“And you could end up hating me,” he said, leaning into her touch as he closed his eyes.
She inhaled deeply, and when he opened his eyes, she was staring up at him, her eyes worried. “Is that what you want?”
“No!” he cried. “God, no!”
The elevator dinged to signal their arrival, and she dropped her hand. “Then make a choice to keep me safe and make me proud and make me adore you.”
“It can’t be that easy,” he said, wincing as his mother’s shattered face flitted through his mind and vowing never to be the cause of that pain for Libitz.
“Yes, Jean-Christian,” she said confidently, ducking under his arm as the doors opened and leaving him to follow. “It is exactly that easy.”
***
An hour later, they had cashed a bottle of her favorite Sauvignon Blanc and stood side by side at her dining room table, staring at the portrait together as they waited for an order of Chinese to arrive.
“It’s pi,” he said for the umpteenth time.
“It’s l’chaim,” she argued, squinting at the tiny marking they’d found in Pierre’s signature, cleverly hidden between the t and f in Montferrat.
“She was probably a math student.”
“A math student by day and nude art model by night? Right!” Libitz scoffed.
“L’chaim?” asked Jean-Christian, bending over the painting. “Where in the world would he have met a young Jewish model? My uncle was Catholic!”
“And you think he went searching for his models at church?” she asked tartly. “Look closely. See this tiny slash to the left of the upside-down U? That’s what makes it l’chaim. Believe me, I’m right. I was forced to go to Hebrew school from the cradle.”
“And I was a finance major. That tiny slash is part of the t. Or an abrasion.”
Libitz backed away from the dining room table where they’d unwrapped the painting and crossed her arms over her chest defensively. He was so deep in concentration, he didn’t notice for a few seconds, but once he did, he looked up at her.
“What? Are you giving up the fight?”
“Do you have a problem with her being Jewish?”
“What? What are you—”
“Do. You. Have. A. Problem. With. Her. Being. Jewish?”
He recoiled like she’d hit him, standing up straight and putting his hands on his hips. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am.”
His brows furrowed together, his lips an angry slash.
“Why aren’t you answering?” she demanded, dropping her hands to her sides but keeping them in fists.
“I’m trying to decide whether or not to spank you,” he spat, his eyes bright with anger. “Why the fuck would you ask me something like that?”
“Because you’re…you’re…”
She sputtered, all the wind promptly leaving her sails.
One look at his face told her the answer to her question. He was outraged that she’d even suggested that he was prejudiced, and she regretted making the assumption. It came from an old place of hurt and suspicion, and she hated that it still made her insecure from time to time.
She softened her voice, unfurling her fingers. “Because you were just fighting so hard to convince me it was pi.”
“It looks like pi to me,” he said, putting his hands on his hips, his face still furious. “Do I look like a bigot to you?”
She shook her head, taking her empty wine glass from the table and walking alone into her living room. Reaching into the wine fridge concealed under a wet bar, she took out another bottle of white wine and unscrewed the cap, pouring herself a healthy splash. When she looked up, Jean-Christian was standing in the doorway between the two rooms, staring at her, his expression guarded.
“You didn’t answer me,” he said.
“No,” she said, taking a sip as she padded over to the sofa in bare feet. “You don’t look like a bigot. I look like an idiot.”
He turned around to grab his wineglass and followed her into the living room, pouring a refill before joining her on the couch. “So what was that?”
She sighed, meeting his eyes. “Insecurity.”
“Yours.”
“Mine. My Achilles’ heel.”
Jean-Christian took another sip of wine before placing his glass on the table and turning back to her. He reached out to run his fingers through her hair, and she closed her eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath.
“I was one of four Jewish kids at a super WASPy prep school,” she whispered without opening her eyes. She leaned into his touch, relinquishing her glass easily when he took it from her fingers and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her. “I overlooked, even tolerated, the occasional under-the-breath comment about my religion and culture. But you have to understand…I was in the minority, and I was a kid. It was easier to try to blend in, even if that meant putting up with small-minded prejudice.”