The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (best books to read for women TXT) 📕

away from something most of my life, but I’ve only recently recognized how much it’s affected me. . . .” The wind scattered a whirlwind of snow around her legs.

“Please, go ahead. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Emma believed he was telling the truth. She took a deep breath. “I was running from someone—from an attraction I wanted desperately to control because I’m married and in love with my husband—at least I’m supposed to be.” She lowered her gaze. “Our relationship has been strained for a few years. We’re both to blame—partly me, partly him.”

“You fell in love with another man?”

“Let’s say I could have and a new character would have been added to my life’s story; but nothing of significance happened, except for damaging rumors. Another woman, a friend of Tom’s and a friend of mine, I thought, found out.”

“Oh, I see. Malicious gossip.”

Emma patted his arm. “You’re very smart, Lieutenant. You’ll go far in this world.”

He edged away a bit, as if her confession had troubled him. “Please, don’t get me wrong. I think of you as a friend—albeit a lovely, talented, and beautiful one. I have no intention of taking advantage now or ever, let alone when you’re disturbed.”

She tugged on his arm, urging him to slide closer. “There’s no chance of that. Right now, I need you as a windscreen.”

He laughed and then touched her cheek with his gloved fingers.

She smiled, moved his hand away, and shivered. “No, Lieutenant, I have a husband and work to do. It’s been nice in the garden, but it’s very cold.” She rubbed her hands together to stave off the chill. “We’re having a Christmas Eve party at the studio if you’d like to come. We’ve invited all our patients. Most said they’d be happy to attend for a sip of brandy and an excuse to get out of Mass.” Emma stood and then brushed the snow from her coat. “I shouldn’t joke. Most of these men are devout and thank God daily for their lives. Maybe the war will stop for Christmas and death will take a holiday.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be in Paris on the date, but if I am, I’d love to attend.”

She held out her hand. The officer grasped it and got up from the bench. As they circled the Palais, Emma stopped near one of the white statues, which loomed like a colossus over the promenade, and ran her fingers over a delicately veined marble leg. “Sculpture was all I was interested in for so long.” She looked up. “This face . . . do you realize how important the face is, Lieutenant Stoneman? From the moment we’re born, people judge us by our faces. But I want to create more than that; I want to create real life and love—not live through a statue.” The horrible dream from the doctor’s office in Pittsfield jumped into her head. “And, if I could, I’d bring back the dead.”

“I hope you get your wish.”

They walked arm in arm, until they were a short distance from the studio. The sun was lowering in the sky, casting deep, black shadows across rue Monge. The anonymous pedestrians, in their heavy coats, moved in lines down the street. However, Emma knew they were human beings, rich and poor, soldier and civilian, with needs and wants, not just studies for her art. As she said good-bye to the lieutenant, she wished that the war and the dark winter would disappear, and that peace and warmth would take their places.

If I could, I’d bring back the dead.

As the officer walked away, she realized how hard it would be to love Tom, or any man, until she forgave herself for the action taken so long ago.

* * *

Virginie whistled a merry tune as she hung holly and mistletoe over the doors and laced their frames with paper Tricolors. Emma explained the significance of mistletoe to her nurse; it was, after all, Christmas Eve, a night for peace and love. Virginie giggled and told Emma she had never been fortunate enough to participate in such a custom.

Madame Clement dried the last of the champagne glasses while Hassan carried a few more bottles to the courtyard to chill in the freezing air. The afternoon sky had faded from an inky blue to black and the evening gleamed luminously with a nearly full moon, only the brightest of stars daring to compete with the orb’s radiance.

Emma raced from room to room inspecting the decorations; she wanted the festivities to be perfect for the soldiers. Aromas from holly, evergreen boughs, and strong black coffee wafted through the studio. Madame Clement had managed to buy cookies and a frosted white cake from a baker who hoarded flour and sugar. Emma offered to pay for the desserts, but Madame Clement refused.

The housekeeper also surprised Emma by having her son, and a soldier, haul a Pathé phonograph up the stairs. They placed the machine, with its sound trumpet shaped like a giant green petunia, on the casting room table. Hassan was the first to try it. He selected several marches from a box of records, cranked the handle, positioned the needle, and tapped his feet to the stirring rhythms. After Madame Clement chose a waltz, Hassan grabbed Virginie by the waist and attempted, unsuccessfully, to coax her to dance.

A few minutes after six, the first of the soldiers arrived, and by seven, the studio was filled with guests.

Lieutenant Stoneman, looking relaxed and handsome, arrived a short time later. “From the street, it sounds as if you’re having a raucous party,” he told Emma as she took his coat. He waved his leave pass at her.

“You can hear our celebration from below?”

“Yes, laughter and phonograph music. You’d hardly know a war was going on if you didn’t know better. Maybe it’s as you said the other day—death will take a holiday, like it did on Christmas Day 1914.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

He smelled of soap and