Perfect Strangers

Part III

…all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you.

Ernest Hemingway

26

A short journeyby car takes us to a farm in the countryside, where we board a twin-engine plane, which James expertly pilots. Because hello, Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore. This guy is definitely not your average artist.

If he even is an artist. That’s probably just a cover for whatever he really is. The murderer/gunslinger/hot psychopath thing.

And here I thought he was sensitive. I’d like to smack myself in the face.

After about an hour’s flight in which we exchange exactly zero words, he lands on another miniscule strip of concrete in another country field. A sleek black Mercedes awaits, because hot psychopaths don’t own Volkswagens.

We drive accompanied by more silence. He’s probably thinking I’m musing over all our possible honeymoon spots, the delusional bastard.

In reality, I’m wondering what’s stopping me from turning on him and clawing his pretty blue eyes right out of their sockets.

Curiosity gets some points. I honestly can’t wait to hear what he has to say for himself. I doubt if even my own grandiose imagination could compete with whatever he’s got up his sleeves.

Maybe I can use it in a novel.

Sheer disbelief is also in the race. My self-preservation and fight-or-flight instincts have been dumped into a Cuisinart and puréed. I don’t know which way is up.

Then there’s that idiotic impulse that has me rescuing sick kittens and runaway ostriches. That tender, warm-hearted, sentimental impulse that I’d like to cut out of my heart with a razor blade.

Unlike James, I can’t shut off my emotions with the flick of a switch.

I still like the jerk.

I like him very much.

Okay, more than very much, but we’ve already established that he’s a psychopath, so I’m not going there.

No, I decide, hardening my heart, the real reason I haven’t clawed his eyes out yet is because I need to know what he knows about what happened to my daughter. Then I’m out of here.

Wherever here is.

Staring straight ahead, I ask him where we’re going.

“Home.”

His voice is soft and warm. I glance over and find him looking out the windshield, his hands relaxed around the steering wheel. The setting sun casts a golden sheen on his handsome face, making him look like an angel.

He’s smiling.

“Where are we?”

“Southeastern France. Near the village of Sault, in Vaucluse.” He meets my blank gaze, and his smile grows warmer. “Provence, sweetheart. We’re in Provence.”

We crest the low rise of a hill, and I gasp at the beautiful scene laid out before me.

Nestled on a ridge flanked by forest on one side and a rolling valley on the other, a medieval stone village glows warmest ochre in the dying rays of sun. Its tiled roofs are washed crimson. Its bell-topped church spire soars high into the cerulean sky.

Like a painting by an old master, the lush valley beckons the eye toward the distant horizon with a breathtaking view of mile beyond mile of lavender fields, glowing deepest purple and blue in the twilight. Their straight lines traverse the gentle rise and fall of earth as far as the eye can see, row upon row of luscious color and vibrant life interrupted once in a while by an olive tree spreading its gnarled, silvery branches over the teeming violet army of flowers bursting forth below.

It’s a feast for the eyes. My vision is saturated with color. Everything is so vivid and bright.

Then James rolls down the windows, and I breathe in the scent of heaven.

Sweet and dusky, delicate and distinct, the heady aroma of the lavender fields overwhelms my senses. Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes and simply let it surround me, the most beautiful, relaxing cloud.

James murmurs, “There exists a field, beyond all notions of right and wrong. I will meet you there.”

When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me tenderly. “My script writers can’t take credit for that. It’s the poet Rumi. Are you familiar with him?”

“I watched you kill three men today. Don’t you dare start quoting ancient Persian mystics to me.”

He grins. “Four.”

“Excuse me?”

“I killed four men at the hotel. And I should’ve known you’d recognize Rumi. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

Laughing at my expression, he reaches over and squeezes my thigh. “I know you have questions and you’re really fucking mad at me right now, but I have to tell you that I’ve honestly never felt this happy in my life.”

I say flatly, “You’re a psychopath.”

“Nah.”