It’s not a predetermined thing like your blood type or eye color. It’s a choice. It’s a choice to love someone and be faithful to them and do the work. We’re all capable of that.
He had seen happy marriages, of course…or rather marriages that looked happy. But his cynicism always got the better of him as he wondered if it was a fa?ade—if the smiles of “happy” couples were faked to conceal a world of pain behind them. One of them is cheating and the other just doesn’t know, he’d reason. Or he’d think, They’re still in the “in love” stage, as his parents had been for a long time, but one day it would all change. When he felt a longing for “happily ever after” surge up inside of him, which pretty much happened whenever he was with his siblings, he shoved it down, reminding himself that someone would have to be “the strong one” when all their relationships went to shit and they came crying to him. He didn’t believe in true love…or at least he didn’t want to.
But Libitz’s fervent convictions had been seared instantly into his brain, leaving him uncertain of his course for the first time in a long time. It was better not to commit to anyone, wasn’t it? It was better not to risk hurting someone. It was better to play the field and love no one. Wasn’t it?
If that’s what he believed, why hadn’t he said as much to her? Why hadn’t he shared his truth with her? Why had he listened in rapt silence, his heart beating out of his chest, hanging on every word like they were lifelines instead of the thoughts of one delectable little New Yorker?
Was it possible that everything he’d conditioned himself to believe, to want, wasn’t actually what he believed or wanted at all?
“I think I might have found something amazing!” she cried, suddenly appearing beside the armoire, holding several dusty relics in her arms.
He grinned at her, surprised the gesture came so easily.
Yeah, he thought, hope spreading through his chest like a balm, like something he’d lost so long ago, he almost didn’t recognize it inside of him. I think I might have found something amazing too.
Chapter 8
“Show me what you found.”
Behind the well-preserved Louis XIV armoire, she’d found a roll-top desk. Opening the bottom drawer, she found what appeared to be a mangy journal, a stack of yellowed letters, and an old-fashioned men’s shaving case in a rolled leather pouch with two dull brass buckles.
Holding her treasures in her arms, she made her way around the armoire to Jean-Christian, looking for a table on which to place them. Finding none, she lowered herself to a squat and placed them gently on the dusty floor. Then she sat down cross-legged beside them and looked up at him.
“Don’t you want to see?”
“We’re just going to sit on the floor?”
“Hell yes!” she exclaimed.
He gave her a look before joining her on the weathered wooden boards, sitting across from her. “Well…?”
She handed him the leather shaving case. “Was this his?”
J.C. used his hand to dust off the side of the pouch and found initials burned into the leather. “PVM. Pierre Victor Montferrat. Yep. Must have been.”
“Open it! I’ll look in this,” she said, reaching for the journal.
The art historian in her said that she shouldn’t be looking at these antique things here—that they should take them to his gallery where they could spread them out on a table under white lights and handle them with gloved hands. But she couldn’t resist learning more about Pierre Montferrat and, hopefully, the beautiful model in the painting.
Pushing the letters gently to the side, she placed the journal on a flat board and opened it gingerly, the old leather giving with a creak as she used a touch more force to smooth the front page.
Pierre Montferrat
47 Rue de Petit Puits
Marseille
A rush of anticipation coursed through Libitz as she reached down to turn the page, but she was interrupted by her partner in crime.
“Wow. Look at this stuff!” said Jean-Christian, who had opened the brass buckles and unfurled the leather case to reveal an ivory-handled razor, a small rectangular ivory box to hold soap, an ivory-handled brush that still had most of its bristles intact, and a mirror with a geometric design carved into the ivory.
“Classic art deco,” whispered Libitz, reaching out to finger the black spots of missing silver on the antique mirror.
“Hmm,” said Jean-Christian, noting a zipper on the back of the case. “I wonder what’s…” His sharp intake of breath stole her attention from the mirror, and she looked over to see his fingers pull an emerald necklace from the pouch, the tarnished setting and glittering jewels spilling into his hands.
“The necklace!” she gasped. “Is it—”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m positive. It’s the one from the portrait!”
Cupped in his hands, he offered it to her like a gift, and Libitz removed it carefully, searching for the ends before holding it up between them.
“My God,” she said. “It’s like holding history in my hands.”