Pink Ochre Magazine

     “Mr. and Dr. Bellefleuve! Bon Anniversaire!”
     “Merci,” Simon nodded as the maître d’ led them to the table. Their children, spouses, and
five grandchildren greeted them with pecks on their cheeks. “Ma mere, that red dress flatters
you,” her daughter said.
     The waiter delivered a bottle of champagne. “Our compliments on forty magnificent years.”
     “To our parents. To the love that made us a family,” their son toasted. “May we all be so
lucky.”
     Jeanne, the eldest grandchild asked if they were ready for their trip to Finland.
     “Your grandmother, so highly organized. Two weeks of non-stop movement. She’ll kill me
yet and get the peace she deserves. My darling. You know I jest. All of this because of you.”
     “Merci, mon amour. It has indeed been a terrific life. You each have brought me joy.”

—

     Anticipation grew as she approached the red door. Her childhood home now empty, the last
of her family recently departed. The smell of lilacs and hyacinth cut the stale, humid air. She
didn't knock. Over forty years but she still knew every step by heart. With a single twist of the
cold brass handle, the door inched open. The old hinges moaned as she pushed. The weatherstripping scraped across the raw hardwood. Anxious, first steps into the empty foyer.
     The door closed with a snap. Two-inch heels reverberated against the barren walls. Through the hallway to the last room on the right, she made a beeline to the back wall. From her tote bag, she retrieved a mini sledgehammer. The crash echoed through the house. Her second swing sent debris flying with dust clinging to her long grey hair. She continued the assault until a hole revealed the treasures. Protected in their nest, a set of rolled canvases she hid when her parents found out about the affair stared back at her.
     Nimble fingers reached for the top scroll. She dipped to her knees; her ruby-red dress gathered against the floor. The ends were wrapped in frayed blue ribbons. She slid the ribbons off the canvas and unrolled it. A collegian version of herself was reclined nude on a black leather canapé. Her first modeling session, such a liberating experience, she hadn’t been nervous. The second canvas, a charcoal drawing of her straddled across a man. Her hands on his broad shoulders. Head leaned back and eyes closed, her black hair tickled her dimples of Venus. “Henri, my first. You thought you’d whisk me away after college.”
     One by one, she relived her past. Each tapestry became more risqué. A watercolor of her
sunbathing in Cannes. Discreet, her back to the artist, a distinctive mole on her shoulder blade. Next, she found an Aubusson-style painting full of vibrant pastoral landscapes. She lay naked, surrounded by elaborate floral bouquets. “Just before my parents found out.”
     One last scroll. Her fingers trembled, unrolling the prize. The edges cracked as the weight of years made the canvas feel like lead. From the page, Marie’s emerald eyes met hers. Twenty years her senior, the lover who stayed after her family's rejection. Discreet dinners, and clandestine passion. The encouraging literature professor who recited Louise Labé as they made love. The distinctive aroma of bergamot from her Earl Grey tea permeated her housecoat.
     Marie wasn’t her first experience with a woman but with the relationship lasting well into medical school, it was the most serious. The emptiness of forty years shed in a heartbeat. A sudden rush of her perfume. “Without your encouragement, I would never have made it to medical school.” She gathered her history into a soft burlap satchel.

—

      Weeks later, the couple arrived home and immediately retreated to their bedroom. Having already slipped from the red dress, she stood naked behind him. Her fingernails traced his back. Her soft lips pressed against the nape of his neck. She took his hand and led him to the bed. He kissed her shoulder and squeezed her hand.
     Crawling up against the pillows, her eyes gravitated as his lips moved across her. The framed picture hung on the wall across from them. Marie's eyes, short black hair, and pouting lips at the center of the tapestry. The face of the second woman in the painting was obscured by long black hair; a dark mole conspicuous on her shoulder blade.
     The couple on the bed recapitulated the duo in the parchment. Dr. Bellefleuve mimicked Marie's recline, her sinewy fingers tangled around Simon’s white hair. Simon nestled between her legs. Staring at Marie, her body tensed and hips lifted from the bed. Her breathing grew shallow. Simon, the instrument. She, the conductor. This time, on rhythmic waves, she arrived. Once her breathing returned to normal, her eyes again drifted to Marie's.
     Simon sat up, preparing to leave the room. He froze in front of the painting. Turning to his
wife he said, “new painting?”
     “No. A personal favorite from my old university art class. I had it sealed away for years.”
     “Long before we met. I never knew you painted nudes.” He grinned and raised his eyebrows.
     “That's not like your still lifes of the kids with their goldfish and dogs.”
     “A much different time, indeed. While you were away on business, I dug it out from its storage and got it framed.” She paused; her lips formed a wry smile. “Thought it might give you something to ponder.”
     “Interesting piece.”
     “And not exactly something I could have hung for the kids to see.”

     “Your tastes always were a little bohemian. Your brushstrokes are amazingly lifelike,” he nodded. “Talented. You should never have stopped.” He waggled his finger.
     She winked and shrugged. As he left, her hair fell onto her pillow. Her hand reached down and drew the sheet over her naked shoulder, concealing the mole. She rolled onto her side, smiled and drifted to sleep.