Second Chances (44 page)

Christopher smiled.  “Darn right you will,” he said happily.  “So, how’d the meeting go?”

“Well, can I let you know after I use the phone?”  Before he could respond, she had walked into the office in a trance-like state.

The phone rang three times before it was answered.  “Jean Paul, please,” she said.  The man on the other side of the line responded in rapid French. 
Great,
she thought to herself,
of all the times to be rusty. 
“Does anyone there speak English?”  She paced around the room while she waited.  The man on the other line responded in disgust.  He said something to a man in the room who then came to the phone.

“Hello, may I help you?”  He asked in a warm voice.

“I hope so,” Isabella responded with an embarrassed laugh.  “I’m sorry about the language barrier.  I studied French but haven’t had cause to use it in years.”

“So, you need me to act as a translator, mademoiselle?” 

Isabella took a moment to explain why she was calling. 

“Those pictures were yours?”  The man asked incredulously.  “I saw them in the catalog.  They are the reason I will be attending the college this summer.”  He paused for a moment.  “Maybe we can meet while I am there?”

Having been out of the dating game for too many years, Isabella saw it as a casual query.  “Sure, I guess.  Now, if you could find out the date and time of the show.  Oh, and if you could discover anything else that might be useful to me I would greatly appreciate it.”

When Christopher checked on her minutes later, Isabella was sitting with her face down on the blotter.  His initial reaction was one of alarm, until she slowly raised her head.  “My photos were published in the college catalog.  Some gallery owner in Montreal saw them and has offered me a show.”

Christopher danced around whooping.  Then stopped when he saw Isabella hadn’t moved.  “Why isn’t this good?”

“Because I’m not,” Isabella responded.  “You said it yourself.  I’ve lost my passion.  And it looks as though I only have until next fall to get it back.”

“That’s plenty of time,” Christopher scoffed.

Smiling to himself, Gabriel hung up the phone.  Realizing he must look silly, he immediately straightened.  “So, is my father’s newest acquisition ready yet?”  He asked Jean Paul.  A moment later he held the wrapped painting in his hand.  He began to exit the gallery when a thought occurred to him.  He just tried to set a date with a woman he didn’t know.  What if she was hideous?  “Have you met Isabella Parker?”  He asked Jean Paul casually.

Knowing what kind of young man Gabriel was, Jean Paul smiled.  “No, sir.  I haven’t met her, nor have I seen pictures of her.”

Dissatisfied and determined to forget what he had just done, Gabriel drove back to the estate to pack.  He needed to be moved into his apartment by Friday, since classes would start Monday.  And he had to set an appointment with that professor.  He was going to get into that class one way or another.  He was not going to postpone graduation because a general education requirement like art history was closed out.

By the end of the week, Isabella grew frantic.  She had been hoping that after Dr. Pam had boosted her confidence on Monday and given her such high praise, and that after being offered a gallery show and discovering her pictures were published, her work would improve.  Yet it hadn’t.  Every afternoon, she and Christopher poured over her work to discuss the positives and negatives.  Always he offered her constructive criticism.  Now, early Friday afternoon, Isabella fought back a panic attack.

Glancing first at the clock, then the appointment book, Christopher told Isabella, “Go see Dr. Pam.  She will be in her office now, I think.” 

This time Isabella walked over to the office, hoping to clear her head before speaking with a woman she deeply admired.  In minutes she found herself seated in the chair she sat in just a few days previous.  She took a deep breath.  She knew the words would come, they always did.  Somehow she needed Dr. Pam to understand why she must back out of this gallery show.  Even thinking it stung.  She had never given up on anything in her entire life, except maybe her marriage.  And that didn’t count since Jack gave up long before she did.

“I can’t do it,” she explained.  “I have tried all week and still…no improvement.”  She sighed.  “I guess I’m just not ready for a show.”

“Not ready yet,” Dr. Pam repeated.  “No, not yet.”  She seemed to be contemplating something as she spoke, barely seeming aware of Isabella’s continued presence.  Then she uttered those dreaded words.  “I won’t let you back out.”

Isabella’s heart sank.  It was so terribly difficult for her to ask to begin with, but then to be denied the one thing she had ever requested was comparable to having to swallow a stone.  A lump formed in her throat.  She recognized it.  The lump formed frequently, but the tears never did.

“You have over a year,” Dr. Pam explained, acting as though she did Isabella a great favor.  “I’m going to be part of the Fulbright teacher exchange program.  I will be trading places with a professor from England for an entire year.  We will keep in touch via email.  Christopher will be around to help you.  You can do this, Isabella.  You must do this.”  The entire speech had a that-is-that feel to it.

Isabella stared at her professor dumbstruck.  “You’re leaving and I have to accomplish this without you, Dr. Pam?  It’s impossible.” She began to protest futilely.  She could see that her professor had made up her mind, but still Isabella continued to try to argue her case.  “I really need to concentrate on working through my problems right now.  At least if I don’t have the gallery show hanging over me for an entire year...” Her voice trailed off.

“Rubbish.  You will find inspiration again and you will be ready for the show.  I‘ll send a letter to Jean Paul detailing our agreement.”  Dr. Pam crossed her arms over her chest.

“Our agreement?  Dr. Pam, did I just agree to something?”  Isabella asked alarmed.  This was not part of the plan.

Dr. Pam slowly leaned forward and laid her arms on the desk, a slow smile spread across her face.  “Well you see, dear,” she began with a chuckle, “I didn’t give you much choice.  Now in the meantime...”  Her voice trailed off as she began to rummage through one of her large desk drawers for something.  She finally pulled out, with some effort, a composition notebook.  “Here this will do.”  She handed Isabella the notebook. 

Isabella looked at it, as though she had never seen one before.  She had no idea what Dr. Pam had in mind.  Did Dr. Pam expect her to take up writing as a new hobby?   “For me?”  The question seemed ridiculous, even to her.

But Dr. Pam didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment.  “Yes,” her kindly professor beamed, “I know you are a photographer, but that isn‘t the only way to take a picture.  Record your experiences here; find the words to describe what you see and you will be able to fix what your work is missing.  Remember that writing, too, is an art.”  She paused for a moment, again putting a finger to her chin.  “Oh, but you’ll need something more now won’t you?  This will never do.  This will
never
do
.” 
She pulled open the middle drawer, reached deeply in the back, noisily patting around.  A smile covered her face.  “Ahhhh, here it is.”  She handed Isabella a silver pen this time which had been engraved with a Carl Sandburg quote.

“Nothing happens unless first a dream,” Isabella read aloud.  “I don’t know what to say.  I mean, thank you, but I don’t understand.”  Her brow arched, questioning the gifts, the quote, and the way everything about this meeting had turned out.  Dr. Pam said nothing, her hands were knitted together.  Isabella began to rise to depart.

“Oh, no.  We’re not through yet.”  Dr. Pam smiled widely.  She reached out as if to shake Isabella’s hand, grasping Isabella’s delicate hand in her age-spotted wrinkled one.  “Dream again, my Isabella,” she murmured, “Dream and be happy.”

Something changed within Isabella that moment.  Her natural instinct told her to argue, to fight the concept of dreaming.  What good had dreaming ever done her?  Hadn’t she just recently promised herself that she would be grounded in reality in order to survive? 
But what if you are meant to do more than survive?
Something within her screamed.  An electrical current shot through her, not the unpleasantness of a shock, but more of an energy boosting tingle.  And those words.  Were they a command?  Were they simply encouragement?  Or something more?  A spell?  Whatever the answer, Isabella felt suddenly more alive than she had been since before Jack.  Somehow in that moment, in that instant, with that touch, all of her deep rooted sorrow simply withered and died.  Hope had sprouted in her soul.

She was oblivious to her surroundings after that moment.  Isabella was in her own little world, lost in thought.  She didn’t mind the creaking of the stairs, the shriek of the stairway door, or the aged floor boards groaning under her.  All she could see was the exit, which would explain why it seemed, in retrospect, that he came out of nowhere. 

He could only be described as tall, blond, and handsome.  He wore a goatee, a royal blue button down shirt that hung loose, khaki pants, and a bag slung over one shoulder.  He, too, seemed to be pensive.  Before either of them could react, they collided in the hall.  Isabella giggled for the first time in months, surprising even herself.  She excused herself and tried to slip past him once more.  Unfortunately, at that moment he performed the same ritual, so they collided again.  Both stopped and looked at each other, blushing from the encounter.  Isabella prepared to simply step aside and let him pass.  Since Dr. Pam worked her magic on her, she felt no need to rush.  

Without a word, he dropped his bag carelessly to the floor, and grabbed Isabella’s hand in his.  She barely had time to notice his dry palms or be self-conscious of hers.  He bowed slightly, never taking his eyes off of her face, and said with a thick French accent, “Shall we dance?”  Before she could even respond, he had her in his arms and twirled her about while humming some unrecognizable waltz.  As quickly as they had begun, they stopped.  He deposited her in front of the door she had so desperately tried to reach before their encounter.  As he bent to pick up his books, he grasped her hand in his once again and brushed it with his lips while gazing into her eyes.  “Merci, mademoiselle,” he murmured against her hand, sending chills up and down her spine.  Then he bowed once more, glanced at his watch and hurried to the stairs.

Isabella stood there, stunned.  Her hand drifted to her cheeks while she backed herself up against the wall, suddenly unsure of her balance.  Her cheeks were hot, and undoubtedly numerous shades of pink.  Why must her body always give her away?  She walked out to her car, humming the strange melody he had hummed, replaying in her mind repeatedly her brief meeting with this man she would never see again.  And yet still it nourished her hope.  She must not be hideous.  He did kiss her hand.  Oh, and it had been some time since anyone had treated her so respectfully, delicately.  Smiling, she suddenly knew what the first entry in her new composition notebook would be about.  Don’t many dreams begin with a handsome stranger?