Deeper Colors

By C. S. Donnell

The vivid hues in the painting captured her attention. Deep blue and green water seemed to move as if a breeze blew across it. She felt giddy and stepped closer. The air around her turned cold. A picture formed in her mind of the river flowing through a city, reflecting buildings in the waters below. That night the river from the painting invaded her dreams. She could feel the breeze. Lavender shadows lapped ever closer to her face. She awoke with a start.

Vermont artist Gina Martin had always been boringly rational but when she encounters an 18th century artist's painting at the Louvre she is drawn to Périgueux, the artist’s home in southwestern France. There she finds herself tangled in a web with the artist, whose life eerily matches her own and the owner of the painting—a handsome French art gallery curator. Recurring dreams of murky shadows and death threaten her sanity and her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. S. Donnell
• Release date: Jun 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310509445

C. S. Donnell

Carolyn's stories and poems have won many awards with a first in fiction at the 2015 San Francisco Writers Conference, Exhibitor of the Year in 2014 at Literary Arts Division of the San Mateo County Fair, Frontiers in Writing-Panhandle Pro Writers, Southwest Writers, and CWC South Bay Writers. Other passions from the past include painting and playing viola. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Book preview

Périgueux, France-Brakes!

LAVENDER OBLIVION

by C.S. (Carolyn) Donnell

Colors of the evening twilight

Spread across the river’s bend.

Images of great cathedrals

Melt now over liquid edge.

Memories of blood and water

Hover on the edge of mind.

Slipping, sliding, falling down

To lavender oblivion.

1

Brakes!

You can’t leave me, George! I won’t give you a divorce.

The words flew after him like enraged crows as he lugged the last suitcase to the garage and loaded it into his old Renault. Even though the 20th century was fading into the 21st, the close-knit community of the old families in this corner of southwest France still frowned on divorce. Most people tolerated a bad marriage and found solace elsewhere. He had tried to follow their example.

But Gabrielle had changed all that. She showed him what being truly loved could do for one’s life. He wanted that kind of life all the time, not just in stolen moments and certainly not along with the hell of the last four years, no matter what the cost.

His wife could keep the house and newer car, even their standing in the community. The only thing he regretted leaving was his young daughter—Margot—the only reason he had stayed this long. The loss weighed heavily on his heart, but his family had promised to help keep an eye on her. He just needed out.

At the cottage he found Gabrielle with her three-year-old daughter waiting by the front door. His frown melted into a smile as he stroked the little girl’s blond hair and kissed the top of her head. He helped her into the back seat before loading their luggage.

He settled in behind the wheel and pulled close the woman he loved. Mmm. You always smell so good. He kissed her.

No progress? she asked.

None. It’s just my Paris apartment and us now. And not much money, at least at first.

I love that apartment. And I love you. That’s enough for me. Onward to Paris then.

Yay, Paris! The little girl in the back seat laughed.

His foot felt heavy on the accelerator, a reminder of the brandy he had downed at home while packing, but he ignored it in his eagerness to leave Périgueux far behind. The car skidded on the wet road as he raced around the sharp curve between the cathedral and the river. He jammed on the brake pedal. It sank to the floor.

Brakes! he shouted as the car careened over the low bridge and into the river. Both front-seat passengers flew into the windshield.

The child’s cries were the only sounds heard as the car sank into the shadowy water.

Witnesses said they saw a passerby jump into the river, emerge with a dripping child, and disappear into the cathedral complex.

The two adults were pronounced dead on impact. Authorities noted George’s state of inebriation and wrote the accident off as death due to drunk driving.

Vermont, USA-The Journey Begins

Vermont Garden

Deep colours are home.

Art journeys always begin

at our origins

Stephen C Wetlesen

2

I’m French

Not the most appropriate setting for a funeral, Gina thought. She leaned back in her chair and gazed past the easel by the French doors to a garden overflowing with purple dwarf irises. The mild iris scent mixed with the flowers of the crabapple trees blooming at the rear of the garden to proclaim the arrival of Vermont spring.

She unfastened the clip that held her hair away from her face. Honey-colored tresses cascaded halfway down her back. She ran her fingers through her hair before turning back to the priority mail package that contained several items: an unopened envelope stamped Return to Sender, a letter from the diocese, and a manila folder. The letter read:

Dear Miss Martin,

We are sorry to inform you that Father Bernard is no longer with us. His heart gave out last month. Your letter arrived after he went into hospice. The other materials were found in his belongings with your name on them. We have enclosed everything and offer you our condolences. May God, the Father of all consolation, be with you in your sorrow and give you His light and is peace. Amen.

Ohh. A rough sigh escaped Gina’s lips. Father Bernard dead. Just like that. She crumpled the letter. Consolation? Light? Peace? One of the few people she had ever known who had any of those qualities was Father Bernard. And now he was gone.

She pitched the letter on the table and opened the folder. A child’s drawing fell out—the one she gave to Father Bernard the first time he had peeked in on her at the orphanage in Vermont where she grew up.

That day the social worker had pulled him aside and pointed to the corner table. That’s Ginette. I can’t get through to her. She doesn’t talk much. Just draws all day long.

They walked over to the little girl who sat hunched over a sheet of paper.

Father Bernard reached for the drawing. What do we have here?

Ginette jerked the paper away from his hand.

She’s not very cooperative, the worker complained.

That’s OK, the priest said in a quiet voice. She doesn’t have to show me if she doesn’t want to. He perched on one of the child-sized chairs and smiled.

Ginette stared at the man for a long time. Who are you? she finally asked.

He offered her his hand. I’m Father Bernard.

She pointed to his hand and wrinkled her nose. You have red paint on your finger.

You’re right. I was painting this morning and I didn’t get all the paint off. Thank you for telling me.

Ginette tilted her head to one side and smiled. Are you an artist?

He nodded. Yes, I am.

Me too. She handed him her drawing.

He looked at the paper. This is very good, Ginette.

My name is Gina.

Of course, Gina. May I have this?

Why?

I like it. I want to frame it and hang it in my office.

You want to put my picture on your wall?

Yes, I do. He looked at her over the top of his glasses. If I may.

You may. Gina smiled.

That day Father Bernard became her first art teacher, her mentor, and her solitary friend for many years.

She felt a sudden chill. Her hand trembled as she picked up the second envelope. It had been sent to her old address and returned. She recognized his spidery scrawl.

My Dear Ginette,

I know you said for everyone to call you Gina, but I still think of you as my little Ginette. Such a lovely name. It’s French, you know. I have tried to locate your records. It seems your name before you entered the foster system might have been Ginette Marden. (Both names are French, by the way). Somehow it got changed to Martin when you were put in the first foster home with the Fergusons. Looks like Mr. Ferguson died of cancer not very long after they took you in and his wife died shortly thereafter.

You were then brought back to the orphanage where I found you that day working away on your drawings. Oh, and it looks like you may have been born French Catholic, which could be a reason for not fitting into the Irish Catholic community here in Vermont. And it is perhaps why you and I always got along well. God works in mysterious ways.

There are a couple of clues that might lead you back to France itself, but my health lately has kept me from being able to follow up on them. I have two friends who are into French genealogy in the Vermont area digging through their resources to see if we can find anything else for you, but right now this is all I have.

I am so grateful to have been able to help you. It has been a great gift to me. I want you to go to France and see firsthand the homes of the Impressionists you love so much. Learn from your French ancestors. Perhaps you will find the missing pieces of your heart there. Creating comes from the inside out. When you can finally express what your heart feels your art will rise to the level I know you are capable of.

I have enclosed a small amount as my final bequest to my favorite student. I wish it could be more, but my wealth is my spirit and my greatest treasure is in Heaven. Always remember that God loves you, even when people can’t. Your friend, now and in the eternity to come,

Father Bernard

Gina shook the folder again. A travel brochure and a check fell out. She stared at the check. How had Father Bernard managed to put that aside for her? She walked to the back door and looked out over the sea of purple-tipped green. Maybe the scene was fitting for a funeral after all. Father Bernard had loved the colors of Vermont and he taught her to paint the scene in all its seasons.

Vermont spring colors were as perfect in their own way as the glorious swirls of sunlit orange, deep reds and shimmering yellows of a New England autumn. Both seasons provided her with many inspirations. Some of her work had been judged good enough to win a few small awards. Everything she had become was thanks to Father Bernard’s instruction and his help with a scholarship to art school.

She had never achieved complete satisfaction in her paintings though. Something was always missing. Father Bernard used to say perhaps her whole heart wasn’t with her when she painted. She glanced at two landscapes on the far wall: a field of hazy golden spikes backed by a line of trees so dark that the green faded into purple and black; the other, ash and smoke-colored birch trees, complete with the reds and oranges of full-blown autumn reflected in the backwash of an abandoned beaver dam. The latter was her best, she thought. When she painted it, however, it was as if someone else had taken over her hand and she had been a mere observer. She hadn’t created anything that good since.

Her attention turned back to the half-finished canvas on the easel. Crap. She kicked the foot of the easel and the canvas clattered to the floor.

The tabby jumped straight up and landed on all fours with her fur fluffed. She hissed at her mistress.

Sorry, Moochie. It’s just that the tree doesn’t look like a crab apple, not even an impressionistic one. Looks more like damned psychedelic cotton-candy, she muttered as she cleaned up the mess.

The travel brochure stared up at her.

Tour the Art Museums of Paris

Our tour group prides itself on organizing tours to achieve the maximum benefit in the allotted time. Whatever you want, Tour France can find the perfect museum for you. We only work with experienced guides, university-educated French national guides.

1. Highlights and Secrets of the Louvre

The Louvre.

Gina stared at the words. A place, people said, where you could stay for days, even weeks, and never see it all. She looked back at Father Bernard’s letter. …go to France. Learn from your French ancestors. Paris. The name was popping up everywhere.

I’m French, she addressed the cat. "What do you think about that?

The tabby yawned.

I know, you know exactly who you are, don’t you? Gina thought about how she had never felt like she belonged anywhere. She had no memories of anything before the Vermont orphanages. Art had always been her refuge, her safe place away from a lonely life.

Her French ancestors, the letter said. Ancestors? A trail back to France itself? Could it be that she belonged somewhere after all?

Gina made a call on her phone. Charlotte? Yes. I’m taking you up on that offer—the art tour. Yes, really. I want to go. Why now? Gina’s voice broke. No, I’m all right. It’s just that—. You remember, I told you about Father Bernard, the priest who helped me so much. That’s right. I just got a letter. He’s dead.

She began to cry. Yes, I’m crying. No, you don’t need to come over right away. I’ll tell you the details tonight at supper. Just book that tour to Paris. Yes, my passport’s up to date. I’ll talk to you later. She grabbed a paper towel and wiped her face.

She hung up the phone and looked over at the cat. Next stop—Paris.

It seemed Father Bernard was managing to help her even after he was gone. Thank you, Father Bernard, she whispered. She dropped her forehead into the palms of her hands and sobbed.

The doorbell rang twice before Gina reacted. When she opened the front door she found her friend Charlotte on the porch. I thought you said you’d be here for supper.

Charlotte stepped inside. You didn’t think I was going to leave you in tears until then did you?

I’m all right.

You are not all right. Look at you. Your nose looks like a Christmas light.

Gina peered cross-eyed at her nose.

Charlotte took Gina by the arm. Come on, girl. Time for some of Charlotte’s tea.

Gina sipped her cup of tea while Charlotte read the letters. "French, huh? Well I’m not surprised. Lots of French descendants live in this state.

So your Father Bernard mandated this trip? Sounds good to me. I would like to have met him. He sounds like a nice guy. Do you know who his friends are, the ones into French genealogy in Vermont?

Not a clue.

Maybe your diocese will have some ideas.

Gina shook her head. I don’t know anyone there.

Well, I do. We’ll ferret all this out later. Here. She handed Gina a packet of papers. I reserved a place for you on the tour. They leave next Friday from JFK.

Friday? Gads. I know you’re a great travel agent, but this is fast even for you.

I had all the information in the computer from when we talked about the tour earlier. The form is pre-filled. All I had to do was hit enter.

You’ll take care of Moochie?

Of course. Don’t I always? She can come back and visit her siblings. Now you have no excuse to change your mind. I know what you’re like. I’ll help you pack.

Paris, France-Galleries

Paris Galleries

Masterpieces sing

when sharp eyes hear their music.

Synesthesia.

Stephen C Wetlesen

3

Until Now

Gina’s paused to rub her foot. The tour group had been exploring the maze-like corridors of this part of the Louvre all morning and into the afternoon, sampling everything from the dark depths of Rembrandt to the pastel shimmering of the Impressionists and beyond.

Tired of the usual tour track, she had struck out on her own. The excursion had been enjoyable, instructional, and even inspiring, but nothing sparked that deep place in her heart—until now.

Gina twisted strands of her hair in her fingers as she stepped closer to the painting at the back of a small gallery on the lower level—a temporary exhibition, the sign read, dedicated to the French Revolution. Most of the subjects were about uprisings, the Bastille, not her favorite topics, but this canvas was named simply, Reflections. Painted by Geneviève de Périgueux. Donated by Jean Gérard Dumont, 1805.

The vivid hues captured her attention. Autumn leaves morphed from a burnished gold to a black-veined ruby and appeared to change color depending on the angle of the light. As she shifted her position, the deep blue and green water seemed to move as if a breeze were blowing across it. She felt giddy and stepped closer.

The air around her turned cold. She sensed a movement in the background of the scene, the suggestion of a man drawn with a few swipes of a shadowy purple, stepping onto land from a small river barge. A clear picture formed in her mind of the river flowing through a city, reflecting buildings in the waters below. Gina staggered into the wall.

A young man at the end of the hallway saw her and stepped toward her. He stopped when the intercom blared, This wing closes in fifteen minutes. Please clear the area now in several languages.

Gina looked at her watch. It showed 4:45. She shifted her bag and stumbled down the hall toward the entrance without noticing him.

That night the river from the painting invaded her dreams. She could feel the breeze. The water seemed almost alive, lavender shadows lapped ever closer to her face. She awoke with a start.

All she could stomach for breakfast was a mug of strong tea. Her group was slated to go to Notre Dame Cathedral today. She gave her excuses to the tour leader and headed back to the Louvre, this time armed with sketchpad and pastels.

After several false turns, Gina located the gallery. She pulled a chair over to a nearby table.

The same young man who had been there yesterday watched her from a doorway at the end of the gallery.

Gina focused on the painting and her sketchpad, looking at the painting, and then drawing, repeating the process again and again, changing pastel sticks in her hand with the adeptness of a magician. Oblivious to anything else, she worked swiftly through several pages, crumpling some and dropping them on the floor. A stab at the paper with the yellow pastel broke the stick. She slammed her notebook shut in exasperation. Her damn! reverberated down the hallway.

When the man heard her exclamation, he stepped from the shadows. "Mademoiselle? Allez-vous bien?"

What did you say? Gina stood up and confronted the interruption. He was tall enough that she had to look up to talk to him. She found herself staring into a pair of warm brown eyes. She tried to keep from getting lost in them by analyzing the tint: umber, sienna, sable? "Oh. I don’t speak, er—. Je ne parle, er—le français." She struggled to remember the phrases from her Tour France guidebook.

Pardon. You are American? He bent over to pick up the discarded paper. What are you doing here? This hall is not much visited by tourists.

Gina observed his fluid movement. A hint of a curl in his short dark brown hair curved around his small, sculpted ears. His manicured hands handed her the errant pages.

For a moment she wished she could hide her own ragged pastel-stained fingers. Do I look like a tourist? She stepped away from him.

He glanced at the brochures and camera sticking out of the top of her backpack.

Gina’s eyes followed his. Oh. She laughed weakly.

"You are an artiste? He noted her loose braid —toffee-colored with topaz undertones falling past her shoulder blades, smooth arms that ended in stained fingertips, a mid-thigh multi-colored shirt over tight black leggings and the required pair of tourist Adidas. Très agréable."

She didn’t have to look up that phrase. "Thank you. Oh. Merci." She stepped back to get another look at the trespasser. Never mind that the Louvre was a public museum and he seemed to belong here, she considered the gallery hers alone.

He stepped closer and saw that her eyes were the color of cornflowers, a rich blue that reflected his own image. A smile spread across his face. And have you found inspiration?

Gina felt warmth rising up her neck. Yes, I think so. I—. Her voice trailed off as she felt herself getting lost again in his eyes. She shook her head and looked around. I was admiring that painting. There. She pointed to Reflections.

"Ah. Reflections. By Geneviève de Périgueux. He pronounced the name Zhawn-viev du Perigou. It is beautiful, no?"

No. I … I mean yes, very beautiful. Extraordinary. She reached out toward the painting, but pulled her hand back at the last moment. Something about the light.

He clamped his teeth together when he saw her extend smudged fingers toward the canvas but relaxed when she drew her hand back.

Geneviève was famous for capturing light in her paintings. Or she would have been if she had lived long enough to see her paintings hung in galleries around France.

She died young?

"Oui. Très tragique. You are interested in our Geneviève?"

Gina nodded. Oh, yes.

He pulled a card from his pocket. You will find more of her paintings here.

"Merci." Gina glanced at the card.

Galerie Dumont de Paris

Jérôme Dumont, conservateur

29 Rue Charlot

Le Marais, Paris

You are Monsieur Dumont?

Yes. And you are?

Gina. She bit her lip. Ginette. Ginette Martin. She rummaged around in her purse and extracted a dog-eared card of her own.

Mademoiselle Mar-tan. Artist in Vermont. He smiled as he read from the card.

His cell phone rang.

Gina understood oui and auto, but nothing else.

He turned to Gina. I am sorry. Business calls. Please come to the gallery if you are able. He walked briskly away, looking back once before disappearing through the doorway.

Gina stared at the card. An art gallery curator. A handsome French curator. Charlotte would call it Fate. Humph, she exhaled and looked at the card again. More information about Geneviève.

Gina didn’t understand why she was so excited about what looked like a mere landscape on the surface. But she was. She packed up and headed back to her hotel. Tomorrow—the gallery. And the Frenchman?

Find your heart, Father Bernard had told her. Surely he meant her spiritual heart or at least her artistic heart,