Chapter 5: Rising to the Challenge
2431words
I stood back, studying my latest piece—Javert's suicide, the moment of his existential crisis as he stared into the churning waters of the Seine. I'd chosen to show him from behind, his rigid posture beginning to crumble, the waters below rendered not as realistic waves but as swirling, monstrous forms representing the moral chaos that had broken his inflexible mind.
"Bold choice," came Alexandre's voice from the doorway.
I turned, surprised to find him watching me. How long had he been standing there?
"Most illustrators show Javert's face in this scene," he continued, moving closer to examine the drawing. "The tortured expression, the dramatic anguish."
"That would be too easy," I replied. "Too expected. His face isn't what matters here—it's what he's facing. The collapse of everything he believed in."
Alexandre studied the illustration, then me, with equal intensity. "You understand him."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "I understand what it's like when the rules you've built your life around suddenly don't make sense anymore."
Something flickered in his gray eyes—curiosity, perhaps recognition. "You speak as if from experience."
I turned back to the drawing, making a small adjustment to the swirling waters. "Don't we all face moments when our certainties crumble?"
"Some more dramatically than others." He moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could smell his subtle cologne—something with notes of cedar and bergamot. "The board wants to see your progress tomorrow."
My hand froze mid-stroke. "The board? I thought this was just between us until the project was complete."
"Plans change." Alexandre's voice was neutral, but I detected tension beneath the surface. "Claude Lefèvre saw your preliminary sketches in my office. He was... impressed."
Claude Lefèvre—the publishing house's elderly chairman, Alexandre's godfather, and a legendary figure in French publishing. In my first life, I'd never met him.
"Is that a problem?" I asked, sensing Alexandre's reservation.
He hesitated, then said, "Lefèvre rarely takes interest in the artistic side anymore. When he does, it usually means he wants to take control of a project."
"And you don't want that."
Alexandre's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "This is my vision. I selected you because your work aligns with what I believe this collection should be."
"And if Lefèvre disagrees?"
"Then things become... complicated." He straightened, professional mask sliding back into place. "Be prepared to defend your artistic choices tomorrow. Lefèvre respects conviction, even when he disagrees with the direction."
As he turned to leave, I called after him, "You could have warned me earlier."
Alexandre paused at the door. "Would it have changed how you approached the work?"
I considered this. "No. But I would have appreciated the courtesy."
A hint of a smile touched his lips. "That's why I didn't tell you. Your work is best when you're not thinking about who will judge it." His gaze held mine for a moment longer than necessary. "Nine o'clock tomorrow. Wear something professional."
---
When I returned to the apartment that evening, Marie was hosting a small gathering of art school friends. The living room buzzed with animated conversation in a mix of French and English, wine glasses in hand as they debated the latest exhibition at the Pompidou Center.
"Lily!" Marie called, waving me over. "Come settle this argument. Is Mathieu right that installation art has become too self-referential, or is Sophie correct that it's the only form still capable of genuine cultural critique?"
I laughed, dropping my portfolio by the door. "I think you're both overthinking it. Art is art when it makes you feel something authentic, regardless of the form."
Sophie raised her glass. "Diplomatic answer from the mysterious new Lily."
"New Lily?" I asked, accepting the wine Marie handed me.
"That's what we've been calling you," Mathieu explained with a grin. "Ever since you started working with the Ice Prince. You're different—more confident, more..."
"Intense," Sophie finished. "In a good way. Your work has completely transformed."
I felt a blush creep up my neck. "Alexandre is demanding, but he sees things in my work that I didn't."
"Alexandre, is it?" Marie wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Not Monsieur Durand anymore?"
"We work closely," I said, trying to sound casual. "Formality gets cumbersome."
"Mmm-hmm." Marie's knowing smile made me uncomfortable. "And the fact that he's gorgeous and single has nothing to do with your willingness to work sixteen-hour days?"
"It's not like that," I protested, though the warmth in my cheeks betrayed me. Was it like that? I hadn't allowed myself to examine the flutter in my stomach when Alexandre stood close, or the way my skin tingled when his fingers occasionally brushed mine while reviewing sketches.
"The mail came for you," Marie said, mercifully changing the subject. She handed me a thick cream envelope. "Looks fancy. Secret admirer?"
I recognized the handwriting immediately—my grandmother's elegant script. The return address was her London home, where she'd moved after my grandfather died. In my first life, she'd passed away when I was thirty-two, never seeing how far I'd strayed from my artistic path.
"It's from my grandmother," I said, tucking the letter into my pocket for later. "I should get some rest. Big meeting tomorrow."
---
Alone at last, I opened my grandmother's letter, settling onto my bed to read.
*My dearest Lily,*
*Your last letter filled me with such joy. I can feel the renewed passion in your words, the sense that you've found your true path again. Perhaps "again" is the wrong word—perhaps you've found it for the first time, without compromise or fear.*
*You asked about the locket. I've been waiting for this question since the day I placed it around your neck. There is much to tell, but some things must be said in person rather than committed to paper. Family legends are powerful things, especially ours.*
*What I can tell you is this: the locket has been passed down through the women in our family for generations, always with the same inscription—"Pour retrouver ton chemin." To find your way back. Back to what, you might ask? That depends on the woman who wears it.*
*For your great-great-grandmother Elise, it led her back to Paris after years of unhappy marriage in England. For my mother, it guided her to her true calling as a physician when women were not welcome in medicine. For me, it helped me find the courage to leave France during dark times, though my heart remained there.*
*And for you, my darling? I suspect you already know what path you had lost. The locket merely reminds you of what your heart always knew.*
*There is more to the story—much more—but it must wait until we see each other. I plan to visit Paris next month and will send details soon. Until then, trust the warmth you feel against your skin. It has never led any woman in our family astray, though the journey is rarely easy.*
*One last thing—you mentioned a publisher, Alexandre Durand. The name is familiar to me from long ago. If he is related to Henri Durand, be cautious. There is history between our families that time has not entirely healed.*
*With all my love,*
*Grand-mère*
I read the letter twice more, fingers tracing the elegant handwriting. What history could possibly exist between my grandmother and the Durand family? And what more was there to know about the locket that had somehow given me this impossible second chance?
I touched the pendant through my shirt, feeling its now-familiar warmth. Whatever magic or miracle had brought me back, I was grateful beyond words. But my grandmother's warning about Alexandre's family left me uneasy.
---
The Durand Publishing boardroom intimidated with its deliberate grandeur—dark wood paneling, oil paintings of literary giants, and a massive table that could seat twenty but currently held only seven people. Six board members, including Claude Lefèvre at the head, and Alexandre standing at the opposite end where my illustrations were displayed on easels.
I waited outside, heart pounding, smoothing down the simple black dress I'd borrowed from Marie. Professional but still artistic, with a single piece of jewelry—my grandmother's locket, visible at the neckline.
Claudine approached, clipboard in hand. "They're ready for you."
I took a deep breath and followed her into the boardroom. Six pairs of eyes turned to assess me—five men and one woman, all considerably older than Alexandre, who gave me a nearly imperceptible nod of encouragement.
Claude Lefèvre rose from his seat—a tall, elegant man in his seventies with silver hair and piercing blue eyes that missed nothing. "Mademoiselle Bennett. We've heard much about your work."
"Thank you for this opportunity, Monsieur Lefèvre," I replied, keeping my voice steady despite my nerves.
"Alexandre tells us you've taken a rather... unconventional approach to Hugo's classic," said the only woman on the board—Madame Rousseau, according to the nameplate before her.
"I believe classics deserve fresh interpretation," I answered. "Otherwise, they remain museum pieces rather than living literature."
A murmur ran through the board members—whether approval or disapproval, I couldn't tell.
"Show us," Lefèvre commanded, gesturing to the easels.
For the next twenty minutes, I presented my illustrations, explaining my artistic choices and vision for the complete collection. With each piece, I felt more confident, drawing on knowledge and perspective my twenty-year-old self shouldn't possess.
When I finished, silence fell over the room. Lefèvre studied me with those penetrating blue eyes.
"Your approach is bold, Mademoiselle Bennett. Some might say too bold for our established audience."
"With respect, Monsieur," I replied, "I believe your audience is ready for something that challenges rather than merely comforts. Hugo's work was revolutionary in its time—shouldn't its illustrations reflect that spirit?"
Lefèvre's eyebrows rose slightly. He turned to Alexandre. "She speaks her mind, your protégée."
"That's why I selected her," Alexandre replied coolly.
After intense questioning from the board, Lefèvre raised a hand, silencing further discussion. "Mademoiselle Bennett, would you give us a moment?"
I nodded, gathering my composure as I left the room. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. Had I been too bold? Not bold enough?
Ten minutes later, Alexandre emerged, his expression unreadable.
"Well?" I asked, unable to bear the suspense.
"They want to expand the project," he said. "Five volumes has become eight. With a touring exhibition of the original illustrations after publication."
I stared at him, processing his words. "That's... good news?"
"It's unprecedented," he replied. "And it comes with complications."
Before he could explain, Lefèvre himself emerged and invited me to lunch. As we walked through the elegant hallways of Durand Publishing, I felt the weight of my grandmother's warning. What history existed between our families? And why did Alexandre seem troubled by the sight of my locket?
---
Later that evening, Alexandre and I worked alone in his studio, finalizing the concept sketches for the expanded project. The atmosphere between us had shifted subtly since the board meeting—a new awareness, a tension that wasn't entirely professional.
"You impressed Lefèvre today," Alexandre said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence that had settled as we worked. "That's not easily done."
I looked up from my sketch, finding him watching me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "He seemed to know my grandmother."
Alexandre's expression changed almost imperceptibly. "Yes, he mentioned that. Eleanor Bennett worked for Durand Publishing briefly in the 1950s."
"Under your grandfather?" I ventured.
"Yes." His answer was clipped, suggesting a topic he preferred to avoid.
I set down my pencil. "My grandmother warned me about your family in her letter. She said there's history between the Bennetts and the Durands."
Alexandre's jaw tightened. "Ancient history. It has nothing to do with us."
"Doesn't it?" I challenged gently. "You tensed when you first saw my locket. Lefèvre recognized it today and seemed... affected."
Alexandre was silent for a long moment, his gray eyes studying me with an unreadable expression. Finally, he sighed. "There was a dispute—between your grandmother and my grandfather. I don't know the details. Only that it ended badly, and she returned to England."
"What kind of dispute?"
"I told you, I don't know the details." His tone suggested the conversation was over, but I wasn't ready to let it go.
"I think you know more than you're saying."
Alexandre moved closer, his tall frame suddenly imposing as he stood over my drawing table. "Why does it matter? We're creating something new here, something important. The past is irrelevant."
"It matters because—" I stood abruptly, finding myself unexpectedly close to him, close enough to see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes, to feel the warmth radiating from his body. The words died in my throat.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us seemed charged with something dangerous and exhilarating. His gaze dropped briefly to my lips, then back to my eyes.
"Because?" he prompted, his voice lower than before.
The locket grew warm against my skin, almost pulsing with heat. I reached up instinctively to touch it, and Alexandre's eyes followed the movement.
"That locket," he said softly. "It belonged to your grandmother?"
I nodded, unable to find my voice.
His hand moved as if to touch it, then stopped, hovering just above my collarbone. "There's a painting in my grandfather's study—a portrait of a young woman wearing that exact pendant. I always wondered who she was."
Our eyes met, and in that moment, something shifted between us—a recognition of connections deeper than our professional relationship, mysteries that bound us together in ways neither of us fully understood.
The locket burned against my skin, warmer than it had ever been, as if responding to his nearness or perhaps warning me of complications I couldn't yet see.
Alexandre stepped back suddenly, breaking the spell. "It's late. We should continue tomorrow."
As I gathered my things to leave, I felt his eyes on me, filled with questions neither of us was ready to ask. Whatever history existed between our families, whatever secrets lay in the past, it was clear that the locket around my neck was somehow at the center of it all.
And as it pulsed warmly against my skin, I couldn't help wondering if my second chance at life was leading me toward answers that had been waiting generations to be discovered.
