Page 21 of The Art of Vanishing

Jean

We passed the next few months in a flurry of makeshift art lessons with eccentric hosts and stolen hours alone in the empty corners of the worlds we had visited.

We played cards with Cézanne’s farmhands, shot the breeze with Seurat’s models, and swam in the Mediterranean Sea.

I revealed my horrific dancing skills to Claire, and she pulled me out of the heat of a crowded room and into a moonlit landscape where we could sway to a nonexistent beat in peace.

I couldn’t remember ever feeling joy like this.

Life outside our painted wonderland wasn’t as easygoing.

The skies visible through our room’s colossal windows turned gray with a wintry chill.

Claire’s work was more laborious as she swiped away each boot print that brought the sludge of the sidewalks into our cozy sanctuary.

The warmth of my world inside the frame contrasted with the bleakness of her exterior reality.

I’d watched it happen every year; the change of the seasons seemed impossible, like winter would never end.

And year after year, spring always came.

Early in March, there was an uncharacteristically warm stretch of weather.

The patrons’ clothing tipped me off—shorts and dresses with higher hemlines were wrenched from the backs of closets.

Layers were stripped off as guests browsed by, having underestimated how warm they would get on their walk over.

Claire confirmed my suspicions when she crawled in through the frame that night. “It’s different out there today, right?” I asked as I pulled her to her feet.

“What?” she responded, brushing her jumpsuit back down along her legs.

“It’s warmer out there today? I thought, because of the way people were dressed…”

“Oh, yeah, you’re totally right, it was really nice out today. Like, nicer than it should be for this time of year. I thought you meant—you know what, never mind.”

“What is it?”

“I thought you were referring to this other thing, but there’s no way. Anyway, it’s definitely not a big deal and I’d way rather talk about something else.”

Her tone worried me. There was so much about Claire’s life I didn’t understand, that I couldn’t see, and that she refused to show me.

I was desperate for her to let me in, but I was easily distracted by the fact that we were now together again, as I was every night that I got to see her.

I briefly wondered if it had anything to do with our seeing smaller crowds each day, but I’d lived through decades of the ebbs and flows of museum visitors.

It was probably another recession or something else to do with the economy; we were always the first thing to go when people started tightening their purse strings.

Or maybe, I argued with myself, it could always be some kind of scandal with the museum or the administration.

That would certainly keep things interesting.

Marguerite might know more, if that was it.

Claire clearly didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news and I didn’t want to force that on her, so the tense moment passed. “What do you have in mind for today?” she asked, also eager to move along to another topic. I acquiesced.

“If you’re not opposed, I would like to take you on a date.”

“Jean, isn’t every night that we’re together basically a date?”

“Well, every night is special because I get to be with you, but I would say some of the art lessons tend more toward a seminar. I have a real, traditional date in mind. At least, what I used to know of as a date. But we can do something else, if you’d prefer.”

“No, don’t be stupid. Of course I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“Terrific!” I clapped my hands involuntarily. I had always wondered about why people clapped with enthusiasm and suddenly, I was one of them. “Let us go.”

I led her to a table set for two in a sunny restaurant. After pulling out Claire’s chair, I filled the wineglasses up to their brims. I offered her a tear of the baguette and removed the lid of the tureen to reveal a cassoulet, one of my favorite dishes.

“Holy crap,” said Claire. “That looks amazing. May I?” She waved her bread in one hand and when I nodded, she dunked a piece in the broth and popped it in her mouth. “Yeah, yum, that’s as good as I thought it would be.”

“I’m so glad you like it,” I said, spooning some onto the two small plates in front of us.

“Whose is this?” she said, lifting the boater hat off the chair next to her. She looked around and then placed it on top of her head.

“It certainly suits you. I believe it should be yours now.”

“Oh hush, as if that’s how it works.” Claire waved me off but kept the hat on.

When wearing it, she had a delightful jaunt to the way she held her head.

Our conversation meandered on from there, comfortable, not at all rushed.

Not for the first time, I wished every moment of every day could be like this.

“This is what I always dreamed dates would be like,” Claire said wistfully. “Fine food, a handsome man, wine that’s so bitter I know it must be fancy.”

“Oh, come on,” I teased. “I’m not na?ve; I know that I’m not the first man to take you on a proper date, much as I wish I was the only one you’d ever thought of.” I’d seen the ring; I wasn’t a fool. Claire looked at me somberly, the answer shining sadly in her eyes. “Or am I?”

“I haven’t been able to date much in my lifetime,” she said, purposefully revealing no more.

“Because you met him when you were very young?” I inferred.

I was nearing my breaking point. I needed to see some of whatever it was she was hiding from me.

“It’s okay, Claire, you can tell me anything.

It doesn’t have to be everything. I just—don’t know how else to let you know that I’m here for you.

That I’m not going anywhere, no matter what you tell me about your past.”

She was silent. “Please, Claire, please. It’s just me. You trust me, right? Nothing you could say is going to change anything.”

“People always say that but…” Claire was gritting her teeth, forcing whatever was on the tip of her tongue to stay inside. “There are some things that once you speak them, you can’t un-tell someone. Sharing secrets isn’t reversible.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” I said, desperate to get her to understand. “You won’t need to reverse it. I’m still going to love you just as much, no matter what.”

Claire blinked rapidly a few times. “You…love me?” she asked.

My god, it had just slipped out. That was, of course, not how I’d intended to tell her.

But it was the truth. I loved her so very, very much.

And I wasn’t protecting either of us anymore by keeping that to myself.

“Yes,” I told her. “I love you. I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a long, long time. ”

She was quiet for a moment. “There are so many things to tell you, I don’t know how to begin.

It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t know if I’m ready.

” I was disappointed, of course, but I thought I understood as well.

Claire’s life was so much bigger than mine.

There was no way I could understand it all.

She didn’t leave, but she didn’t say much more.

I tried to get a read on what was going on in her mind.

I was sure she was angry with me for pushing her to reveal things she didn’t want to reveal.

I was angry with me. I hadn’t wanted to tell her I loved her in a hurry like that.

I’d had plans for a grand moment. The words had just fallen out.

When we went to bed that night, it was different, needier. We were both staking our claim on each other. A patina of secrecy still hung in the air around us.

We lay together afterward, both exhausted. We stayed there longer than we should have, limbs entangled, unspoken secrets swirling around us in the evening air next to my unreciprocated confession of love.