Gabriel's Rapture (15 page)

Paul couldn’t sleep. Had he been a melodramatic sort of person he would have described his restless evening as a
dark night of the soul
. But Paul was from Vermont and thus not melodramatic. Nonetheless, after a long evening over dinner and beer with players from his rugby team, Paul couldn’t get the image of Julia’s marked skin out of his mind.

He had well-defined views about how a man should treat a woman, views that had been shaped largely by his parents. His mother and father weren’t overly demonstrative in their affection nor were they sentimental. But they always treated one another with respect. Paul’s mother had encouraged him to treat girls like ladies, and his father had demanded the same, saying that if he ever heard of Paul treating a girl badly, he’d have to answer for his behavior.

Paul thought back to his first keg party, during his freshman year at St. Michael’s College, and how he’d run into a girl in a torn shirt on his way to the bathroom. He’d calmed her down and demanded that she point out who had attacked her. Paul cornered her assailant and held him until the campus police showed up, but not before roughing him up a little.

When his younger sister Heather was being tormented by boys in junior high school, boys who made lewd comments and snapped her bra strap against her back, he waited for the little fuckers after school and threatened them. Heather continued her education bully-free after that.

In Paul’s romantic economy, violence against women was absolutely unthinkable, and he would have used his savings to get on a plane to track down the person who had marked Julia, if he only knew the asshole’s name and location.

It was his own fault she wouldn’t talk to him, he reasoned, as he stared at the wall of his simple apartment. He had gone all knight in shining armor on her, and she’d retreated. If he’d been less angry and more supportive, then perhaps she would have revealed what actually happened. But he’d pushed her, and now it was unlikely that she’d ever tell him the truth.

Should I respect her by staying out of it?
Or should I try to help her no matter what she says?

Paul didn’t know which arm of the dilemma he was going to choose, but one thing he knew for sure—he was going to keep his eye on Julia, and he’d be damned if anyone would injure her when he was around.

* * *

Shortly before eleven the next morning, Julia rolled out of bed from under Gabriel’s arm. She pulled on one of his white Oxford button-down shirts and stood in front of the large black and white framed photograph of Gabriel kissing her neck.

She loved the photograph but had been surprised to see it so prominently displayed on his wall and in so large a size. It made her think back to her first visit, when she studied the black and white photographs that used to grace his walls. And he’d vomited all over her and his British-racing-green sweater.

Gabriel certainly had panache when it came to his clothing. He would have looked good wearing nothing but a brown paper bag. (Julia meditated on that thought for more than a few seconds.)

Leaving Gabriel to snore softly in peace, she walked to the kitchen. As she helped herself to breakfast, she thought back to his behavior the night before.

What had he been doing in his study on a Friday night?

Before she could consider the implications of her actions, she found herself wandering into his office. She walked over to his desk and saw that his laptop was switched off. All the papers from the night before had been cleared away, the gleaming oak of the desktop almost bare. There was no way she was going to open his files and desk drawers in search of his secrets.

However, she found something on his desk that she had not expected—a small, sterling silver frame with a black and white picture in it.

Maia
.

She picked up the photo and held it in her hand, marveling that Gabriel had progressed so far as to have the ultrasound picture framed. Lost in thought, she stood looking at it for what seemed like a long time.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

She whirled around to find Gabriel leaning against the doorframe, arms across his chest, clad only in a T-shirt and a pair of striped boxer shorts.

He stared a little too long at the naked flesh that peeked out from between the top buttons and at her shapely legs. He glanced at the picture frame and his expression shifted.

Julia quickly replaced the frame on the desk. “I’m sorry.”

Gabriel strode toward her. “I haven’t decided where to put it.” He looked at the picture. “But I don’t want to keep it in a drawer.”

“Of course. It’s a beautiful frame,” she offered.

“I found it at Tiffany.”

Julia cocked her head to one side. “Only you would buy a frame at Tiffany’s. I would have gone to Walmart.”

“I went to Tiffany for quite a different purpose.” He searched her face.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Now his eyes burned into hers. “Absolutely. But I found it long ago.”

Julia blinked as if she were in some sort of fog until he leaned down to kiss her. It was a remarkable kiss. He placed his hands gently on either side of her face and then brought his lips to hers, pressing firmly before beginning his joyous movement. Within a moment, she’d forgotten all about why she’d wandered into the study.

He stroked her tongue tenderly with his, sliding his hands through her hair to rest on the back of her head. And when he withdrew, he kissed her cheeks.

“I wish I’d known you my whole life. I wish everything had been different.”

“We’re together now.”

“That we are, my lovely. You look beautiful in my shirt.” His voice was gruff all of a sudden. “I was planning to take you out for breakfast. There’s a small crêperie around the corner that I think you’d like.”

She took his hand gladly as he led her back to the bedroom so they could shower together and begin their day.

Later that afternoon they worked in his study. Gabriel sat at his desk, reading an article, while Julia sat perched in his red velvet armchair, checking her email.

Dear Julia,

I owe you an apology. I’m really sorry I upset you when I ran into you yesterday. I didn’t mean to. I was worried about you.

If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m just a phone call away.

Hoping we can still be friends,

Paul.

PS. Christa has been asking why Professor Picton is directing your thesis.

Julia looked over at Gabriel and found him lost in thought behind his eyeglasses. She quickly typed a response.

Hi Paul,

Of course we’re still friends. The incident in Selinsgrove was traumatic, and I’m trying to forget about it.

I should mention that my boyfriend saved me—in more ways than one.

Someday I’d like to introduce you to him. He’s wonderful.

Not sure why Christa cares who is directing my thesis. I’m only an MA student.

Thanks for the warning.

I’ll put your Christmas present in your mailbox in the department on Monday.

It’s small but I hope you like it.

And thanks,

Julia.

* * *

Katherine Picton lived a reserved life. She owned a nice home in the Annex neighborhood of Toronto, which was within walking distance to the university. She spent her summers in Italy and Christmas holidays in England. And she spent most of her time publishing articles and monographs on Dante. In other words, she lived the life of the respectable academic spinster, except that she didn’t garden or take lovers or own a bevy of cats. (Regrettably.)

Despite her age, she was very much in demand for public lectures and more than one university had attempted to lure her out of retirement with promises of extravagant salaries and modest teaching responsibilities. Katherine would rather have dug the Panama Canal with her fingernails while suffering from yellow fever than give up the time she could devote to research in order to maintain an office on campus and attend faculty meetings.

So when Greg Matthews of Harvard University telephoned her in January about an opening for an endowed chair in Dante studies, that’s what she told him.

He reacted in stunned silence before fumbling over his next words. “But Professor Picton, we could arrange it so you wouldn’t have to teach. All you would have to do would be to deliver a couple of lectures a semester, have a presence on campus, and supervise some doctoral students. That’s it.”

“I don’t want to move all my books,” said Katherine.

“We’ll hire a moving company.”

“They’ll mix them up and it will take weeks to put them back in order.”

“We’ll hire special movers—movers accustomed to moving libraries. They’ll take your books off the shelf, pack them in order, and replace them on your shelves here in Cambridge exactly the way they were in Toronto. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.”

“Moving companies don’t know how to catalogue books,” she scoffed. “What if they mis-shelve something? I have thousands of volumes in my library, and I might never be able to find what they misplace. And what if they lose something? Some of those books are irreplaceable!”

“Professor Picton, if you would accept the endowed chair, I’ll come to Toronto and move your books personally.”

Katherine paused for a moment until she realized that Greg was serious. Then she burst into peals of laughter.

“Harvard sounds very accommodating.”

“You have no idea,” he muttered, hoping that she would change her mind.

“I’m not interested. There are lots of younger persons you should be considering instead of a sixty-eight-year-old retiree. While we’re on the subject of your department, I want to talk to you about my graduate student, Julianne Mitchell, and why I think you need to admit her to your doctoral program.”

Katherine spent ten minutes telling Greg why it had been a mistake for him to fail to offer Julianne adequate funding the previous year. Then Professor Picton impressed upon him the need for Julianne to receive a lucrative fellowship beginning in September. Finally, when she finished scolding him and effectively telling him how to do the job of the Director of Graduate Studies (which was not, in fact, his job), she promptly hung up.

Greg stared at the phone in his hand with a look of incredulity.

* * *

During the last week of January, Julia was weightless, floating and happy, the skin on her neck now perfect through medical technology. Her scar removal was healed, and no one would ever know that she’d been marked. Therapy was going well and so was her relationship with Gabriel, although on occasion he seemed distracted and she would have to call his name to bring him back to her.

She’d just finished an amiable coffee with Paul, during which they discussed Christa’s recent inexplicable good mood and was on her way to the library when she received a telephone call that would change her life. Greg Matthews offered her early acceptance into the doctoral program in Romance Languages and Literatures at Harvard, on a very generous fellowship, for the fall semester.

The acceptance was conditional on the satisfactory completion of her MA at the University of Toronto, but as Professor Matthews pointed out, given her letters of recommendation and the glowing endorsement offered by Professor Picton, Julia should have no problem completing her degree. Professor Matthews was eager to hear Julia’s acquiescence to the offer, but he knew that most graduate students would need a little time to think about it, and so he asked her to telephone him with her decision in seven days.

Julia was surprised at how calm and professional she sounded on the phone. Of course, she wasn’t doing much talking. After the call ended, she texted Gabriel with trembling, nervous fingers.

Harvard just called—they want me.
Conditional on my MA. Love, J.

A few minutes later, she received a reply.

Congratulations, darling. In a meeting.
My place—one hour? G.

Julia smiled at her iPhone and quickly completed her library errands before walking to the Manulife Building. She was excited but worried. On the one hand, her admission to Harvard was the culmination of her dreams and hard work. On the other, Harvard represented separation from Gabriel.

Bolstered by Doctor Nicole’s encouragement to be kind to herself, Julia decided to have a hot shower in order to allow herself a few minutes to think. She left a note on the hall table where Gabriel always dropped his keys and proceeded to make herself at home in his spacious bathroom. Fifteen minutes later she was half-asleep under the tropical rain showerhead.

“This is a welcome sight,” Gabriel whispered, opening the door to the shower. “A warm, wet, and naked Julianne.”

“There’s room for a warm, wet, and naked Gabriel too,” she said, grasping his hand.

He smiled. “Not right now. We should celebrate. Where would you like to go to dinner?”

There was a time when Julia would simply have accepted Gabriel’s suggestion because she wanted to make him happy. But on this occasion, she spoke up. “Can we just stay in? I don’t want to be around a lot of people.”

“Of course. Let me change and I’ll be right back.”

By the time Gabriel returned, Julia was standing in the center of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.

He handed her a flute of champagne and they clinked their glasses together.

“I have something to give to you,” he said, disappearing into the bedroom. He returned a moment later with something crimson in his hands. He held it up so she could read the lettering on the front.

“This was mine. I’d like you to have it.” He took her glass and placed it next to his on the vanity, then tugged at her towel until it dropped to the floor.

Julia pulled the hooded Harvard sweatshirt over her head, standing like a nearly naked sorority girl who had just rolled out of bed with her boyfriend.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her enthusiastically. “This is quite an accomplishment, and I know that you’ve worked very hard for it. I’m proud of you.”