Julie's Butterfly (5 page)

C
HAPTER
7

Bastian wandered restlessly around his modern loft located on the top floor of an upscale apartment building. The plain white walls were expertly plastered and without a single imperfection. The furniture was simple and functional. Nothing was out of place. There were no pictures on the walls, not even a mirror, and all the surfaces had smooth, matte finishes.

It had taken him two years to create exactly what he wanted. It had cost him a fortune, but that no longer mattered. Some visitors found his home cold and unwelcoming, but he loved the straight lines and simplicity. He felt totally free there.

Until this evening.

He felt like a caged animal.

On his way to the warehouse earlier, he had been relieved by the prospect of the distraction after a sleepless night. Instead, who had he found there but Julie. Of all people. He could still hardly believe he had found himself cooped up with her in a small storeroom, taking tedious still lifes of a third-rate art collection. Fate must love him.

He went over to his desk and stared at the photo he’d taken of Julie at the opening. It lay on top of a pile of black-and-white eight-by-ten prints he had made that morning to give to Elena. Julie’s dark eyes, further highlighted by the black-and-white contrast, were warm and expressive. Despite her open nature, he was intrigued by the mystery they concealed.

He wondered who this woman was and what made her tick, whether she was genuinely happy, or whether her laughter merely masked a deeper sadness.

He had never spoken to any of the subjects of his photographs before. Usually he knew neither their names nor any details of their lives, had no hint of their character or even the sound of their voices. It hadn’t interested him before. What had counted was the purity of the expression of his pictures. He had concentrated exclusively on the natural magic radiated by his subjects, regardless of their age, gender, or nationality.

Conversely, these strangers had not the slightest idea—as far as he knew—that he was photographing them.

He gently stroked her cheek on the matte paper and traced the contours of her sensual mouth. He realized with frustration that his photo only captured a tiny part of her. At the warehouse, he had discovered many more of her facets, this despite the fact that he had done his utmost to avoid getting drawn into conversation.

He was going to have to face another day with her in the confinement of the storeroom, and he had no idea how he was going to keep his barriers up.

His carefully cultivated inclination to keep his distance from everyone and everything had never failed him before—even last night in her apartment, when the temptation could not have been greater. Now this restraint weighed as heavily on him as his need for her presence. He wondered whether the next twenty-four hours would shift the balance entirely. That would change everything, and he had no desire for change.

Never again would he allow someone to hurt him like that bitch had fifteen years earlier. He had only dared to give a girl his heart once, and she had shattered it before he knew what was happening. He was sixteen back then and had a crush on her for a long time. She had captivated and seduced him, and he had allowed himself to enjoy it. He really believed she was different, someone worth opening himself up to.

The next day, the entire school knew, down to the minutest detail, how he looked naked, and her actions had earned her a set of concert tickets from her friends. His first great love had been a total disaster, and he made sure it would be his last.

Of course, he had allowed himself the occasional affair, but the fact that he found most women attractive but not particularly smart made it easy for him to keep his relationships superficial. He never talked to them about himself, they were physical only in the dark, and he never spent the night with them. He had never wanted anything more than that, at least not until now.

Loneliness was a price he was willing to pay. It seemed cheaper than his vulnerability.

The phone snapped him out of his thoughts. He didn’t think twice about who could be calling at such a late hour. His stomach tensed painfully as he took the call.

“Bastian?” Elena’s voice sounded shaky. “Can you come over, please?”

“How bad is it?” he asked as he slipped into his shoes and grabbed his keys.

“Pretty bad,” she replied, sniffling.

“I’m on my way.”

C
HAPTER
8

The following morning, Julie and Bastian started where they had left off the previous evening. The only difference was that Bastian was even more aloof. He looked worn-out, and Julie involuntarily wondered why.

They only spoke when necessary, and otherwise, a tense silence filled the room. At one point, out of sheer desperation, she even considered singing aloud. The silent monotony was finally broken around noon by the cheerful
Sesame Street
theme song, a joke from Isabelle. Relieved at the interruption, Julie took her cell phone from her purse.

“Hello?”

“Hey, honey,” trilled Isabelle.

“Hey.”

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“I’m at the warehouse.”

“Still?”

“It turns out my mother has decided to sell off half the contents of the house.” Julie gripped the phone to her ear with her shoulder and maneuvered a box to the table.

“We can always rely on our dear Louisa for a surprise or two,” remarked Isabelle.

“You’re telling me.”

“The reason I’m calling,” said Isabelle, “is that I’ve just had brunch with Elena.”

Julie froze. “I told you there was nothing more to say on the matter.”

“His name’s Bastian Colbert.” She giggled exuberantly. “A Frenchman. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Sweet as syrup,” replied Julie sarcastically. She glanced over at Bastian, praying that he couldn’t hear Isabelle’s loud voice. “But I don’t want to hear another word on the subject.”

Isabelle seemed to be thinking things over. “It’s just that Elena told me he was very taken with you.”

Julie huffed in disbelief. She had probably gotten her confused with someone else.

“Apparently he can be a bit difficult about these things, which might explain why he didn’t express his interest very well,” continued Isabelle.

“As I’ve said, it doesn’t matter.”

“So be it. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“I’ve got a date with Luke tomorrow.”

“Honey, you really need to get yourself a date with a suitable man.”

Julie stole another glance at Bastian, who was fiddling with his camera. There was no doubt that he was a suitable man. Dressed in a navy blue long-sleeved shirt, black gloves, and loose-fitting jeans, he radiated masculinity. She had no intention of discussing her love life with Isabelle within earshot of him. “How was brunch?” she asked instead.

Isabelle sighed theatrically, accepting defeat. She gave Julie a detailed report of her conversation with Elena, which paintings she had sold, and her schedule for the coming weeks. Julie continued to unpack boxes as she listened. Twenty minutes later, Isabelle announced that she had to go buy some art supplies. Right before hanging up, she took a deep breath.

“Oh, by the way,” she said cheerfully, “he lives at Three King Street. See you.”

Julie shook her head and smiled at Isabelle’s persistence. Not that she had the slightest need of his address—he was right there in front of her. But it might come in handy someday.

She observed him discreetly.

“He was very taken with you,” Isabelle had said. Well, he had a very unusual way of showing it.

After unfolding the lid of another box, she pulled out an indefinable shape concealed in a cushion of bubble wrap. She carefully removed the packaging and gasped in surprise.

She was holding a treasured memento from her childhood: her grandmother’s music box. The colorful carousel, with hand-painted horses circling around a wooden base, had been her favorite toy. She had spent hours lying on her bedroom floor, listening to the distinctive melody. When her grandmother died, the music box had officially passed to her mother, but Julie had always considered the carousel to be hers. But now her mother had decided to sell it. Just like that.

Bastian approached and looked at the carousel. “What’s that?”

“A music box,” she said quietly.

She swallowed, unable to put her bitterness into words. She slowly turned the key to set it in motion. She wanted to hear the familiar tune—with its associations of warmth, security, and the happy days of childhood—one last time. At least, that’s how she felt before her parents deemed her old enough to start living up to their expectations, almost suffocating her with the pressure of their ambitions in the process. Julie’s heart contracted painfully as the melody played.

As she watched the little circling horses, her fighting spirit was awakened, and she felt a desire to call her mother and vent her frustration. But that wouldn’t accomplish anything. Louisa could hardly be called fickle; once she had decided something, that was it, regardless of the sacrifices others had to make.

And Julie had certainly made her share of sacrifices. She had spent her youth studying hard, going to ballet classes, and practicing piano. There had never been time for boys—her parents would not tolerate such frivolous distractions. In the end, she had graduated from high school with honors, and as a result, the world was her oyster. Looking back, that was the only thing for which she was truly grateful to her parents, even if she was reluctant to give them any credit.

Although she had often felt trapped, she hadn’t been lonely in her gilded cage. She had Jo, her fellow sufferer, and Isabelle, her off-the-wall friend, who had exercised her creative talents to gain both of them more freedom. If Julie was a kite, Isabelle was the wind that made her fly and Jo the string that kept her grounded.

The melody wound down, and the horses slowed to a stop. Julie took a deep breath to loosen the tightness in her chest before taking the music box over to the table for Bastian to photograph.

“That looks as though it means a great deal to you,” he observed as he took his place behind the camera. His gentle tone surprised her. “You shouldn’t be selling it.”

“It’s not my decision,” she replied, turning away resigned.

Once Bastian had finished taking pictures of it, Julie removed the music box from the stand and swapped it for a silver bowl. She gave one last, wistful look at the toy before packing it back up and placing it with the other finished pieces.

She stretched up to reach for the next box from the top shelf.

“Do you need help?” asked Bastian.

“No, thanks. I’ve got it,” she said, hooking her fingernails beneath the bottom edge and slowly tugging on it with her fingers. Suddenly the box tipped forward and fell. She shut her eyes as the box’s contents clattered loudly to the ground, drowning out her sharp cry.

Looking around in a daze, she saw that she was standing a foot away from where she had been, and strong fingers were gripping her upper arm.

Bastian was standing next to her and looking at her with a shocked expression. He studied her from head to toe.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, I’m fine.” Apart from the fact that her heart was in her mouth.

He relaxed and let go of her. The worried look on his face made Julie laugh despite herself.

“You came to my rescue yet again,” she said incredulously.

His mouth twitched at the corners. “You sure make it easy.”

“True.”

She reached down to pick up the object that had threatened to knock her senseless. It was a heavy brass globe engraved with the contours of the continents. She scrutinized the heavy sphere in her hands.

“Good as new,” she announced, relieved, as Bastian lifted the box off the floor.

She put the globe in the box, then looked up and lost herself in Bastian’s green eyes. Close up, Julie could make out the light and dark flecks that sometimes appeared gray in the light.

If Isabelle and Elena were telling the truth—which she had no reason to doubt—she was wasting a precious opportunity right now. Perhaps she should swallow her pride, at least enough to see whether the face he presented to the world was only a carefully constructed facade.

Bastian cleared his throat uneasily and took a step back.

“Let’s take a break and have a bite to eat,” he suggested. There was a mocking gleam in his eye. “After that you can go wrestle with the next box.”

Julie nodded in a daze as Bastian picked up his phone.

“Is Italian OK?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks.”

“What would you like?”

“Lasagna and a large coffee, please.”

While they waited for their food to arrive, Julie worked out how many pieces were left.

“We should be done by this evening,” she announced.

“Good.”

They sat down at the table where Bastian had spread out the food. Julie took the lid off her lasagna and inhaled appreciatively. “Almost like being in Italy,” she said, picking up a fork and spearing the cheesy top layer.

“Have you been there?” asked Bastian.

She nodded, her mouth full, trying not to get too optimistic about his interest.

“Isabelle and I traveled after graduating from high school. Through Switzerland, down to Milan, and then to Florence.” She laughed. “We spent two weeks in a rattly old Beetle. Our very own road trip.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It was fantastic.” Julie paused, waiting to see if he would ask any further questions, but he took a silent bite of his extravagantly topped pizza. “We hardly ever took the freeway,” she continued bravely. “We both agreed that would mean missing out on the best parts. So we spent our days chugging through the countryside, stopping wherever we felt like it, and slept in the car at night.”

While she ate, Julie described her adventure with Isabelle in great detail, and Bastian even interrupted her with a question now and then. It was the first time they’d really talked to each other.

“We originally wanted to go as far as Rome, but sadly, we ran out of time.”

“How come?”

“My university was offering a preparatory course I didn’t want to miss before starting law school.”

Bastian frowned. “Shouldn’t you be in class now?”

“Law just wasn’t for me,” she explained with a shrug. “I’m working as a waitress at the moment, but only while I figure out what I really want to do.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And that is . . . ?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can you sing?”

She blinked in surprise, then laughed. “No.”

“Dance?”

“I used to take ballet lessons, but I’m a bit rusty.”

“Then a career as a pop star seems out of the question.”

“Or as a C-list celeb,” she added. “I’m also an appalling actress.”

“A professional athlete perhaps?”

“You must have noticed by now that I’m not exactly blessed with coordination.”

“A scientific career?”

“Too dry.”

“Teacher of some kind?”

Her brown eyes widened. “Too stressful.”

He leaned back, looking pensive. “We seem to be a little picky, don’t we?”

“At least I know what I don’t want. That’s got to count for something,” she said with a smile. “I want to make sure I make the right decision this time.”

“The right decision,” mused Bastian. The intense light in his green eyes made Julie pause nervously.

“It doesn’t matter. Sooner or later I’m bound to find a job that suits me.” Eager to change the subject, she asked, “So do you make your living as a professional photographer?”

“I do—if you can call me that. I never studied it.”

“What difference does that make? Isabelle never studied art, but we were at her opening the day before yesterday.”

“You’ve got a point there.”

“How come you don’t usually photograph people?” she asked.

“I don’t photograph people
for work
. I don’t like the inhibition caused by asking someone to look at the camera,” he explained. “Most people start to worry about how they come across the moment they see a lens pointed at them. I prefer candid shots.”

Amazed at how forthcoming he was, she paused.

“So you only take pictures of people if they don’t know they’re being photographed?”

“Basically, yes.”

“And do these people ever find out that you’ve taken their picture?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If a complete stranger came up to you and said, ‘Hey, I’m a photographer, and I took a wonderful picture of you while you didn’t know you were being watched,’ wouldn’t you start looking around for the nearest escape route?”

Julie frowned. “I see your point. It would be pretty disconcerting.”

“That’s precisely why I prefer to keep my work private,” he said. He set his cutlery aside and cleared away the remains of the meal. “We’ve still got a lot to do. Let’s get on with it.”

“Fine,” she said and began helping to clear everything away. Julie rose and moved tentatively over to the stand, where a lamp was waiting to be photographed. As Bastian was still otherwise occupied, she stepped behind his camera. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

“How does it work?” she asked.

“Turn the dial to
P
for program. All the settings are saved in there.”

Julie followed his instructions and looked through the viewfinder. “I can’t see anything.”

“Is the camera switched on?”

“Of course,” she replied, sounding affronted, but she checked the camera again to make sure.

Bastian came over to Julie and stopped right in front of her. She was suddenly aware of the unexpected warmth that radiated from his body. A tingling sensation ran through her from head to toe. Unsettled, she took a step back to create more space between them.

Apparently unaware of her reaction, Bastian inspected his camera, then removed the lens cap without comment.

“You didn’t mention that,” said Julie in her own defense.

As Bastian returned to the table, Julie thought his movements were a little too deliberately casual to be convincing, but that was probably just wishful thinking.

She looked through the lens and centered it on the lamp. It automatically focused. The two familiar beeps were audible confirmation. She pressed the shutter button. The picture was transferred directly to Bastian’s laptop, which he had placed on the floor by the tripod. She studied it and was satisfied to see that she had just taken a usable catalogue image.

“Is that all?” she asked in amazement.

Bastian nodded.