Chapter 13

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Frank asked.

I was staring out the office window at the landscaping company. The rain hadn't let up all morning, as if the weather had somehow decided to reflect the sombreness of the occasion. Our last daisies were letting their white petals hang and the lilac, pink, and burgundy carnations looked more like a washed-out kaleidoscope under the steady cascade. I imagined my emotions to be as scattered as the intricate network of small rivers that had burst to life around the cobbled pathways.

"I'll be okay," I assured the old man. "I need to be there for Harry."

I pulled the collar of my black shirt up, self-conscious about being in such formal attire for a change. My brown hair wasn't pulled into a messy bun today but fell below the edges of my collarbone. I was used to the feeling of my neck being uncovered, so on this day, it bothered me that the collar was getting in the way of my hair, and I plucked at it in a futile effort to bring a semblance of order to the strands.

"You look good," he said, noticing the jerky plucking. "No need to be nervous."

With effort, I dropped my hands to my side and took a breath. Thinking about the wake and what I was planning to give to Helen made a lead elephant roll through my stomach. Then, there was Emmanuelle. I couldn't very well disclose to Frank the conflicting emotions about my escort.

I shouldn't be nervous about meeting her, not even a little bit. If any day was a day for a dose of cold water, it was today. I shouldn't have taken advantage of her kindness in the first place, but now that I had, the last thing I wanted to do was read anything into it. No, today the only important thing was Harry.

"Your brother asked about you," Frank said. My head swivelled in his direction. Warmth swam in his cornflower blues. "I told him about Harry when he called last week. He was concerned. I know you're not a big talker, but you should let Charlie know that you're okay, Sam."

"You're right, I will. It's sweet of him to worry." I sighed, my gaze wandering towards my watch. "I should get going."

"Don't forget that," my grandfather reminded me, motioning to the wooden tube on the desk. I dutifully grabbed it before heading out the door.

Rain poured down in continuously denser waves from the sky, turning the well-kept lawn in front of Emmanuelle's house into a mud-bath. I was about to get out of the car and get her when the front door opened.

She must have waited for me to pull up.

I noted the solemn tone of her outfit, and my lips drew into a slight smile at the thought that Harry would have hated the subdued hues. Boring, he would have called it. Too safe, maybe, or unilateral. Still, while Emmanuelle's black dress was appropriately demure, it did little to hide her beauty. She was like an angel of sorrow, only a scarf covering her bare arms and her hair pinned up in the back.

She hurried out into the rain and got in on the passenger's side. "I hope this is okay. I didn't bring a lot of clothes that would be respectable to wear to a wake."

"You look nice."

"You're not so bad yourself." She reached over the console to fix the collar of my shirt then gave me a searching look. "You ready?" I knew she wasn't just asking whether I was ready to leave. My heavy nod prompted a reassuring squeeze of my arm.

A lot of people were mingling in the spacious living room of Harry's house when we arrived. Small tables had been set up with pictures of him and his wife Helen, as well as him with students, colleagues, and friends. The conversations were quiet, some faces appearing familiar while others didn't when we passed through in search of Helen. We found her next to a portrait of her dead husband standing by the window. My fingers tensed around the wooden tube.

"Hello, Sam," she said, the new lines on her face projecting her grief even more clearly than her night-black gown. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course, I came," I replied huskily. Then I took a shuddering breath and offered my gift to her. "Here, I thought you might like to have this."

She looked at it blankly for a moment before her gaze cleared. She was the wife of an artist. She knew what was transported in these. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Yes, but … I made this."

Surprise flashed in her eyes. "It's not one of Harry's you still had? I mean, he always left his work lying around everywhere. You knew him, always so chaotic." A sob escaped and while she tried to pull herself together, she ran one hand over the wooden tube reverently. "It's really one of yours?"

"Yes, it's one of mine."

She knew about my reluctance to share my work, but I was still unprepared for the naked emotion on her face.

"I … wow … I … don't know what to say." She began tearing up again, and I felt my throat clog. "This would have meant so much to him, Sam. Really."

"I thought I owed him one," I whispered. "Honestly, I owe him far more than just this, so it's the least I could do."

"Thank you so much."

Helen embraced me, and I caught Emmanuelle's compassionate but contemplative gaze over her shoulder. I gently rubbed the older woman's back but really, I was the one in need of reassurance. Giving her that tube felt like giving her a part of myself.

When we both stepped back, I gestured towards the woman standing at my side. "I brought a friend. I hope that's okay."

Her smile was edged with sadness. "Of course, it's okay, Sam. I know this is hard for you, too." She then addressed Emmanuelle. "Thank you for joining us today."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," the French painter said. "I did not know your husband, but seeing these pictures and what he meant to everyone, the world … seems less bright today without him."

"I appreciate that." An older colleague of Harry's approached, trying to attract Helen's attention. "I'm sorry, I have to mingle. But I'll say a few words later. Why don't you talk to a few people in the meantime? Share memories?"

I nodded, and Emmanuelle followed me to a group of people I recognised from school. We chatted a while, and my new friend laughed softly a few times at the retelling of some of his more rambunctious escapades.

"Do you remember when he threw all those paint bombs at the school statue?" the dean's secretary remarked with a chuckle.

"Oh, yes." One of his former students guffawed. "It was the same week he got half of the faculty to wear rainbow suspenders for Pride."

"I'm pretty sure the ancient librarian even dyed her hair pink because of him."

A rumble of laughter rolled through the group. I remembered how fond Harry had been of the parades. He'd loved anything that conveyed acceptance, tolerance and understanding.

When was the last time you went to Pride, huh? Instead of hiding somewhere to sketch?

A middle-aged man with a crooked nose snorted. It took me a few seconds to recognise the old drama instructor. "You know what I still remember? That time he fell off the stage during the rehearsal of that Hamlet remake. Broke his leg in two places and hopped around on a pink-and-blue striped cast for the next two months. Refused to stay home because he couldn't miss rehearsals…"

I laughed, despite the hurt spreading through my chest. Harry had always been a very stubborn man.

The gawky school janitor tugged shyly on his tie before murmuring, "What I'll miss most is that he could always make you comfortable. Always had a nice word to say, and a smile when you passed him."

Someone else nodded. "Despite his tendency for theatrics, he was a great shoulder to cry on. I don't know how many times I called him when I got in trouble."

I nodded. "He was the best at putting you back together."

I felt like I needed that shoulder now, more than ever. And not just his shoulder, but his confidence, his conviction, his eternal faith that things would turn out for the better. If I could just channel that mindset, then maybe even I could manage to change.

I miss you, Harry.

After a while, the guests started to flock together near Harry's portrait. Helen was standing next to it with a glass of champagne in her hands. I froze at the sight of my sketch. Somehow, she'd managed to set it up next to his photo.

A hand reached into my chest and squeezed. It felt like I was exposed to the elements, snow and ice coating my skin and freezing air in my lungs. It became hard to breathe, and panic spread like poison from my centre to every fingertip. Everyone could see. Could judge what they saw. Would know it was mine. Would see my pain.

My hands clenched into fists. It's for Harry. This is for Harry.

But the panic made me shudder. Why couldn't I just be like every other artist, proud to display my work? Why was I so terrified of not being good enough, of being too transparent, as if my art was the window to my soul?

Because you're terrified of the memories.

I forced myself to inhale. And exhale. I had to get over this. I didn't know how, and it seemed impossible right now, but I needed to find a way to start.

My fingers were cramped from the tension, but somehow, I managed to level with myself.

In. And out.

In. And out.

And again. In. And out.

Suddenly, there was a presence at my side, and a hand wrapped around my fist. Emmanuelle didn't say anything, but she stepped closer, and I felt the support in her gentle grip. The contact and my breathing exercise finally calmed me down.

"My husband," Helen began quietly, "would have loved this. He would have loved seeing his friends and his students here together swapping stories about him, revelling in all the good memories that you've made. We all know he's always been an attention whore." A chortle travelled through the guests. "But I want to thank you for being here today, all of you, that you're here to commemorate and celebrate him, as he was so known to do himself. I'm sure wherever Harry is, he'll be watching over us. And doubtlessly also getting into more trouble. To Harry."

We raised our glasses and toasted him, and a lot of tissues were pulled out to blow noses and dry tears afterward. Before we left, Helen touched my shoulder.

"I'll wait outside," Emmanuelle mouthed and walked away.

Helen smiled through her tears. "Thank you again for the sketch, Sam. I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me to have this picture of him. I love it. I will frame it and hang it up. You captured him perfectly."

Somehow, I managed not to freak out at the words, only shifting a little on my feet. Before I could sort through what to say, though, she engulfed me in another tight hug, not letting go for several seconds. I had little strength to fight it, completely drained after the earlier anxiety rollercoaster. So, I squeezed Helen back as if my life depended on it, resting my cheek on her shoulder.

When I walked outside, Emmanuelle was waiting at the car, shivering miserably. The scarf hardly protected her bare arms from the cold. Shrugging out of my jacket, I draped it over her shoulders. "Come on, let's get you home."

We rode in silence for a while, until I felt her fingers touch the back of my hand. It was a friendly touch, but that didn't stop a tingle from travelling through my body. I gazed at her questioningly.

"I've never liked sketches because I've always thought images lose too much substance in the absence of colour. But that sketch, your sketch, was incredible. I felt like I knew what kind of man he was just by looking at the lines of coal."

Emmanuelle's stare bored into me, and I was unprepared for its intensity. But while it was embarrassing that an artist of her calibre had viewed one of my works, such high praise also made me a little happy.

"Please don't tell me you can sketch like that because you have drawing lessons once a week," she said.

I had to laugh at her dry tone. "I have a master's degree in fine arts."

Her eyes widened, and she looked a bit wounded. "And just why am I only hearing about this now?"

"It, uh … never came up before?"

After a brief pout, Emmanuelle relaxed her chin. "Well, I witnessed first-hand how little you like to talk about yourself, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. But I never thought you'd be so reluctant to show your own work. Based on the complete shock of Harry's wife, you'd think it was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence." Her joking tone sobered. "Your reaction when she put it on display … You really don't like sharing."

"No, I guess I don't."

"But why? It was so very good. No, scratch that, borderline fantastic! Why would you ever want to hide that?" When I didn't answer, she abruptly lifted her hand from mine to rub it over her forehead. "God, I'm sorry. It's just … since I was old enough to hold a brush, it was always about me getting my art out there. The thought of keeping it to myself?" She shook her head as if someone had suggested she should carry an alien baby.

"I just struggle with … It makes me feel exposed. Like all my thoughts are on display."

"But you have so much talent!" When I didn't answer again, she sheepishly ducked her head. "Urgh, and I'm right back to blubbering my opinion. Forgive me. There is probably a reason you're so private about it, isn't there?"

My shoulders tensed. "There is, but I don't like talking about it."

"I understand. And I didn't mean to pry. With the media, with people in general, it's difficult not to feel like you live in a fishbowl. Privacy is very important to me, too, believe me. I won't ask about it again, I promise. Just, if you ever need to talk about something, I'm here."

The ghost of a smile drew the corners of my mouth upward. "You mean you would sit with me on some sidewalk and play therapist again?"

"Well, if that's what it takes."

The ensuing silence covered me like a comfortable blanket, and I felt myself relax. It was the same thing I had felt sitting on that sidewalk with her. I believed Emmanuelle. She really wouldn't ask about things I wasn't comfortable talking about. It made me feel safe in her presence. Secure. Seen.

"You know, I should have realised you belonged to the dark side when you were admiring the light in my living room," she teased. "Admit it, you were going green with envy."

"Can't hide anything from you, can I?"

"Nope, I'm very good at reading people."

Hopefully not always.

When we stopped in front of her house, I gestured for her to keep the jacket on. It was still cold outside. "Thank you for today. It was very difficult for me, and having you there made it a little bit better. I know you didn't have to come, but I'm very grateful that you did."

"I'm glad I was there, too," she said softly, looking down on the hand I had put on her arm without even realising it. I yanked it back. "He seems to have been an incredible man."

"He was that," I agreed, noting the sadness in her eyes and liking her more for empathizing with people over someone she hadn't even known. Despite all the confusing feelings she caused, she'd proven herself to be a real friend today.

She leaned forward and pressed her lips lightly against my cheek. I caught the laughter in her eyes at the resulting expression on my face because I had again forgotten that vital detail about how she said goodbye. Maybe it was part of her being French that made her relish upsetting other people's tender sensibilities.

The door fell closed behind her with a thump, and I knew even less than before what I was feeling. Relief that the day was over? Regret that we had to part ways? Sadness and grief about Harry mixed with the hope that his death wouldn't cause the same nightmares I already had about my parents. But where did that hope come from?

Was it myself, or the woman I so desperately tried not to have feelings for?