Damens energy relaxes, returning to normal as Judes gaze dances between us. No worries, he says. Another time. Holding the gaze for so long, Im the first to turn away.
Leading Damen out the door and onto the street, determined to shake off Judes energy, along with the thoughts and images he unwittingly shared.
CHAPTER 30
So you kept it. I smile, settling into his BMW, happy to see hes kept it in place of Big Ugly.
He looks at me, eyes still serious but voice light when he says, You were right. I went a little overboard with the whole safety thing. Not to mention, this is a much better ride.
I gaze out the window, wondering what sort of adventure hes planned, but figuring he wants to surprise me as usual. Watching as he pulls onto the street and weaves through the traffic until were clear of all cars and he picks up the speed. Pushing the gas and accelerating so quickly, I have no idea where were going, until were already there.
Whats this? I gaze around, amazed by his ability to always do the least expected thing.
I figured youd never been here. He opens my door and takes my hand. Was I right?
I nod, taking in a barren desert landscape, dotted only by the occasional shrub, a mountainous backdrop, and thousands of windmills. Seriously thousands. All of them tall. All of them white. All of them turning.
Its a windmill farm. He nods, hoisting himself onto the trunk of his car and dusting off a space for me to sit too. It produces electricity by harnessing the wind. In just one hour it can make enough electricity to run a typical household for a month.
I glance all around, taking in the turning blades and wondering what the significance could be. So, whyd we come here? Im a little confused.
He takes a deep breath, gaze far away, expression wistful when he says, I find myself drawn to this place. I guess because Ive borne witness to so much change during the last six hundred years, and harnessing the wind is a very old idea.
I squint, still not getting its importance, but definitely sensing there is one.
Despite all the technological changes and advances Ive seensome thingsthings like thisremain pretty much the same.
I nod, silently urging him on, sensing something much deeper in his words, but knowing hes choosing to dole them out slowly.
Technology advances so quickly, making the familiar obsolete at an increasingly rapid pace. And while things like fashion may seem to advance and change, if you live long enough, you realize its really just cyclicalthe readapting of old ideas made to seem new. But while everything around us seems to be in a constant state of fluxpeople at their very core remain exactly the same. All of us still seeking the things weve sought all alongshelter, food, love, greater meaning He shakes his head. A quest thats immune to evolution.
He looks at me with eyes so deep and dark, I cant imagine what its like to be him. To have witnessed so much, to know so much, to have done so muchand yet, despite what he thinks, hes not the slightest bit jaded. Hes still full of dreams.
And once the basics are covered, once weve secured food and shelter, we spend the rest of our time just looking to be loved.
He leans toward me, lips cool and soft as they brush my skinfleeting, ephemeral, like a sweet desert breeze. Pulling away to gaze at the windmills again when he says, The Netherlands is known for their windmills. And since you did spend a lifetime there, I thought you might want to visit.
I squint, thinking he surely misspoke. Weve no time for that tripdo we?
Watching as he smiles, gaze growing lighter as he says, Close your eyes and come with me.
CHAPTER 31
We tumble forward, hands clasped together as we land with a thud. Taking a moment to look around when I say, Omigodthis is
Amsterdam. He nods, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the mist. Only not the real Amsterdam, the Summerland version. I wouldve taken you to the real one, but I figured this trip was shorter.
I gaze all around, taking in the canals, the bridges, the windmills, the fields of red tulipswondering if he created that last part for me, then remembering how Holland is famous for its flowersespecially its tulips.
You dont recognize it, do you? he asks, studying me carefully as I shake my head. Give it some time, you will. Ive recreated it from memory, how I remember it back in the nineteenth century when you and I were last there. Its a pretty good copy if I say so myself.
He leads me across the street, pausing long enough to allow an empty carriage to pass, before continuing to a small storefront, its door wide open, as a lively crowd of faceless people gather inside. Watching me carefully, eager to see if a memorys sparked, but I move away, wanting to get a feel on my own, trying to picture the former me in this placethe red-haired, green-eyed mewalking among these white walls, wood floors at my feet, gazing at the line of paintings dotting the perimeter as I weave through the patrons who begin to fade at the edges before strengthening again. Knowing that Damens responsible for keeping them here, having manifested their very existence.
I move along the walls, assuming this is a re-creation of the gallery where we first met, though disappointed to find it not the least bit familiar. Noting how all the paintings blur and fade until theyre completely imperceptible, except for the one just before me, the only one thats intact.
I lean forward, squinting at a girl with abundant titian haira luxurious blend of reds, golds, and browns contrasting so beautifully with her expanse of pale skin. Painted in a way so tangible, so smooth, so invitingits as though one could step in.
My gaze roams the length of her, seeing shes nude though strategically covered. The ends of her hair damp and conforming, tumbling over her shoulders and hanging well past her waist, while her hands are folded, resting atop a pink flushed thigh turned slightly in. Though its the eyes that grab me, made of the deepest green and holding a gaze so direct, so open, as though staring at a lover, not the least bit ashamed at having been caught in this state.
My stomach twitches, while my heart begins to flutter, and even though Im aware of Damen standing right there beside me, I cant look at him. Cant include him in this. Something is creeping upon me, the birth of an idea tugging, nudging, demanding to be known. And before Ive even blinked, I see it. As sure as I see the gilt frame surrounding the canvas, I know that the woman is me!
The prior me.
The Dutch me.
The artists muse me who fell for Damen the night we met in this gallery.
But the thing that disturbs me, the thing that keeps me quiet and still, is the sudden realization that the unseen lover she gazes upon isnt Damen.
Its somebody else.
Someone unseen.
So you recognize her. Damens voice smooth, matter-of-fact, not the least bit surprised that I do. Its the eyes, right? He peers at me, face very close when he adds, The color may change, but their essence stays the same.
I glance at him, taking in the lush fringe of lashes that nearly obscure the wistfulness of his gazeprompting me to quickly turn away.
How old was I? Not trusting my voice with the words. The face appearing unlined and youthful, though the confidence is that of a woman, not a girl.
Eighteen. He nods, continuing to study me. Gaze pushing, probing, wanting me to be the first one to say it, pleading for me to just speak upto spare him this task. Following my gaze to the painting as he adds, You were beautiful. Truly. Just like this. He captured you soperfectly.
He.
So there it is.
The edge in his voice speaking volumesrevealing everything his words only hint at. He knows the identity of the artist. Knows it wasnt him I unclothed myself for.
I swallow hard, eyes narrowing as I try to make sense of the black, angular scrawl at the bottom right corner. Deciphering a series of consonants and vowels, a combination of letters that mean nothing to me.
Bastiaan de Kool, Damen says, gazing at me.
I turn, my eyes meeting his, unable to speak.
Bastiaan de Kool is the artist who painted this. Painted you. He turns toward the portrait, eyes roaming over it again, before returning to me.
I shake my head, feeling light, woozyeverything I once thought I knewabout meabout usthe entire foundation of our lives suddenly gone tenuous and weak.
Damen nods, theres no need to press it. Both of us recognizing the truth displayed right before us.
In case youre wondering, it was over before the paint even dried. Or at least thats what I convinced myself of He shakes his head. But nowwell, Im no longer sure.
I gape, eyes wide, uncomprehending. What could this paintingthis century-old version of mehave anything to do with usthe way we are now?
Would you like to meet him? he asks, gaze shadowed, distant, difficult to read.
Bastiaan? The name oddly comfortable on my lips.
Damen nods, willing to manifest him if Ill only agree. But just as Im about to refuse, he places his hand on my arm and says, I think you should. It only seems fair.
I take a deep breath, focusing on the warmth of his hand as he closes his eyes in deep concentration, summoning a tall, rangy, slightly disheveled guy from what was once empty space. Letting go of my arm as he moves away, allowing me plenty of room in which to study, observe, before we run out of time and he fades.
I move toward him, walking slow, wide circles around this blank, hollow strangerthis bright, empty, creationsoulless, unreal.
Noting his traits in an offhand waythe height making him appear even slighter, the hint of lean, sinewy muscle lightly padding his bonesthe clothes that are clean and of decent quality and cut, hanging slightly off kilter, the skin so pale and flawless it nearly matches my own, while his hair is dark, wavy, brushed to the side, a good chunk of bang falling heavily into a startling pair of eyes.
I gasp, forcing the air into my lungs as he soon fades away, hearing Damen say, Would you like me to refresh him again? Obviously hating to do so, but willing to oblige if I ask.
But I just continue to stand there, staring into a swirl of vibrating pixels that soon vanish completely. Knowing I dont need him revived to know who he is.
Jude.
The guy who was standing before me, the Dutch artist who went by the name of Bastiaan de Kool in the nineteenth centuryhas now reincarnated into this century as Jude.
I reach for something to steady me, feeling shaky, empty, off balance. Realizing too late that theres nothing to catch me, until Damen quickly moves to my side.
Ever! he cries, voice so urgent it resonates to my core, his arms tightening around me, shielding me in a way that feels just like home. Manifesting a soft, plushy couch where he guides me to sit, his gaze hovering over me, anxious, unnerved, having no intention of upsetting me like this.
I turn, holding my breath as my eyes meet his, afraid of finding something different, something changed, now that its all laid out in the open. Now that we both know it wasnt always just him.
That there was once someone else.
And I know him today.
I dont I shake my head, feeling embarrassed, guilty, as though Ive somehow betrayed him by unknowingly seeking him out. Im not sure what to sayI
Damen shakes his head, his hand at my cheek, drawing me near. Dont think that, he says. None of this is your fault. You hear me? None of it. Its just karma. He pauses, gaze holding mine. Its just unfinished businessso to speak.
But what could be unfinished? I ask, having an inkling of an idea of where this is going and refusing to take part in that journey. That was over a hundred years ago! And like you said, it was over before the paint even
But before I can get there, hes shaking his head, hand on my cheek, my shoulder, my knee, as he says, Im no longer so sure about that.
I look at him, fighting the urge to pull away. Wishing hed stop. Wanting to leave. No longer liking it here.
It seems Ive interfered, he says, face hard, judgmental, though its a judgment reserved only for him. It seems I have a habit of intruding on your life, meddling in decisions that shouldve been yours. Pushing a fate thathe pauses, jaw clenched, gaze steady, though his lip quivers in a way that reveals the price of all thisthat was never meant to be yours
What are you talking about? I cry, voice high, urgent, sensing the energy surrounding his words, and knowing its about to get worse.
Isnt it obvious? He looks at me, the light in his eyes fractured into millions of bitsa kaleidoscope of darkness that may never be fixed.
He rises from the couch in one quick, sinuous move until hes filling the space just before me. But before he can speak, before he can make things even worse, I rush ahead when I say, This is ridiculous! All of it! Everything! Its destiny thats brought us together again and again. Were soul mates! You said it yourself! And from what Ive learned, thats exactly how it workssoul mates find each other, time and again, against all odds, no matter what! I reach for his hand but hes slipped just out of reach, pacing before me, avoiding my touch.
Destiny? He shakes his head, voice harsh, gaze cruel, but all of it directed inwardly. Was it destiny when I purposely roamed the earth in search of youover and over againunable to rest until Id found you? He stops, eyes meeting mine. Tell me Ever, does that sound like destiny to you? Or something that was forced?
I start to speak, lips parting wide though no words will come, watching as he turns toward the wall and stares at the girl. That proud and beautiful girl whose gaze moves right past himtoward somebody else.
Somehow I was able to ignore all of this, push it aside for the last four hundred years, convincing myself it was our fate, that you and I were meant to be. But the other day, when you dropped by after work, I sensed something differenta shift in your energy. And then last night, at the storeI knew.
I stare at his back, the solid square of his shouldershis lean, muscled form. Remembering how he acted so strangely, so formal, and thinking how it all makes perfect sense.