He remembered looking down into her deep, dark eyes as she trembled beneath him, ruby lips parted, breathing heavily, and the way her eyes widened as he entered her.
She’d flinched. Somehow he could remember every time he’d made her flinch. And there had been many—when he shamed her for being poor, when he first carried her to bed, when he wove his fingers through her hair and she begged him not to hold her head down, when he admitted that he’d agreed to separate himself from her…
How many times could he hurt her in one short life?
He’d tortured himself by listening to the voicemail messages she’d left for him—messages he hadn’t returned. They’d grown progressively more despondent until they’d ceased altogether. He couldn’t blame her. It was clear that his messages had not gotten through, with the exception of a single email. He opened it again, imagining her reaction.
Stop contacting me.
It’s over.
Regards,
Prof. Gabriel O. Emerson,
Associate Professor
Department of Italian Studies/
Centre for Medieval Studies
University of Toronto
A bitter laugh that he recognized as coming from his own throat echoed in the room. Of course, that would be the message she believed—not the others. He’d lost her now. What hope was there without her?
Gabriel thought back to a conversation he’d had with her about Grace’s favorite book, A Severe Mercy. It was clear in the story that the main characters thought that they’d made an idol of their love—worshipping it and each other to their own detriment. He’d done the same with Julianne, he knew. He’d worshipped her very being, convinced that she was the light that would shine in his darkness.
He’d loved her enough to leave her in order to protect her future. And having left her, he was in peril of never possessing her love again. It was the bitterest twist of fate, that his love for his Beatrice would be precisely what separated him from her.
And what of Paul? Surely he’d use this as an opportunity to comfort Julia. And where would that comfort lead…Gabriel couldn’t entertain the idea that she would be unfaithful. But he knew through her messages that she thought it was over. Paul would simply have to provide a shoulder for her to lean on and he’d be back in her life, in her apartment, in her thoughts.
Angelfucker.
The only relief he could find, if relief it was, would be to torture himself with music and poetry. He clicked a button, and Sting’s retelling of the story of David and Bathsheba filled the room. As the song swirled in the air, he gazed at Dante’s poetic reflection on the death of Beatrice and found his heart echoing the words from La Vita Nuova.
“An abject wretch like this
May not imagine anything of her,—
He needs no bitter tears for his relief.
But sighing comes, and grief,
And the desire to find no comforter,
(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief,)
To him who for a while turns in his thought
How she hath been among us, and is not.
With sighs my bosom always laboureth
On thinking, as I do continually.
Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace;
And very often when I think of death,
Such a great inward longing comes to me
That it will change the colour of my face;
And, if the idea settles in its place.
All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit;
Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,
I do become so shent
That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.
Afterward, calling with a sore lament
On Beatrice, I ask, ‘Canst thou be dead?’
And calling on her, I am comforted.”
Gabriel closed the document on his computer and traced a light finger over the photograph of the lovely woman who graced his computer screen. He would discharge his duty over the next few days, but he would do so without his Beatrice to comfort him. In her absence, perhaps he would succumb to his old temptations to deaden the pain.
Chapter 33
On a Friday afternoon in mid-April, Julia arrived at Rachel and Aaron’s apartment in Philadelphia. Rachel had planned on visiting her in Toronto and bringing the bridesmaid dress with her, but she had trouble getting the time off work. Since she was trying to save her vacation days for the honeymoon, Julia agreed to leave the comfortable confines of her hobbit hole, instead.
Rachel welcomed her friend with a hug, escorting her to the living room. Julia eyed the binders of samples and swatches that covered the coffee table.
“So the wedding planning is finished?”
Rachel shook her head. “Not quite. But I don’t want to talk about the wedding; I want to talk about you.” She eyed her friend with a concerned look. “This thing with you and Gabriel was a complete shock.”
Julia winced. “To me too.”
“He won’t return our calls or answer our emails, and believe me, we’ve tried. Scott copied me on the email he sent, and it was scathing.
“Did you know that Gabriel was in Selinsgrove a couple of weeks ago?”
“Selinsgrove?” Julia was dumbfounded. “I thought he was in Italy.”
“Why would he go there?”