Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,39

eroticism of The Divine Comedy.

As she worked on her proposal, she found herself staring back and forth between Holiday’s painting, which hung over her bed, and a postcard with the image of Rodin’s sculpture The Kiss. Rodin had sculpted Paolo and Francesca in such a way that their lips weren’t touching; nevertheless, the sculpture was sensual and erotic, and Julia had not purchased a replica of it when she visited Musée Rodin in Paris because she found it too arousing. And too heartbreaking.

She had settled for a postcard and taped it to her wall.

In addition to her boulangerie and fromagerie French, she knew enough of the language to realize that the title of Rodin’s sculpture, Le Baiser in French, was part of its subversion. For baiser in French could mean either the innocence of a kiss or the animalistic quality of a fuck. One could say le baiser and refer to a kiss, but if one said, Baise-moi, one was begging to be fucked. Both innocence and begging were wrapped up in the embrace of these two lovers whose lips never touched: frozen together, yet separated for all eternity. Julia wanted to free them from their frozen embrace, and she secretly hoped her thesis would allow her to do so.

From time to time over the years, Julia had indulged herself in thinking about the old orchard behind the Clarks’ house, in reliving her first kiss with Gabriel and some of what came afterward, but mostly she did so in her dreams. She rarely, if ever, thought of the morning after and its tears and hysterics. It was far too painful a memory. It was a memory of betrayal she revisited only in her nightmares…and unfortunately for her, that was all too often. It was the reason she had never sought him out.

Just then, her cell phone rang, interrupting her homework.

“Hey, Julia. Do you have plans tonight?” It was Rachel. Julia could hear Gabriel talking gruffly in the background.

Immediately she hit the mute button on her computer so that he wouldn’t hear Mozart over the telephone. She waited with bated breath to see if he had heard…

“Julia? Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

From the sounds of Gabriel’s muttering, Julia couldn’t tell if he was angry or simply complaining. Not that either behavior would have surprised her.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yes, fine. Um, no plans. No plans tonight.” Julia bit her lip as a wave of relief washed over her. He hadn’t heard the CD. Or so it seemed.

“Good. I want to go to a club.”

“Oh, come on. You know I hate those places. I can’t dance, and it’s always too loud.”

Rachel laughed heartily. “Funny you should say that. Gabriel said almost the same thing. Minus the dancing part. He thinks he can dance—he just refuses.”

Julia sat up very straight on her bed. “Gabriel would come with us?”

“I have to fly home in two days. He’s taking me somewhere nice for dinner, then I want to go to a club. He isn’t happy about it, but he didn’t say no. I thought it would be fun if you joined us after dinner. So how about it?”

Julia shut her eyes. “I’d love to, Rachel. But I don’t have anything to wear. Sorry.”

Rachel giggled. “Wear a little black dress. Something simple. I’m sure you own something that would work.”

At that instant, the doorbell rang, interrupting the call.

“Hang on, Rachel, someone is at my door.” Julia walked out into the hall, noticing a deliveryman standing outside the front door to the building.

She opened the door. “Yes?”

“Delivery for Julia Mitchell. You her?”

She nodded and signed for what turned out to be a very large rectangular parcel.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, sticking the parcel under her arm and shifting her cell phone to her ear. “Rachel, you still there?”

Rachel sounded as if she was laughing. “Yes. What was that?”

“Some kind of delivery. For me.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big box.”

“Open it.”

Julia locked her apartment door behind her and put the box on her bed. She propped her phone between her ear and her shoulder so that she could still talk while she opened the package.

“The box has a label on it—Holt Renfrew. I don’t why someone would send me a present…Rachel, you didn’t!”

Julia could hear peals of laughter over the phone.

She opened the box and found a beautiful violet-colored, single-shouldered cocktail dress with crisscross panels. Julia didn’t recognize the name on the label, Badgley Mischka, but it was probably one of the most feminine dresses she’d