Page 38 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

Allard was still away in Germany—increasingly, she told me, his business took him there—and his prolonged absence left us giddy as children dismissed from the gloom of their nursery. We were prone to misbehavior of the mildest sort. Harmless pranks on the dowdy-faced priest who regarded me with suspicion; stolen snacks from her very own larder.

She reminded me of my sister, who saw hilarity in even the most banal circumstance. Some people are born darlings of the universe, and the rest of us can only watch them as satellites apart, jealous and admiring.

Before we left for the aqueduct, the Chaton gave me a translation ofNightwood, a new novel by a female writer that was all the rage overseas. There was a particular heat in her expression as she made me promise to read it. Though I didn’t often turn to books for diversion, I agreed—for her. I could tell she disdained those who failed to see the value in reading, so, as usual, I committed myself to becoming worthy of her.

She pressed her lips to the front cover, as a kind of benediction. I knew the book would become my prized possession, if only because it bore the ghost of her kiss.

When we arrived at the stone complex, she twirled under the great arches. The ground was rough, but her feet caroused with the blithe grace of a dancer. She held her hand out to me and I joined her.

“It’s as if we’re priestesses at moonlight, conducting an ancient ritual,” she said.

Her expression was one of complete radiance. My longing had grown great, but I was powerless to act on it. She was married. And we could never be anything but friends. I shoved my need for her—exigent, fierce—aside.

“A ritual for rain?” I gave her a rare smile. It was for her that I hoarded my joy.

She stepped closer. “A ritual for love.”

The shock of her nearness ran through my body. I didn’t dare breathe. She leaned her forehead on mine.

We’d touched many times, as friends walking together, our fingers grazing when I poured her coffee, our knees knocking under the table. But this touch was not incidental, and the weight of that realization rested between us. Our mouths lay inches apart.

I was the one who pulled away. When one becomes accustomed to thwarted desire, one balks at the threat of false hope. She tilted her head, a question in her gaze. The next moment, I heard a loud rumble. Thunder? No. There was a flash of gray behind her left shoulder, hooves pounding through the dust nearby.

“Look,” I cried, hands on her arms, pivoting her so she could see. “The Camargue horses!”

There were two, galloping side by side, their legs gliding effortlessly across the rocky terrain, manes shot with sunlight. They loped in loose circles around each other, small and free. I was reminded of Muybridge’s locomotion photography, how stillness and movement can be immortalized all at once.

“How apt. More chevals sauvage.” She smiled, winding an arm around my waist.

I knew at that moment that I wanted to paint the Chaton riding on a Camargue horse, her hair unpinned, the shapely arches of her feet dangling from its flank. Bare skin, silken and pink, rubbing against the bristle of the horsehair. Nothing had stirred my painterly eroticism so much, before or since that image. I blushed hotly.

That was when I saw the truth—I wanted to paint no one but her. My creatures, my monsters, were nothing compared to this woman. Justine would be my muse, even if no one knew. Especially not her.

“What’s wrong?” the Chaton asked, observing my agitation.

“Nothing, nothing. The heat. Look, there are no riders.”

“They’ve broken away from the herd.”

“I hope they are never found then. They seem so happy on their own.”

“I envy them. They never have to pretend to be anything they aren’t.”

A teardrop fell onto her cheek. Despite myself, I reached a hand over and whisked it away with my thumb. God forgive me but I loved her more in her despair. Her sadness created an anteroom of the heart, a velveteen umbra where we could be shielded from prying eyes.

Among the wild horses and my own desire, I could convince myself that no one would find us.

I kissed the drying streak.

Then I kissed her.

Chapter 12

Vivi paused, feeling as if she hadn’t breathed in hours. Her throat was raw, her eyelids held open by little more than will. She closed the pages and held the journal to her chest.

“That’s it?” Calla asked.

“No. There’s more. But I need a break.”