working on the left foot,” I announce quietly, awaiting Nathalie’s approval.

  “Yes, but today let’s see if we can get those toes right on the first try.” Her voice is surprisingly terse—perhaps I’m only imagining that? Her barely-there brows draw tightly together. This isn’t about me, I remind myself. Nathalie is running out of time.