Chapter Sixty-One

Dordogne, France

November 5

M iles placed the painting on the easel Reynard had set up in his office, then returned to stand beside Clara.

“Well, we did it, Papa. You have your painting.”

Reynard sat behind his desk and looked at Somewhere , lost in the image of the woman on the riverbank. After a long moment, he nodded to his assistant, Ahmed, who left the room.

“Actually, the painting is a gift. For Miles.”

Miles looked up in surprise. “For me? Why?”

“Patience,” Reynard said as he waved in Ahmed, who set up a second easel. He then placed a second covered frame on the ledge.

“Tavarro painted Somewhere . His only portrait. A depiction of his lost love reaching through time and space searching for him.” Reynard extended his hand to the covered artwork. “What no one knew is that his pupil and soulmate, Anne, painted Tavarro.”

Ahmed removed the cloth, revealing a portrait of a man standing in a dark forest. The subject’s face was a mask of need as he, too, reached desperately for something in the distance.

“This one is called Someone . Together, they are one work of art: Someone, Somewhere . Do you see the marks on the frame of Tavarro’s painting? It connects to the frame of its mate.” Reynard nodded to Ahmed, who attached the wooden hinges and joined the two paintings.

Clara stared at the work of art. Perhaps it was the light or the angle. The woman’s face seemed to change. The expression Clara had thought was pain or longing—it was rapture.

Miles stepped beside Clara and slipped his hand in hers. “Anne’s has words written at the bottom, too.”

Reynard spoke softly. “Read it, darling.”

Clara read what Anne had written.

“My life, my breath

On the shores of my soul

Of our eternal love

Pure peace, in your arms”

“Together, they make the complete poem,” Reynard said.

Miles read,

“My life, my breath, away from the world beneath the arching cliffs

On the shores of my soul, in the blood-red sage beside the river

Of our unending love, I find the riches all men seek but rarely find

Pure peace, in your arms, beneath the laden vines.”

Clara swiped at a tear. “Love is the treasure.”

“ Exactement, ma fille . We have reunited the lovers. One day, I will see my Annette again. As I near the end of my life,” Reynard held up a hand to quell Clara’s protest. “I realize that ,” he swept his hand to the art. “Is the only thing that matters.”

Wearing his rarely used prosthetic, Reynard stood, leaning heavily on his cane as he walked to Clara and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “You showed me that, mon ange . I wanted to give that to you in return.”

“You’re giving me the painting?” she asked.

Reynard tipped his lips in an indulgent smile as he touched Miles and Clara’s clasped hands. “I wanted to give you love.”

“Thank you,” Miles said.

The trio stood back and admired the diptych. Two hands reaching out, touching behind the frame. Together at last for eternity.