Clear and Bright: Chapter Thirty Four: The Perfect Facade

"Claire, I'm beyond flattered, but I have to say I think you're crazy to ask me."

"If you don't want to make it, Genevieve, then just tell me so."

"It's not that... I'd make you anything you wanted, and be honored to do so... but your wedding dress? I'm not a dress designer, honey."

"You've designed many dresses. And they were all beautiful. And I know that because I own most–if not all–of them."

"Yes I have, and I know you do, and thank you... but not one of them was a wedding dress. And that's such a different thing... completely different... and so important... I mean, we're talking about you... and yours... "

"And that's exactly why I'm asking you. Because we are, and it is. Though what I'm asking you for really isn't so different. Not in the traditional way you might be thinking, even though different is what I want in every way."

"Every designer in Paris–hell, the world–is dying to be chosen to make your dress, Claire. Any dress you want or envision... I know that. And my being your friend shouldn't stop you from getting the most beautiful dress possible."

"Then don't tell me no."

"I'm not telling you no."

"Good. I wouldn't want to have to unleash Jaimin on you."

"I don't find that a frightful threat, you know," she says, laughter in her voice.

"You don't?" I ask, shock in mine.

"No. Not even a little bit. And it wouldn't intimidate me into reconsidering if I were unwilling to give you what you clearly truly do want, since you were willing to dangle him over me. Brat."

"It wouldn't?" I ask, ignoring–though guilty of being a–brat.

"No. It wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I think that capable-of-being-a-ferocious-tiger of yours is underneath his stripes really just a sweet, gentle kitten. Who knows I adore you, and would only deny your wish so that you could be granted a better one. Or the best... which is without question what he would want for you."

"I want to be beautiful for him. And I want you to make me."

"You'll be beautiful no matter what. And no matter who dresses you for him. And you, as I–as well as every other person who's ever laid eyes on you–know it."

"Thank you. And for saying yes."

"Is that what I just did?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess I should go get started on something else... which, just so you know, the pressure of doing may kill me and may never get finished."

"I'm not that hard to please."

"Whatever you say, Superbrat..."

"Actually, she's not," Jaimin says, materializing out of nowhere behind us–most importantly me... and the back of my now quivering from his declaration... and his LIPS, neck–and proving my point.

And Genevieve smiles. And then gets up and grabs her bag, and my rough sketch of what I envision myself looking like on the day I surrender officially to the man who will always prove my point... and leaves with a blown-to-us kiss.

"Give Loring our love!" I call after her, and hear her chuckle. And I'm pretty sure mumble under her breath as she goes through the door "I'm going to give him something..."

Which makes me smile. Like those lips behind me do again... and then again at my ear... "Good girl."

"Because of 'our'?" I ask him, knowing it is.

"Yes."

"I thought so... but if you take me home now, I'll give you another reason to say it. One that will forever only be yours."

And then it's my bag that's picked up, and me that goes through the door. Is practically dragged... chuckling... because I'm going to give someone something, too...

Because no one said no to me today.


                                                                      ~


"Do you know how happy you make me, Claire?"

"Yes," I beam proudly up at him, "I assure you I do."

"I understand," he starts, with a You have every right to be proud smile, "due to the timing of my question, why you've interpreted it the way you have, and why you look like the Cheshire cat right now... but that's not what I meant, sweetheart."

"No?" I ask, and graze the tip of my proud tongue over the chiseled planes of his stomach. "Then what did you mean?"

He, with a moan of thanks–and regret, I think–pulls his hands from my hair and pulls me up, so that I'm gazing down at his beautiful face instead of up at it. "I meant because of what I saw when I walked into your air. And what Genevieve took with her when she left it."

As usual, I can hide nothing from him... "You saw it?"

"Not in any detailed way... just what it was. And that it was unmistakably you. Your delicate strokes, and not hers."

"You can tell my delicate strokes from someone else's?"

"Of course I can. If there were millions in front of me, I'd know yours in a second."

If he were talking about strokes of a brush, that wouldn't surprise me, but a pencil? That does. "You really do pay attention to me, don't you?"

"Yes. And far more than you pay to me, if you have to ask that question."

"Well, it was kind of a rhetorical question, so... put your interpretation in a drawer or something. For a little while, please."

"Well, I don't really think I need to do that... since I already told you that you make me happy."

"What exactly are you happy about? Can I ask? So I don't interpret anything incorrectly?"

"Yes, you can. And what I'm happy about is that you're thinking about it. And making plans for it. That day when you'll make me happier than any living, breathing being has ever been or could ever be."

"I think about it all of the time. That day..."

"You do?"

God, he's so beautiful when he's vulnerable with his happiness... "Of course I do. I'd be crazy if I wasn't, and I'm a lot of things, but not that." Well...

"My interpretation isn't in the drawer, Claire."

"I know. But, as you can see, your ring is on my finger, so..."

"So...? So what? Tell me. I want to know what so means."

"Why don't you just use it? Your interpretation... since you pointed out to me that it isn't in the drawer?"

"Because I don't want to. I want to hear what it means from you."

"Okay," I tell him, because I'll let him hear anything he wants, and do it as proudly as anything else.

But there's a certain way I want to let him. And it isn't the way we are now. So I shift myself, to straddle him instead of lie on, the way he pulled me to do. And then I pull him up beneath me, so that he's not lying at all, and I have to look up at him again instead of down at.

To give him what he wants. And what I know will make him happy. Or er... "It means that marrying you... becoming your wife... will be the greatest honor of my life. And that a minute doesn't go by in any day that I don't know that. No matter what else my mind has to focus on... or share with that knowing... and the knowing of how truly happy my greatest honor will make you.

"So, be happy, Jaimin... but please, never be surprised that that day is on my mind. Or in my strokes... whether guiding them or just keeping them company, and whether those strokes are with a pencil or a brush... and know that, whether you see me making plans or don't... that I always am. For you. And for forever with, instead of just that day I'll hand myself over to.

"But know... also... that never in my life... have I looked more forward to a spring."

Never.


                                                                       ~


It definitely isn't spring yet. And, though I wanted this, and love it, what I most look forward to during these long days of not-spring-yet winter is the ends of them. The moments when I can let them go. And let myself. With the man I want to spend all of the seasons of my life with.

Both the gallery and the restaurant have been very busy, and keeping us, and our moments together far too few. We both have everything we ever wanted, and spend our days buried in that everything, but because we are, we also can't.

I don't miss the storms we so many times exhausted each other with, but I miss the lazy days we spent recovering from them together. When I didn't have any responsibilities, and Jaimin pretended he didn't, because he made me his top. And his top priority.

I miss the days when we–well, me–had nothing to do and did exactly that. Together. When we had picnics on our nest on the floor... whether delicacies made by him or delicacies made of each other.

When we'd sit just looking at, and never wanting to see anything else. Or when we'd watch each other work...

Him in our kitchen that's really only his, while he 'worked' only for me... while I watched from my perch...

Or me in our shared space that is really only mine, because if he's in it he's watching me. Doing what I could never not. Like his need to feed me... give sustenance and strength to...

My painting is the only way I can give it to myself.

My painting that delivered me here. To this place he all but delivered to me when he gave it to me. For the parts of me I'm willing to share with the world. The only parts. And the only ones I ever would or will again. With anyone but him.

Him, who doesn't get jealous of them. Or my willingness to share them. Sometimes, anyway. I don't share the ones he does get jealous about. Or wants to keep only for himself. For his eyes and no one else's.

Sometimes when I'm working on something, or have finished it, he gets this look on his face... a selfish and possessive... a I want it look. And if I see it it's all I need to. To leave it where it is... in our shared space.

And other times he tells me. Lets me hear his wants, the way he always wants to hear mine. Tells me so there can be no wrong interpretation... "Don't take that to the gallery, Claire. Don't sell it. I want it."

And I do what he says. Let him have what he wants. Because what he wants is another piece or part of me, and there are no pieces or parts that he can't have. Or that I won't give him. Proudly.

Like the part he wants now...

My mouth...

In a different way than he had it this morning after he had it this. "Time for lunch, beautiful. Well PAST time."

"I was coming," I tell him, "I swear I was. It was just too busy for me to be able to for a while. At the time you told me to."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do. And that it's not now, so eat your lunch before it gets again."

"Okay," I say, and follow his lead to my office. With tremendous effort on my part to not let the view that doing that provides me completely take my mind off of where we are. "I'll be upstairs if you need me, Emilie!"

"I'm sure she can handle things," Jaimin tells me, opening my door and gesturing me inside. "At least long enough for you to eat. And tell me who your last patron was. And why he was, for the second time in as many days."

"How and why do you know that he was?" is what I say, instead of answering his questions.

Which he, of course, doesn't like. Or acknowledge my doing. "Answer me, Claire."

And because I don't want to argue... "He's no one. Just a, as you said, patron."

"With plans to be a daily?"

"I certainly doubt that."

"In spite of the fact that he was on two consecutive."

"He bought something yesterday. A piece that he was very taken with... "

"Be careful, Claire... "

"A piece of ART, Jaimin. Mine. This is my gallery, remember? Where I'm selling?"

"You should start eating, Claire. Because your mouth needs something to do other than get smart with me."

And yours needs something to do other than– "CLAIRE."

Be irrational. "Eat or talk? Which is it that I'm not doing quickly enough for you?"

"Do you really want to find out? By not doing BOTH right now?"

"No," I say, and open my mouth. For the bite he's holding in front of it that I'm apparently supposed to chew with said mouth open and talking. "I wouldn't at all, actually."

"Wise choice," he praises, giving me at least a second to chew. But not much more than. "That requires a follow up of sound reaching my ears."

"I love your ears."

"You love my hands, too, but not always. Which I'd hate to have to remind us both of the painful truth of."

"Can you repeat the question, please?" I ask him now, because the thought of 'not always' has made me forget it. Or them... I think he asked more than one?

"WHO. WAS. HE? And WHY was he here again today after I saw him here yesterday?"

"Yes, those were the questions you asked. Though you asked them much more quietly the first time."

"CLAIRE."

You'd think he'd be a little more patient with my mouth after what I did to him with it this morning... 

"I'M WAITING."

But you'd apparently be WRONG to think that. "Well, I'd have to check the books for the who. His name has already slipped my mind. But I can answer the why...

"As I said before, or started to say, he was very taken with the piece he bought yesterday. And, because he was, I mentioned to him before he left that I had another that I thought may equally 'take' him if he was in any way–or would be at any time in the near future–interested in a second piece."

"And?"

"And he said he that would be. Or was at that moment, to be specific."

"AND?"

"And I told him that at that moment the other piece wasn't here. But that I could bring it, should he truly wish to see it. And he said that he truly did, and asked if it would be possible to do so today. And, since it was at home, and easily acquirable–as you helped me to do and carry in here on this very morning–I said that it was. And then called him on this to inform him that it was here. An hour after which time he came to see, and subsequently purchase, it, having–as I thought he might–been equally taken with it."

"And was he TAKEN with anything else? That would lead me to being taken with the irresistible task of taking his pulse–FROM HIM–and his art-appreciating eyes from their sockets?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"I saw him smiling as he went out the door."

"And if he was–I hadn't noticed–I imagine it was the same kind of smile you might see on my face if I'd just purchased–or had purchased for me–a positively fabulous pair of shoes or boots or something. And nothing more than."

"That better be the kind it was, Claire."

"Well, it would be the only kind that would mean anything to me–had I seen it, which, again, I did not–or that I would acknowledge at all, on anyone's face but yours. If I acknowledged any at all, which is highly unlikely. Even though, at this moment, I'm struggling to remember what yours looks like... "

"Then perhaps at this moment what you should be doing is thinking of how you might put one on my face."

That shouldn't be too hard... since he seems willing. Willing enough to suggest it, anyway. So... "My lunch is culinary PERFECTION, Mr. Guillory. I am in awe of your skills."

Except he's not making it that easy. Which may simply be because he's simply THAT COCKY and already aware of my too-obvious-to-his-cocky-ears compliment.

And "I already know that," he says, confirming my suspicions. And looking bored while doing it.

And sexy... the cocky, too-and too-sexy-for-his-own-good, bastard.

"Of course you do. Just like the other thing I considered telling you... which I guess I should stop considering, since you apparently only want to hear something you don't already know... "

"What was the other thing?" he asks, telling me to stop considering nothing if it was about him.

"Oh, just that I love you... but if that isn't old, unexciting news, then–"

"Say it again," he orders. "Without the 'oh', and the 'just' that came before it, and all of that NONSENSE after."

Yes, SIR... "I love you."

Oh, there it is... a small version, anyway...

"Can you repeat that, sweetheart? Just one more time? Because I'm not sure I heard you clearly. Your voice being so soft and delicate as it is... "

And he thinks I'm adorable?  "I LOVE YOU. Is that better? Clearer?"

And why your smile is HUGE now?

"PERFECTLY," he says, holding none of how much better and clearer it is to him inside.

Which makes everything else melt away.

Until I hear the bell of the front door.

And a bell of another sort on Jaimin's phone at exactly the same time.

Telling us both that our perfect moment is over.

Well...

Almost.  "I LOVE YOU TOO, CLAIRE."



                                                                        ~



It's been a few days since the game of 20 Questions about my revisiting, re-taken, and repurchasing customer. The first game of 20 Questions, that is. Because on every day since there's been another. Or a quiet but not–AT ALL–visit from Jaimin–or, more specifically, his NOT QUIET but ever-enchanting eyes–when any MAN was in the gallery.

And, after only a few days or not, it's really starting to wear on me. The visits, and the questions whether there was the first or not.

The questions that I don't even understand how he knows to ask. And the visits to make. Because when he's across our street he should be focused on why he is; Jouissance. His realized dream long before I even decided Couleurs d'Air was mine, let alone had it realized.

But he can't be... focused on what he should be. Because, if he was, he wouldn't know when to focus on me. I mean, seriously... What does he do... ? Stand in his doorway and watch mine? For the entirety of the time I'm within? He must, because how else would he know EVERY SINGLE TIME a man enters my space?

"He was in here for almost an hour, Claire."

"Yes, appreciating what is."

"I have NO DOUBTS about that, I assure you. And DON'T need to be reminded by you."

"I was talking about my paintings, Jaimin. Paintings that I believed you appreciated more than anyone."

"I do."

"Then why are you discrediting their worth–and frankly, making me feel like they have none–by insinuating that no man would come in here and spend a single moment looking at them?"

"I wouldn't. And absolutely did NOT. And, it was 58 moments, not a single."

He counted? Oh, Jaimin... "And every one of them, however many they were, were spent looking at my art, not me. And you have to stop doing this. Running over here every time a man comes through the doors. And then drilling me for an hour after they've left."

"It hasn't been an hour, Claire, don't exaggerate. An hour is how long that man was in here. And I have to stop says who?"

"Says me, though my says is more like asks. Because I am... asking you... to please... please stop?"

"Stop what? Loving you? Thinking about you when I'm not with you? Worrying about you when I'm not, and not here to protect you? Wanting to do just that–protect you–always? Or not liking it when someone else wants to do anything with you? Or to? Like, yes, even just look at. For a moment or 58 of them. Don't ask me not to do those things, Claire, unless what you truly mean to ask me is not to be who I am. The man who loves you more than anything on this earth, and who would do anything for you, and to keep you safe. By my definition of what that is. All of which you already know, and quite well, and, I thought, loved me despite knowing."

"I do. And you know I'm not asking you to not be who you are. I love who you are... I just want you to let me be who I am, too."

"You think I'm stopping you from doing that? Or trying to? By making sure that you're safe?"

"No, but you're inhibiting it by being unwilling to accept that some of the people who appreciate who I am, and what comes from that, will be men. And that that what, unlike you, is all that they want from me. Because they think it is beautiful, not me."

"But you are beautiful, Claire. And naive if you think any living, breathing man doesn't see how much you are the moment they walk through those doors, no matter why they initially walked through them."

We're getting nowhere. Because he's not listening to me. Or is just unwilling to hear me over himself. And his need to prove that his irrational behavior isn't.

And, for today, anyway, the nowhere we are is far enough for me. Because I'm too tired, and my head hurts too much, to try to get him to go anywhere else with me.

"Is the inquisition over? May I be excused? Or do you have other questions for me?"

"Excused?"

"Yes, Jaimin, excused. Am I or not?"

"What is it you're asking to be excused from, Claire?"

"This office, mine, that you've turned into your interrogation chamber."

"Is that just your way of saying you'd like one of us to leave it? Your, as you said, office?"

"No. It's my way of saying that I have a pounding headache, and no aspirin in it, and that I would like to leave it to see if Emilie has any in her purse."

"I have aspirin, Claire. And it will take me 30 seconds, 58 at most, to run across the street and get some for you. You only had to ask."

"Would you, please?"

He doesn't answer, merely strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head before doing exactly as he said and running to get what I need. Which I might not need at all if he'd just stayed where he's running to get it from for any consecutive 58 minutes of this day.

But he's who he is...

And apparently who he is is never going to do that as long as I'm who I am.

And HIS.



                                                                       ~



"How's your head, beautiful?" he whispers softly, leaning down to where it's cradled very much the same in his lap.

"I'll live," I whisper back, but am not sure at all that that's true, because it's still killing me. And, I am sure, or beginning to be convinced, at least, that it's trying to.

"I'm sorry if it hurts because of me. I really am, sweetheart."

"It doesn't," I tell him, even though it's at least in part a lie to. "But every time I have a pain in my ass, it will undoubtedly have your name all over it."

He shows incredible restraint–and concern for my throbbing head–by not responding to that, but not enough not to rub his hand slowly and deliberately over my aforementioned ass...

Which actually... "That feels good. And your other hand should do the same a little higher up. Or a lot higher up, I suppose... "

"You mean here?" he asks, stroking his fingers tenderly across my forehead and into my always-aching-for-his-touch hair.

"Exactly there," I think I say, though I'm not sure it wasn't just a moan of pure pain-replaced bliss.

That, regardless of what it was, he heard clearly. And would let his hand fall off before he'd stop letting himself hear it. Or me feel...

Did I say I had a headache? I don't think I can even remember what a headache is...

Because, once again, there is only me...

And him.

Perfect... PERFECT... him. "Mmmmmm... "





                                                                         ~



The last couple of weeks have truly been near perfect. No headaches. No storms. No interrogations or 20 Questions games...

There have been visits from my perfectly imperfect man... I'd be sad if there weren't. And close, watchful eyes... but they've been sweet. And adoring. And quiet, and respectful. And very, very well-behaved.

If ever Jaimin was without his sometimes-earned horns, it is now. And was everyday in the weeks leading up to. He might even be worthy and deserving of a halo. The thought of which makes me smile. And wonder if we have marshmallows in the cupboard...

I think I'll check when we get home tonight. But right now, I'm paying a surprise visit to my gorgeous dark angel. Because I'm not busy at the moment, and because I miss him. Because he only paid me one today. So far. Which was, coincidentally, I'm sure, at the same time that I happened to have my only gentleman patron of this so far day.

"Hello, Claire! How are you on this lovely day? Besides lovely, of course?"

"I'm good, Michel, thank you. And how are you? Besides invaluable, of course?"

"From your mouth to HIS ears," he laughs, and gives me a HIS-ish wink. Which makes me laugh...

Because it's not at all the same...

Which is a good thing. For all parties. "So, where is HE? Is he terribly busy?"

"For you, never. And I believe he is at this moment never too busy for you in his office."

"Is it okay if I just head there?"

"Unless you would prefer an escort?" he asks, offering his arm.

"Thank you, but no, that's not necessary."

I smile at his gentlemanly bow, and walk away and to Jaimin's office with that smile still on my face. But when I get there, I don't think he is, like Michel thought, because my soft knock goes unanswered, making that smile fall a little. Perhaps my surprise won't be one after all. But before I head back having not delivered it, I knock a second time, a little harder and louder than the first. He still doesn't answer it, the space behind his door soundless, except for a faint ping, similar to that of a chat or message prompt if a person were online. Something Jaimin rarely is, if ever. Not to mention that he's not the chat type. At all.

And not the type to ignore someone knocking on his office door, even if I'm behind it with him, because no one would bother him when he's in there unless it was important. His employees aren't stupid. Or crazy, that I know of...

Especially Michel, who must not know that he stepped out, or he wouldn't have directed me here as the place where I would find him. Him, who I–not wearing any bit of a smile now–didn't.

But just as I turn to walk away because I didn't, I hear that sound again from behind his door. That faint ping. That this time I don't shrug off. Because I want to know what it is. And want to know bad enough that I turn around and turn the door handle.

It turns in my hand, the door isn't locked, which tells me his exit from his office must have been a swift and unplanned one. And that he'll likely be back to it just as quickly. So I go inside, where I'll wait for him seated in his chair behind his desk. His desk on which his computer sits. Not making any noise now...

No ping or prompt of any kind...

But doing something.

Showing my eyes something that they truly can't believe they see.