The Double Rose (2 page)

Jones held a lit match to the flag and then threw it at the feet of the condemned women. The young ladies could not move closer to the fireplace without the flames catching their patchwork-quilted skirts.

The men spewed their final threats and then proceeded to board up the door and windows from the outside. As the hammers banged and the moonlight’s rays diminished, Marie attempted to comfort her sobbing daughters and still their futile calls for mercy.

“Girls, we must take charge of our senses! Quickly now!” Marie pointed toward the stove.

Suzanne doused the flaming flag with the tea from the kettle and a full bucket near the stove.

Marie raced to retrieve the axe from storage. “Jacqueline, help me remove the lid from this crate!” They attempted to wedge hunting knives between the lid and the crate in order to dislodge the nails. Suzanne aided them by holding the candle beside the crate.

All the women fervently prayed as they searched for an escape, but the thickening smoke was a formidable opponent.

Chapter 1

Seventy Expressions of Marie

Independence, Missouri

Thursday, 14 June

Marie Fitzroy’s parents, Christophe and Sophie Fitzroy, were immigrants from Audincourt, France. Every member of the Fitzroy family played the harp with a passion, but Marie’s traditional art was her first love.

Before Marie’s birth, the Fitzroys purchased a historic, mid-nineteenth century church with magnificent, brightly colored stained-glass windows on thirty acres of land.

Oral legend in the local community claimed the church possessed a curse because a man known as Reverend Jones, who had ruled the community with a fire and brimstone theology, burned a mother and her two teenage daughters for being witches. The women claimed they had visitations with angels that emitted light, and they refused to deny their experiences to the end. One year later, Reverend Jones died in a barn fire.

In spite of the urban legend, the church was a masterpiece of artistic skills. Her parents hired an architect named Joseph Ryan to design an ultra-contemporary house incorporating the old church. Blending old-world craftsmanship with the masterful qualities of modern architecture enhanced the beauty of the structure. The two styles were woven into something new and wonderful. The sharp contrast in the styles always fascinated Marie – the unity seemed to represent peace. The architect’s son, Josh, on the other hand, had the opposite effect.

The Fitzroys lived in the new portion of the house with their six daughters, Geneviéve, Juliette, Nicole, Eliza, Marie and Anne, until the girls grew up and moved out. The old section of the church was used for concerts and ministry meetings for the flock of free-thinking souls whom Christophe and Sophie pastored.

In her junior year of high school, Marie won an international youth competition for promising young artists. The summer after she graduated, an anonymous sponsor hosted an exhibit for her work in New York City. Her pieces of art were catapulted into the limelight overnight. She was interviewed for all the major trade magazines and sold over forty original pieces.

Marie had gained a reputation as a visionary artist. With the exception of graphite, her pieces were always executed in vibrant colors and full of life. Many of them expressed a vision of peaceful coexistence within a diverse world.

Having completed a graduate program, Marie's career appeared to be smoothly sailing forward. At least until
 . . .

Marie sulked when she heard the phone ring for the third time.
I suppose postponing the inevitable will not help the situation
, she reasoned. Remains of a half-eaten chicken salad croissant and a cinnamon latte were left behind as she pulled herself away from the sanctuary of her soft sofa. She crossed the studio and dug the phone out from under a toppled-over pile of blank canvases.

“Hi, Maman. I see you have your maternal radar on again.” Forgotten tubes of acrylic paint cluttering Marie’s desktop suddenly demanded attention when an uncapped tube of cadmium-red smeared her new white sweats. She juggled the phone on her shoulder as she restored order to the chaos on her desk.

“Hello,
chérie
.”

Sophie’s strong French accent alleviated Marie's sense of loneliness.

“Are you having a good day?”

“You always have perfect timing.” Marie’s attention fixated on the thick, red pool of paint on her hardwood floor. Droplets splattered as they fell from the desk.

“Has something serious happened?”

“Zoe visited last night again,” she answered in a daze. Bewildered by the presence of the capless acrylics, Marie removed a roll of paper towels from the lower desk drawer. She crumpled heaps of the two-ply sheets into a ball and then sopped up the spilled paint. After picking the canvases up from the desk, Marie banished them to the floor as they were clearly the villains in the desktop fiasco.

“Her light entered my room shortly after midnight. Zoe led the way, as always. We flew over cities, across the Atlantic, and straight to Paris. When I asked her what we were doing there, she handed me a double rose, pointed her finger, and said, ‘Here is where you will find your destiny.’ My vision expanded down the Paris Meridian until I saw a country estate in the south of France. Then the vision abruptly ended with my head on my pillow.”

Marie gazed at the framed oil painting of Zoe hanging next to the drawing table. The dark-red fabric of the angelic messenger’s shimmering, seamless gown looked light enough to blow away. A garland of roses embroidered in silver thread embellished the bodice. Even in a portrait, Zoe’s ageless face and brilliant, green eyes projected the warmth of extraordinary love.

“Zoe’s visit began a theme of unexpected events for the day.” Marie began to pace. “This morning Laura received a call from the Events Center. Apparently, the second convention hall will not be finished on schedule; therefore, it will not be available for the grand opening celebration. The bottom line is my collection must be reduced to forty pieces.”

The new Kansas City Events Center, partnering with the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, originally planned to host seventy pieces of Marie’s art for its grand opening celebration on the Fourth of July. This last-minute setback shattered Marie’s dream for her momentous day. She had spent the past six months systematically selecting seventy pieces from more than two hundred paintings and illustrations in her gallery. Her personal assistant, Laura O’Hara, prepared a file to accompany each piece.

A huff escaped Marie’s lips, and the muscles on the back of her neck tightened. “You know how hard making the selections for this exhibit has been for me. I felt like a mother trying to choose her favorite child. Each piece expresses my dreams and visions with its own personality and purpose.”

“What did you tell the director?”

Marie placed her free hand on her forehead as if it needed to be supported and sighed. “What could I tell her? I said I understood completely and that it would not be a problem. But what I actually wanted to say was, 'what were you thinking when you hired Josh Ryan?' Either they did not check his references, or Josh paid someone off to get that contract. I  expected something like this to happen with him involved and sure enough, it did!”

Marie hunted through her massive five thousand square foot studio for anything that would keep her hands busy as she continued in the conversation. Periwinkle walls peeking between canvases were nothing more than a backdrop for her masterpieces as she scanned through the various sections of the studio. She strolled along every wall of her gallery including the crowded library, office, and even the kitchen. Occasionally, she discovered a tilted canvas and realigned it.

“Why are you automatically assuming Josh is responsible for the delay?” Her mother’s consistent defense of Josh was equally consistent with its ability to annoy Marie.

Marie had anticipated her mother's response.
“It has been his personal mission in life to torment me since the day I was born. If it weren’t for the fact that you and Papa had such a close relationship with his parents, I never would have had anything to do with him.”

“Oh, Marie, you have held a grudge against Josh since you were five. Do you honestly even remember why you developed this animosity towards him in the first place?”

Marie considered her mother’s question disagreeable. “Yes, I definitely remember that day clearly. He threw a Frisbee where the youngest kids were sitting, and like an idiot, knocked over the lemonade pitcher which shattered into a million pieces and cut my foot. I ended up in the ER with five stitches.”

Marie paused in front of a large beveled mirror and fussed with a curl on the left side of her head that refused to stay put. “Remember the day his parents shipped him off to Yale? That was a happy day for me. I wish he had never come back.”

Josh had returned to Kansas City after receiving his master’s degree. Marie avoided any risk of encountering him as if her life depended on it. With the exception of being mutually invested in the Events Center, they lived in separate worlds.

“We are talking about something that happened eighteen years ago. At seven years old, isn’t it more likely he was simply
really
bad at playing Frisbee rather than purposely trying to sabotage your life?”

“Maman, next September that man will be twenty-five years old, and he is still screwing up my life. I know this is not like the obnoxious, annoying pranks he pulled on me as a kid—the ones he thought were so funny but seriously were not; like the time he secretly recorded me telling Eliza I thought Johnny Paterson’s blue eyes were beautiful and then embarrassed me by playing it over the camp’s intercom system . . . By the way, why did you have to send us to the same summer camp anyway? Oh, and how about the time I caught him reading my diary when he was supposed to be capturing his silly little dog that had mysteriously gotten loose in our house? Or the time all the kids were doing homework while the adults were rehearsing, and he ripped my report on the discovery of America out of my hands, skimmed over it, then proceeded to pick a fight over something ridiculous about St. Brendan being here first?”

Marie took a deep breath while pausing between the floral ballooning curtains draped around a large bay window. The sight of a mother playfully walking with her three young girls caught her attention. Then she sat near the window on an armchair and continued watching the two older girls outside help their baby sister walk along the sidewalk.

“We are not kids anymore.” She placed her hand on the windowpane and remembered what it felt like to be a carefree little girl. “This exhibit has the potential of being a huge catalyst for my career. It is extremely odd that, after not seeing him for so long, Josh Ryan shows up out of nowhere like a haunting nightmare.” Marie’s watched the little family walk down the sidewalk until they were out of view.

* * *

Sophie prepared for a trip into town. She knew her failed attempt to illustrate the narrow perspective of Marie’s memory was temporary.

From across the room, she saw her daughter’s first painting, The Double Rose, mounted on the wall next to her bureau mirror. It was the rough work of a sassy twelve-year-old girl, but it was Sophie’s favorite piece. With the wisdom of a sage, she knew Marie’s paintings and destiny were intertwined.

“Chérie, everything will be okay if you can maintain a positive attitude and not give life to your fears.”

“Josh Ryan is not the object of my fears. But he is very much a living problem.”

“Always remember, Marie, whatever energy you project will come back to you.”

Sophie tucked her purse under her arm and smiled as she contemplated her daughter, Marie has more spirit, passion, and volatility in her personality than all of my other daughters combined.

* * *

“Maman,” she sighed again. Her mother’s wisdom, natural disposition to honesty, and love inspired Marie, but she was in no mood for a lecture on destiny today.

Marie knew only too well the lecture simmering on her mother’s lips, so she changed the subject with conscious calculation. “I sent Laura home early. There is no point in her preparing files for seventy pieces of art when only forty will be shipped. I also invited Juliette and Nicole to come over tonight to help me choose which pieces to use. Can you join us?”

* * *

Sophie recognized Marie’s classic resistance. She wrapped a silk scarf around her neck as she replied, “Absolutely, darling. What time are you getting together?” With car keys and a miniature Eiffel Tower dangling from a brass ring, Sophie headed for the back door.

“The girls will be here at seven o’clock, but if you don’t have plans for dinner, you can meet me here at six, and I will order Chinese.”

“Good choice for take-out. What about Geneviéve?”

“Oh, right. Like that husband of hers would give her one night off from slaving for him.”

Marie’s agitation rolled off Sophie’s back, and she breathed in the fresh air with the same delight as a child inhaling the aroma of fresh-baked cookies.

“Chérie, you know that nothing good can come from being negative like this.”

* * *

An alarm went off inside Marie’s mind when her mother's voice began to resonate with matriarchal power in addition to her naturally soft, pacifying tone.
Not another lecture! I cannot get a break today
.

Frustrated, Marie grabbed a stack of art history books sprawled over a loveseat nestled between two mahogany end tables in the library. One by one she crammed the thick textbooks into the over-stuffed bookshelves that lined the wall and then returned to the hallway.

“Derrick is your sister’s husband. Make an effort to see his positive qualities. And as far as Geneviéve is concerned, you should at least invite her to participate. She loves your work and will feel appreciated knowing you wanted her help with these critical decisions.”

Marie’s canvas-straightening obsession led her up the staircase and into her bedroom where her walk-in closet became her next multitasking target. She flew through wooden hangers, critically evaluating articles of clothing as if they were leftovers from a flopped yard sale:
beaded t-shirt, turquoise blouse, black-lace vest, Victoria’s Secret blazer . . . where did these overalls come from?
Rejects were tossed into a heap next to her bed.