Blind Obsession

First Impressions

Arrival

Chateau Tibideau. I’ve heard so much about this place and the man who lives here.

Nestled against rows of lush, plump grapevines, the sprawling old manor is slowly crumbling into the ground a little more each day. As the sun begins to dip below the hills of Bordeaux, France, a stunning golden hue sweeps across the skyline, highlighting the magnificence of the chateau in all its fading glory.

It’s fading because the owner has closed the gates. He’s stopped producing the wine that was once exported from here, and he’s refused visitors ever since—well, ever since his world exploded all over the media front.

Standing beside my little rented Toyota with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, I look up at the second story window of the main house. I notice a heavy black curtain shift and move almost as if someone has taken a step away from peering out of it.

Taking a calming breath, I remind myself, I was invited here. He reached out to me.

He is a man so private and so isolated from the outside world that no one has seen or heard from him in months, ever since he was hounded relentlessly about his involvement in the tragic events that had unfolded here. That, of course, all came on the heels of the acclaim he had received over his artwork, which had catapulted him into the public eye in the first place.

His artwork includes a series of paintings that have been revered as, and I quote, “an alluring mixture of dark eroticism enhanced now by its devastatingly haunting sadness,” end quote. With all of that praise, one would think that the artist would be available and forthcoming for interviews, but Mr. Phillipe Tibideau has disappeared. He’s vanished from the spotlight.

It’s easy to understand why. Rumors have swirled about the man whenever he is in a room. They have even surfaced when he is nowhere in sight. Peace seems to be a very distant friend for this man who was once one of the most public and famous faces in the world.

Gathering up my courage, I walk forward and knock twice on the large wooden door. Taking a step back, I wait patiently for someone to answer. I glance over to the left where a black plaque is mounted on the wall with a quote written in intricate gold paint.

It reads, Les vrais paradis sont les paradis qu’on a perdus.

My French is certainly nowhere near good enough to translate that, so I pull out the little notepad from my overstuffed laptop bag and write down, Ask about plaque. Just as I put the notepad away, the old door opens, and a small white-haired lady steps forward with a smile.

“Mademoiselle Harris?” she questions.

My American last name sounds so foreign with the French accent.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to meet with Mr. Tibideau,” I inform her.

She stands aside, ushering me in. Taking a step forward into the large foyer, the first thing I see is the grand staircase to my left. It wraps up the curved wall, which is what I presume is the turret I could see from outside.

What an amazing place to live, is my initial thought. As my eyes glance around the room, they take in several pieces of artwork hanging from every wall. They are so stunningly breathtaking that I start to feel as though I’m in a museum.

Waiting for me to finish my obvious admiration of the place she calls home, the little lady beside me clears her throat, regaining my attention.

Gesturing up the stairs I was just admiring, she informs me in her strongly accented voice, “Mr. Tibideau is waiting for you upstairs in his studio.”

She turns and walks away in the opposite direction, leaving me to look around the room again as I make my way to the staircase.

Reaching out, I place my hand on the old worn banister, tracing the cracks in the wood, as I slowly take the steps one at a time. On the wall closest to me is a painting I’ve seen before but only in prints. As I stand before what I believe is a life-size replica or perhaps the original, I am instantly compelled by it. Although the room I am standing in is completely silent, there’s something about the image that screams out to me. In fact, the only thing I can consciously hear is my breathing and the slight creak of the floorboards every time I take a step.

The painting is absolutely captivating. I can’t even begin to describe how the artist has managed to make each brushstroke feel as though you are actually touching the woman in pose. Instantly, you’re aware that the person who painted her so lovingly had stroked his hands over the naked flesh he so beautifully captured.

Shifting my feet a little, I find myself almost uncomfortable to be standing in someone’s house—no, not someone’s house, his house—staring at this image, and feeling so moved and completely mesmerized by it.

Slowly looking over the painting, I tear my eyes away from the supple perfection of her nude posterior, stopping at the curve of her right cheek where it meets her thigh. Reaching out, I move to trace it with my fingers, but at the last minute, I pull my hand back. Admonishing myself, I turn on the step, determined to be on my way, although I can’t help but take one more quick look at the painting. I wonder about the violin that is being held by the woman to cover a portion of herself. I know it is hers, but what message is the artist trying to convey?

Pulling out my notepad, I write that question down, too. Does the violin represent more than just a violin? Putting the pad back, I make my way up the final steps. I look around and notice the door to the left is open. Taking a deep breath while I move toward it, I step inside and find a room shrouded in darkness. Narrowing my eyes, I search the space.

When my eyes finally focus, they are drawn to a man sitting in a small chair in the corner of the room. It isn’t easy to spot him right off, and I understand why.

From what I can make out, he’s dressed from head to toe in dark clothing. One of his long legs is bent, with his ankle propped up on the knee of his other leg. Stepping into what I have now determined is his studio, my eyes squint as he flicks on a lamp sitting on the table beside him.

While my eyes adjust to the soft glow of the light, I’m suddenly face to face with a man the world dubbed nearly a year ago as the most beautiful man. That headline, however, has been replaced with ones that read along the lines of, Beautiful? Or Beautifully Terrifying?

“Mademoiselle Harris?” he inquires.

His voice heats me like the burn of smooth whiskey.

I watch carefully as he unfolds his large body from the plush-looking chair. As he moves toward me, I track him crossing the studio space. Instantly, I forget my own name.

It isn’t hard to know why. He moves with such elegance for a tall man. He easily tops six-foot which places him perhaps at around six-foot-four.

When he stops in front of me, he holds out his hand. This is a natural introduction for two people about to begin a business relationship. So, why am I holding my breath? Reaching out, I slide my hand into his, marveling at the paint flecked on his fingers and embedded under the blunt nails on his hands.

“Yes, Mr. Tibideau, but you can call me Gemma,” I reply.

A small smile barely touches his lips as he nods.

For a moment, I try to push aside all I have heard, and I look at him objectively. The man has the most sensual eyes I’ve ever seen. They have a come-to-my-bedroom quality all on their own. Once you add in the full, pouty lips and sexy little dimple on his chin—not to mention, the dark brown hair that falls haphazardly like he has run his hands through it—then you have the most beautiful man in the world. Or, if you believe the other stories, you have a beautiful monster.

“Well, in that case, Gemma, I insist you call me Phillipe. After all, you are about to know me very well, no?”

Heat rises in my cheeks as I try not to act embarrassed. I remind myself, I’m a professional.

“I suppose you are right,” I manage to say, unable to think of anything else at the moment.

He lets go of my hand and turns silently, walking over to the only window in the studio. I’m left standing in the doorway, feeling oddly bereft.

The window with the French provincial shutters is closed and I watch intently as he unlatches and pushes them open. He then takes a moment to slide his hands into his perfectly tailored pants as he looks out of them.

Looking around, I spot a small table and chair over to the left. “Should I set up over here then?”

Turning, he looks to where I’m standing. “Yes. I had the table brought up here for you. I figured this room is probably the best place to conduct these sessions.” He pauses as he turns back to look out at the now darkened sky. “This is where I am most comfortable.”

Walking over to the small desk, I place my bag down and remove my laptop from its case. Turning back around, I see he still has his back to me. I try to control my erratic heartbeat as it thumps nervously in my chest. I need to calm down. This man can either make or break my career. As I stare at him, trying to forget all the things other people have warned me about, I can’t seem to stop my heart from racing.

For several months now, journalists from every form of media have been trying—and failing—to get Mr. Tibideau to tell his side of the rumored story as well as share the inspiration behind each of his paintings. Somehow, I, Gemma Harris, have been chosen.

I finish setting up my things as he finally turns back to face me, moving to the chair that’s situated under the soft lamplight. Taking a seat silently, his eyes never waver from mine. He’s intimidating as hell, but instead of making me nervous, it makes me more determined. I’m determined to get the story I came looking for.

Looking away from him, I pull out the chair he’s provided, turn it to face him, and sit down.

“Thank you for allowing me to do this.”

“Thank you for accepting my terms. Not everyone would have packed up their lives and moved to France for a couple of months.”

I laugh to hide my first-day nerves. With a smile, I tell him, “Really? Well, those people are crazy. This is a wonderful opportunity. France is beautiful. It will give me an authentic feel for your story and your life. After all, it did take place here, didn’t it?”

He forms a steeple with his hands in front of his nose, and I watch as those serious green eyes move to mine.

“It did happen here, yes.” Closing his eyes, he leans his head back on the chair. “The important parts anyway.”

Regarding him carefully, I probe. “When would you like to begin? Tonight or in the morning?”

His eyes open as he raises his head. I can feel the full impact of that penetrating stare.

“Tonight. Let’s start now,” he replies.

Clearing my throat, I grab the notepad and pen from my bag. When I look back at him, he is leaning forward, holding out a bound leather book to me. Glancing down, I reach forward and take it as he settles back in the chair. He tries to appear calm, but he doesn’t succeed. Instead, he just looks uncomfortable.

“What is this?” I ask the obvious question.

“It’s a journal. You’ll need that for any of this to make sense.”

He doesn’t seem to want to say more, so I nod while I move to open it.

“No, not yet,” he instructs.

I find it hard not to flip it open just for a peek, but I’m here to listen. I want to learn about his paintings and what really happened that night, but since he says not to look at it yet, I place the bound journal on the desk.

“Okay, let’s start at the beginning.”

He takes a deep breath, and for some reason, I hold mine before he finally blows his out.

“Go ahead.”

Shifting in my seat, I begin. “What inspired you to paint your critically acclaimed series?”

He lifts a hand to stroke the stubble lining his cheeks and chin, and then he replies so softly that I almost miss it.

“Beauty.” There’s a pregnant pause before he repeats himself louder. “Beauty inspired me.”

Scribbling this down, I ask my next question without looking up. “Beauty of the world?”

Not missing a beat, he replies, “No, beauty of a woman. One woman.”

Looking up at him, I instantly know he means her, and I swallow deeply. I now understand the reason for his focus on every intense stroke of the painting that hangs center stage on the wall by the staircase, lit up as though it is the pride and joy of the house. That painting is beauty, and she is the one woman. She is the woman that has captured the attention of the entire world, bringing probing questions to this man’s door.

Urging my brain to catch up, I remind myself to be professional, to ask only what I need to, and to build up to the parts of the story I so desperately want to know from this very private man. Instead of following my own directions, I blurt out, “What moves you?”

He seems to think about this question longer than I expect him to before he deflects with one of his own. “You don’t want to ask me the most obvious question first, Miss Harris?”

Immediately, I know what question he means, but I’m not ready to ask that yet. I’m here to learn about the vision behind the images and his side of this terrible nightmare. So, no, I don’t want to ask him the obvious…yet.

“I thought we decided on you calling me Gemma,” I point out, trying to keep our conversation light.

Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head in a mock bow. That’s my signal to continue.

“What moves you?” I ask again.

For some reason, I anticipate him having an answer ready. Instead, he sits there in thought while I picture the woman in the painting, knowing he is thinking of her.

“What moves me?” he repeats my question.

I nod and wait, gripping the edge of my seat, and this is only my second question.

“The answer to that is the same to your first question, Gemma. Beauty moves me.”

After scribbling that down, I bring my eyes back to his. “And beauty is one woman?” I clarify just to be sure.

His eyes remain steadfast on mine, and without a shred of doubt, he tells me, “Beauty is Chantel.”

Finally, the woman in the painting, Chantel, has been invited into the room.