“Colors?”
“Colors are odd to me today. Particularly greens and blues and yellows.”
“Odd how?”
“Like everything with those colors has a fresh coat of wet paint and is surrounded by all of the other dingy colors I’m used to. I feel like I’m tripping on acid.”
“Did you dream of France?” He looked at his wineglass. “I’m assuming that since I got through your front door just now, you must be having some interesting dreams. Last night, you were just sure I was crazy.”
When he said it my knees almost buckled, so I leaned on the counter like I was cool—not in order to remain standing upright. “Maybe.”
He laughed. “You have to work with me here a little, you know.”
“I haven’t been to this particular region of France, but yes, it seemed very French and people were speaking… well, they were speaking French.”
“So, you know French?” He smiled, already knowing the answer.
“Not exactly.”
“But you understood what they were saying?”
I stopped mid-sip. I had. While I hadn’t realized it before now, everyone in my dream had, indeed, spoken French, I’d understood every word. My mom, Margie Connor, had insisted that I study Spanish, not French. I don’t speak French.
“Could have been Canada, I guess?” He was teasing me. “You’ll dream more tonight. Hard to say what will come back next, but usually it comes out in chronological order.”
“You’re so full of bullshit.” I took a deep breath. “This is craziness. I’m just having some weird dreams, that’s all. I just got some vitamin B tablets from the farmers market. They’re probably laced with some shit, that’s all.” With that, I took a too-large gulp of wine and held it in my mouth for a moment before swallowing it. “I also fainted today at work.”
He looked concerned at this. “Nosebleed, too?”
“Yes.” I could hear my voice rising. “How did you—?”
“That happens to you while your memories are coming back to you—or, as you put it, your ‘weird dreams.’ It’s not a natural process you’re going through, so it takes a toll on you, physically.”
“So I can expect more fainting episodes? I just thought it was from all the excitement today.” I took another gulp of wine. “Oh, I had a senator ruin his career in front of me this morning. I don’t suppose you’re to blame for that?”
“Nope. Not me this time, I’m afraid.” he said. “But the fainting episodes are something I do know about.” He picked up the top of his wineglass with his fingers and walked into the living room, like the house was his, as he rounded the sofa and sat down. “Let’s do a little parlor trick, like the Victorians used to do. Do you want me to tell you about the dreams you’re having?”
“Do you have a tarot deck in your pocket?”
“Tarot… please…” He rolled his eyes. “I can do better than that.”
“Sure,” I said. “It’ll take my mind off of Asa Heathcote.”
He seemed unconcerned about Heathcote as he settled into my sofa, rearranging my throw pillows around him. “I bet you I can tell you what you were dreaming about.”
“Go ahead.”
“You were sixteen years old.” He looked out my window before he continued. “You lived in the Vendée region of France—a town called Challans. That’s a shipping region southwest of Paris, but also thick with forests, lush. Very green. It is also near the ocean. You come from a family of farmers. Your parents raised corn, sunflowers, and chickens.”
I swirled my wine. I could envision the scene he was painting for me. I’d just seen it. “So no royalty or wine merchants?” I knew the answer already, but I wanted him to tell me more.
“It wasn’t very romantic, but I imagine you’ve seen it already, haven’t you?” He sat on the edge of the sofa and waited for my reply.
I said nothing but joined him on the sofa—the far end away from him.
“You have to understand that at that time, there was a romantic notion of the countryside. The Parisians thought life was simpler in the country, so all of the painters and artists flocked there in the summers.”
“And was it? Simpler?”
“Life isn’t simple anywhere. At least that has been my experience.” He put his hand on his chin, and I noticed the stubble was forming a beard on his face. “In the summers, the region was home to several famous writers and painters. It was a marvelous place. The area was farther away from the ocean with green and yellow fields. Your family wasn’t one of the wealthier families. They didn’t own a lot of land. Just enough to get by.”
The darkness of the room and the light behind him cast deep shadows across Luke Varner’s face. He pushed the sleeves of his thin black sweater up to his elbows and rested his forearms on his thighs. He seemed like he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue with the story. But I wanted him to.
He looked up. “And you.” He inhaled and leaned back into the sofa that seemed to swallow him up. “Well, you saw yourself.”
I didn’t reply.
He smiled, knowing he was right. “You don’t look that different. You had auburn hair then—they call it titian now, I think.” He reached over and touched the bottom of a loose strand of hair. It was an intimate gesture, but I let him do it, though I wasn’t sure why.
“Titian, in honor of the painter,” I said.
He nodded. “Your hair tumbled down your back and half the time you’d knot it up with something, as if the length of it annoyed you. You worked hard. You were up in the fields by early morning and feeding the chickens. You were beautiful, but country life was hard back then. And…” His voice trailed off.
I half expected the doorbell to ring and to find officers standing on my front step to tell me they had come to collect Luke Varner and return him to some mental institution and apologize for any inconvenience his stories had caused me. He knew exactly what was in my thoughts. How was that possible?
“The artist Auguste Marchant and his wife owned the estate that bordered your family’s farm. They visited in the summers to escape Paris.”
Although Roger had said the name of the artist thousands of times, when Luke spoke the name, “Auguste Marchant,” I felt a chill go up my back. How was Luke Varner describing my dream so vividly? And why Auguste Marchant? Roger’s obsession with him ruined our marriage. Now I couldn’t even get away from Marchant in my dreams. In fact, Roger would probably kill to be having such detailed dreams of the artist.
“You’ll find yourself scattered throughout his paintings over the years. Just look at the paintings at the Hanover Collection or go to the Musée d’Orsay. You were Marchant’s muse.”
“Girl on Step?”
“One of my favorites,” he said. “I’m glad that painting is here with you now. It should always be with you. Think about it. You probably touched it a hundred times.”
“What you’re describing,” I finally admitted. “I saw this today. It was like a dream. How is this happening?”