More Than Water (17 page)

After that moment, all the children had been punished and told to stay aboard the docked craft while the adults went to dinner. My sister shunned me for the evening, calling me spiteful names—adding a blow to my ego—before locking herself in her room. As the sun set, I found myself choking down tears at the ship’s edge, mourning my lost treasures at sea and wondering how I could possibly feel so out of place among the people who were my family.

About an hour later, when the tears had dried, I felt another body sitting next to me—Gerard.

“You know,” he said quietly in the foreign accent I so hated at the time, “there’s a saying that those who never cry suffer far more than any others.”

I sniffed, drained of tears, the ache and longing still weighing in my belly. “I doubt that.”

“I don’t.” He handed my exhausted hands a small artist’s pad with textured paper and a pack of drawing pencils. “I had the steward pick them up in town.”

He took his index finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence, indicating a secret between us. My worn and spent emotionless body was able to muster a grin. I nodded and concealed the items from view under my leg. In comfortable silence, we sat side by side for some time until the sun rested under the water’s edge.

“So, who said that?” I finally asked when the darkness surrounded us.

“Said what?” Gerard asked.

“Something about those who never cry suffer more?”

“Hans Christian Andersen. It’s from
The Little Mermaid
. Mermaids can’t shed tears, and thereby, they bottle all their pain.”

I exhaled, immersed in the view of the gently lapping sea. “Then, I must strive to be a mermaid. Living in those depths is likely better than trying to survive up here.”

He nudged his shoulder with mine. “I’ll go with you.”

From that day on, Gerard and I merged a friendship based on our mutual understanding of expectations that neither of us fully desired. While we both knew our parents loved us, we also knew freedom was something we would never fully have. Unlike so many others, our birthright was a blessing of opportunities and a curse to the wanderlust of our souls.

Over the years, our relationship has grown into an agreement. We play the charade for our families, knowing that peace is the best course of action. We’re friends and like siblings in arms.

While his companionship is pleasant at these reunions, there are always the underlying expectations from our parents. We try to portray enough interest to keep them at bay but not enough for them to be overly hopeful. It’s a chess match of us versus them, and each movement needs to be precise.

A small breeze blows the drapes, creating a flowing wave of fabric, outlining the entryway into the grand room. I push my shawl back up and over my shoulders, preparing for the cooler air at the water’s edge. We step out onto the veranda, and to celebrate our annual union, we each take a drink from the server coming around with champagne.

My father raises his glass. “I just want to say how thankful I am for my family and friends. After all these years, we still remain close.”

“And hopefully for many years to come,” my mother adds, glancing at Gerard and me where we are paired at the balcony railing.

“Yes, agreed.” My father smiles. “I love you all and feel blessed for our continued fortune.”

“I couldn’t have said it better,” Guy adds. “Thank you everyone.”

We lift our flutes higher, and following my father’s lead, we say in unison, “Cheers!”

The crisp fizzy liquid sluices across my tongue, and I drink to the living facade.

With dinner service complete and our dessert plates being cleared, the servers offer us coffees and fine whiskeys to end the evening meal. My father and Gerard’s both order scotches, and our mothers decide on another glass of champagne each, in lieu of the traditional after-dinner drinks, like they’re celebrating.

When asked if I desire anything else, Gerard interjects by saying, “A bottle of the reserve, if you don’t mind. And two glasses.”

“Certainly,” the server of short stature responds, nodding approvingly, before leaving the table.

“A bottle of wine?” I ask Gerard, amused since I’m already slightly tipsy from the two glasses I consumed at dinner.

“Are you saying no?”

“Of course not. Never.”

The friendly conversation continues around the table, everyone joyous with the season and company. A few moments later, my parents are being served their after-dinner cocktails, and the sommelier uncorks the wine at Gerard’s side. The wine expert pours enough of the grape liquid into Gerard’s glass for him to aerate, sip, and ultimately approve. Our glasses are filled, and the remainder of the bottle is set between my friend and me.

“So, what’s the occasion?” I ask, lifting my glass.

“It is Christmas.” He clinks his glass with mine, and we both drink. Then, Gerard grabs the bottle in his other hand and rises from his seat. “Take a walk with me?”

“And leave this lively party?”

“I thought you might approve of the suggestion.”

He offers me an arm, and I empty myself from my chair, locking my elbow with his.

“And where are you two off to?” his mother asks, bringing the entire table’s attention to us.

“I’m just taking Evelyn for an evening stroll. Would you all mind if we left your company?” he asks coyly, knowing full well that none of them would care one bit.

They just want to call attention to any time he and I spend together—alone.

His mother gives a knowing look to mine while our fathers both smile broadly.

“Of course we don’t mind,” my mother answers for all of them. “You two enjoy your walk.”

Gerard pivots on his heel, leading me away from the table and out of the private dining area, down the long hall toward a part of the hotel I’ve yet to see, despite coming here for years. We tend to only stay on one end, and this section is generally used for resident staff.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, squeezing his arm.

“It’s a surprise.”

Intrigued, I allow him to escort me farther down the hall and into an ultra private room that resembles a small aquarium with fish tanks lining the lower half of the walls. At the end of the space, a large floor-to-ceiling window opens up to the dark foliage below the summit.

“What’s this room?” I question, peeking at the colored fish swimming in the illuminated waters.

“Just a sitting room,” he says.

I peer over my shoulder, finding Gerard resting the wine on a nearby table along with his glass.

“It was the one room I had a say over when we acquired the place—design-wise, that is.”

“I like the fish.”

He steps toward the entrance, brightening the lights slightly, allowing me to see the details of the walls more clearly. “Do you like the decor?”

I scan the framed artwork—approximately a dozen masterful reproductions of Van Gogh’s work. His more noted and popular works are represented, but I’m pleased to see some of my favorites and lesser-acknowledged masterpieces, including
Wheatfield with Crows
and
The Red Vineyard
. Near the window, overlooking the water, is a print of
Starry Night Over the Rhone
.

“They’re all Van Gogh,” I say.

“Every last one.” He leads me toward the window. Pointing down at the sand, he asks, “Do you recognize that spot? Near the rock where the water meets its edge?”

I smile. “That’s where you kissed me. Of course, I remember. We were practicing, just in case.”

“Yes.” He laughs. “Just in case.”

“That was such a long time ago.”

“Five years. Do you remember our pact?”

“Yes.” My gut flips, sour with anticipation of what he’s leading toward. “We made it the same time in that very same spot, agreeing to wed when I turned thirty.”

“Yes.”

“We still have a lot of years left before then.”

“Come,” he requests, taking my hand and leading back to where the bottle of wine rests.

I take a seat and allow him to fill my glass to the brim, and then I take a long drink, nervous as to why he could possibly be bringing this up so soon. He sips his wine, calm and practiced. My palms become clammy as the seconds and then minutes perpetually tick by.

Finally, he rests his glass on the table between us, staring at the plum-colored liquid trapped by the fine crystal.

“Do you know why I agreed to such an arrangement with you?” he asks, his question firm and steady.

I take a moment, sorting the words in my head before replying, “Because…we were being stupid? Because…some things are inevitable? I don’t know. It was all so silly at the time. I almost thought it was a—”

“A joke?” He raises his brows.

“No,” I say, backpedaling, realizing that I might have insinuated something hurtful. “No, of course not. But I wasn’t really sure it was serious. I mean, we were tipsy on champagne, and I was only seventeen.”

“Yes, you were, but you were fearless. You still are.”

“I don’t feel fearless.”

He covers my hand with his own. “You are though. The fact that you even dreamed of and still constantly fight for something more than living underneath your parents’ thumb is one of the most admirable acts I’ve ever witnessed.” His eyes shift to his glass. “And because of that determination, I fell in love with you.” He returns his gaze to me, focused and sincere. “That’s why I agreed to the pact that day.”

My muscles tense. “Gerard…I never knew.”

He grins. “I know. It’s my fault. I never told you.” He rises from his seat, pacing toward the large print of
The Red Vineyard
, pondering over the brush strokes.

Staring at his back, I ask, “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I could see that the way you looked at me never mirrored the way I felt inside. I was afraid it would put a divide in our friendship.”

I set my glass of wine on the table and join him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Gerard…I do love you but not—”

“Not like that.” He smiles to himself and then pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

I remove my hand, feeling the wall of emotional separation being erected between us, as we stand side by side, gazing aimlessly at the artwork before us.

“Do you think they’re happy?” Gerard asks into the silence.

“Who?” I question, confused.

“The workers in the painting.”

I’ve been looking at paintings all my life for my own enjoyment and, in the later years, as study. His question is a simple one, and part of me wants to reply with a formulated answer, one that would make a scholar proud.

But I don’t.

Art is all about feelings, emotions, and the human connection. As I ponder the people in the painting, I see them, and I see myself.

Focused on the figure in shades of blue and green with a basket on her hip, I say, “I think they’re as happy as they can be for people put to work at a task they never desired.”

He nods his head. “I used to think that, too. But do you know what I think now?”

“No. What’s that?”

“That happiness is waiting for everyone.” He faces me. “I love you, Evelyn, but it’s much like the way you describe the happiness of these workers in the painting. I loved you as much as I could, given something I never desired, but there’s more to be gained outside of what we were born into.”

My head tilts as I try to understand his words.

“I’m sorry,” he continues, “but I’m breaking our pact.”

“You’re confusing me.”

“I can tell.” He glows and somehow seems to become inches taller in a matter of moments. “I’m just going to say it. I’ve met someone.”

“You meet a lot of people.”

“Yes, but never anyone like her.”

“Oh,” I say. “Her?”

“Yes.” He smiles so bright that he gleams. “I think I was waiting to find her, and that’s why I never told you about my feelings for you. There was someone else waiting for me.”

Then, I comprehend the truth of what he’s telling me. It’s all over his persona, his aura, and his entire being. It’s so obvious, and I was blind until he shoved it directly at me, like a bullet to the head.

“You’re in love?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s a public attorney who lives in the States—in New York City, of all places.”

“Huh?” I blink a few times. “How did you two meet?”

He grins widely. “I was in New York on business, went out one night, saw her at a bar, showed her my undeniable charm, and she called me an asshole.”

“Sounds like love at first sight,” I comment sarcastically.

“It was,” he counters, serious. “The spark in her eyes. The way that she flung her dark hair over her shoulder. The quirk of her lip, teasing me. And then, the moment she spoke, I knew.”

“You knew what?”

“That she’s the one.”

My heart races. His emotions are so palpable.

“What do you mean, the one?”

He grips my shoulders, ensuring that my focus is on him. “Evelyn, you’re my closest friend in this crazy journey, and you should be the first to know.” Gerard inhales. “I’m going to propose. I’m going to ask Caroline to be my wife.”