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“Those things are utile,” he says. “It’s not the same.”
It makes me all the more curious. Attacking the box with the scissors, I make both of us laugh. It’s easy and carefree. It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed like this.
Finally, I manage to pry the edges of the box open and peer inside. It’s filled with shredded paper. I glance at him.
“Go on,” he says, waving me on.
I brush the paper aside and catch a glimpse of white metal. I still, then scoop the paper aside faster, making it fall over the table and floor.
Oh, my God. I lift the owner’s manual from the box. A Singer Quantum Stylist computerized portable sewing machine.
I gape at him. “Maxime.”
“Do you like it?” There’s uncertainty in his tone.
Emotions clog up my throat. I’ve had only one true gift in my life—a book of fairytales. The clothes Maxime buys are to make me look pretty for him and to be a showpiece worth looking at on his arm. The flowers he bought in Venice were a pre-consolation price for locking me up in a cell. This? This is different. This is not for him or the benefit of outside onlookers. This isn’t a prelude to a lesson. This is for me. This is the first thing he’s given me with no strings attached. It serves no other purpose than making me happy. I don’t know what makes me sadder, that he’s the first person other than my late mom to gift me anything or that he’s the only one who’s paid enough attention to me to know what I love. No matter that I hate it, he understands my dreams. No matter that I hate myself for it, his gesture moves me. Tears well in my eyes, unbidden and unwelcome but very sincere as I digest the enormity of his offering.
He frowns. “What’s wrong?”
He looks so dejected I can’t stop myself from wrapping my arms around him and leaning my cheek on his chest. His gift is a beautiful gesture, a pure one, and I’m not going to twist it into something ugly by throwing it back into his face. It will kill any shred of kindness left in his dark heart, proving to him kind acts are rewarded with cruelty. I refuse to be the teacher of such an inhumane lesson.
“Thank you,” I whisper, hugging him tightly.
He folds his arms around me. “You’re welcome.”
Francine stands stiffly with a downturned mouth. With all the emotions coursing through me, I’ve all but forgotten about her. We’ve shut her out in our private moment. When she catches my eye, she turns on her heel and heads back to the kitchen.
Maxime kisses the top of my head. “I didn’t want to give it to you before you’ve finished your French exams. I was afraid you wouldn’t focus.”
He’s right. I can hardly focus on anything other than the designs already running through my head. “I haven’t written my exams yet.” It’s only in two days.
“Knowing what a nerd you are, I’m sure you’ve already mastered everything.”
“Almost.”
“You’ll have to go shopping for fabric and thread and whatever else a clothing designer needs.”
Sniffing away my tears, I pull back to look at him. “You mean a seamstress.”
“No.” He wipes a thumb under my eye, catching a tear. “I think you should go to a design school.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“It’s a good school, one of the most prestigious in the country right here in Marseille. I’ve already looked into it. You can start after the summer break.”
I’m battling to process the information. “Don’t you have to pass very strict tests to be admitted?” They only take the best of the best, and I know how selective places are.
“Of course, but I have no doubt you’ll pass. I’ve seen your drawings.”
“You think they have merit?”
He smiles. “Without a doubt.”
Excitement surges through me, but confusion, too. “Why would you do something like that for me?” I also know how much designing schools cost. I can’t even begin to think how much he’d have to fork out to send me to a prestigious French one.
“It’s good to have a purpose in life. I don’t believe in wasting talents. Hard work is rewarding. All the more if said work is your passion.”
He wants me to have purpose, to live my passion? To make me happy or to prevent me from jumping off cliffs? I’m not clear about his motivations. I’ve never understood them. There’s still so much I don’t know about the man who both holds me captive and protects me from people like his brother. I know nothing about his passion or purpose.
“Do you live your passion?” I ask.
“I was born to do what I’m doing.”
“Dealing in diamonds?” I don’t even know if he’s a broker or the owner of a jewelry chain.
