Chapter 12: The Proposal
2186words
"You're quiet," Alexandre observed, glancing at me before returning his attention to the winding road. "Having second thoughts about spending the weekend away?"
"Not at all," I assured him. "Just taking it all in. It's beautiful here."
The truth was more complex. In my first life, Tom and I had owned a vacation home in the Hamptons—a modern, glass-walled statement of success that had featured in an architectural magazine. We'd visited it primarily to entertain his colleagues and clients, our weekends there as carefully choreographed as our lives in Connecticut.
This journey felt entirely different—not a retreat to another showcase of success, but a pilgrimage to a place of personal significance.
"We're nearly there," Alexandre said as the car turned onto a tree-lined drive. "It's been too long since I've visited. Work always seems to intervene."
The estate revealed itself gradually—first the stone walls surrounding the property, then glimpses of formal gardens, and finally the house itself: a graceful 18th-century manor of pale stone with blue shutters and climbing roses framing tall windows.
"Alexandre," I breathed, "it's lovely."
He smiled, pleased by my reaction. "It's been in the family since my great-grandfather's time. Henri Durand purchased it as a retreat from Paris, a place where the family could escape the demands of the publishing house."
The mention of his grandfather—the man who had known my grandmother, who had recognized her locket—sent a small shiver of awareness through me.
As we parked before the house, an elderly man emerged from the side door—tall and straight-backed despite his years, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile.
"Monsieur Alexandre! At last!" he called. "The house has missed you."
"Marcel," Alexandre greeted him warmly. "It's been too long. How are you? How is Madame Elise?"
"We are well, though these old bones protest more each year." Marcel's keen eyes turned to me with undisguised curiosity. "And this must be the artist we've heard so much about."
"Lily Bennett," Alexandre introduced me, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of my back. "Lily, this is Marcel Beaumont. He and his wife Elise have cared for this place since before I was born."
"Welcome, Mademoiselle Bennett," Marcel said warmly. "It is good to see Alexandre bring someone special here again. It has been many years."
The simple statement carried weight—confirmation that Alexandre hadn't brought other women to this place of family significance.
As Marcel helped bring our bags inside, I took in the interior of the house—not the museum-like perfection I might have expected, but a home that felt genuinely lived-in despite its elegant bones. Books lined the walls, paintings hung in seemingly random arrangements, and comfortable furniture invited actual use rather than mere admiration.
"It's not what you expected," Alexandre observed, watching my reaction.
"It's better," I replied honestly. "It feels like a home, not a showcase."
His expression softened. "My mother's influence. She hated formality, believed homes should comfort rather than impress."
After settling into my room, I found Alexandre waiting in the entrance hall, his usual formal attire replaced by casual trousers and a light sweater that softened his appearance.
The tour revealed a house filled with history and personal touches—the library with first editions of books published by Durand over generations, the music room where Alexandre's mother had played piano, the dining room where family portraits gazed down from gilded frames.
"And this," he said finally, leading me to a door at the end of a corridor, "is what I most wanted to show you."
He hesitated before opening it. "It hasn't been used in years. Not since..."
"Since you stopped painting," I finished gently when he trailed off.
He nodded, then pushed open the door to reveal a large studio space—windows along one wall flooding the room with northern light, easels draped with dust cloths, shelves lined with supplies untouched for years.
"My grandfather built it for my grandmother," Alexandre explained. "She was a painter—landscapes primarily, though she also did portraits of the family. When she died, my father used it occasionally, and then I claimed it during summers home from art school."
I moved through the space, touching draped canvases, examining brushes still arranged in jars. "It's wonderful. All this light, the view of the gardens..."
"I thought you might use it while we're here. For the final illustrations."
The offer touched me deeply—not just the practical gift of a perfect workspace, but the emotional significance of inviting me into a space so personally meaningful to him.
"I'd love that," I said softly. "Thank you."
He nodded, moving to one of the larger draped canvases. "There's something else I want to show you." He pulled away the cloth to reveal a striking abstract composition—bold blues and violets intersected by architectural white lines.
"Alexandre," I breathed, recognizing his style from the few paintings he'd shown me in Paris. "It's extraordinary."
"My last work," he said quietly. "I was finishing it the day my father died. I never returned to it—or to painting at all—after taking over the publishing house."
I studied the canvas more closely, seeing the unfinished areas, the places where his vision had been interrupted.
"You should finish it," I said, turning to find him watching me with an intensity that made my heart race.
"I wouldn't know how anymore," he replied, his voice low. "That part of me has been dormant for too long."
"It's still there," I insisted. "Creativity doesn't die; it just waits for the right moment to reemerge."
Alexandre's expression softened as he reached out to touch my face. "You make me believe that might be true."
"Perhaps we could work here together," I suggested. "You on finishing this, me on the final illustrations."
"Together," he repeated, as if testing the word. "I'd like that."
---
The next morning, we set up our respective workspaces in the studio. I arranged my materials on a large table beneath the northern windows, while Alexandre uncovered his paints—dried and cracked with age, requiring fresh replacements from supplies Marcel had procured from the village.
"I feel ridiculous," Alexandre admitted as he stared at the blank areas of his canvas. "Like an impostor pretending to be the young man who started this painting."
"Don't think about finishing what he started," I suggested. "Think about starting something new that incorporates what was already there. A conversation between your past and present selves."
We worked in companionable silence for hours, the only sounds the scratch of my charcoal on paper and the soft swish of his brush against canvas. By late afternoon, I had completed preliminary sketches for three key scenes in the final volume, while Alexandre had begun to integrate new elements into his long-abandoned painting.
"It's changing," he said, stepping back to study the evolving composition. "Becoming something I couldn't have created then, but couldn't create now without what was already there."
"That's how growth works," I replied, thinking of my own artistic evolution between my two lives. "We don't replace our younger selves; we incorporate them into something more complex."
Alexandre turned to look at me, his expression thoughtful. "You often speak with a wisdom beyond your years."
The comment—innocent but uncomfortably close to my secret—made me glance away. "I've had good teachers."
"More than that, I think." He moved closer, his gaze intent. "Sometimes I feel there's a part of you I can't quite access—experiences or knowledge you carry but don't share."
The locket warmed against my skin, as if responding to this approach toward my truth. I touched it reflexively, a gesture Alexandre had come to recognize.
"That pendant," he said softly. "It means something significant to you, doesn't it? Beyond being a family heirloom."
I hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. The locket's magic seemed too fantastical to share, yet keeping this fundamental truth from Alexandre created a barrier between us I increasingly wished to remove.
"It reminds me of choices," I said carefully. "Of paths taken and not taken. Of the importance of recognizing one's true direction before it's too late."
Alexandre's eyes held mine, searching. "There's more to it than that."
"Yes," I admitted. "But it's difficult to explain."
After our conversation, Alexandre led me from the studio, through the house, and into the gardens where spring blooms created a tapestry of color against green foliage. We followed a gravel path to a small rise where a stone bench overlooked both the house and the surrounding countryside.
"My thinking spot," he explained as we sat. "Whenever decisions weighed heavily, I would come here to gain perspective."
The view was indeed perspective-altering—the house nestled in its gardens, the rolling hills beyond, the distant church spire of the village just visible through trees.
"When my father died, I believed I had no choice but to take over the publishing house," Alexandre said quietly. "The business had been in our family for generations; hundreds of employees depended on its survival. My own artistic ambitions seemed selfish in comparison."
"It wasn't selfish," I protested gently. "Just a different path."
"Perhaps. But I made my choice and committed to it fully." He turned to face me directly. "What I never expected was to find someone who would bring that other path—the artistic life I'd abandoned—back into my world in a new way."
My heart quickened at the intensity in his gaze. "Alexandre..."
"These past months with you, Lily—watching you create, sharing your artistic process, even returning to my own painting today—have shown me that I don't have to choose between worlds. That with the right partner, life can encompass both responsibility and passion, duty and creativity."
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box—not the typical jeweler's case I might have expected, but something older, covered in faded velvet.
"This belonged to my grandmother," he said, opening it to reveal a ring unlike any conventional engagement ring—a wide band of intricately worked gold surrounding not a diamond but a small, perfect oval of deep blue lapis lazuli. "She was an artist who married into a publishing family. My grandfather had it made specially for her—gold for their union, lapis for her artistic soul."
The ring's uniqueness—its celebration of artistic identity within partnership—brought unexpected tears to my eyes.
"Lily Bennett," Alexandre continued, "you've transformed my understanding of what's possible—in art, in publishing, in life. You've shown me that artistic integrity and commercial success aren't mutually exclusive, that passion and practicality can coexist."
He took my hand, his touch gentle but sure. "I'm asking you to share your life with me—not as my wife in any conventional sense, but as my partner in every meaning of the word. Equal in our home, in our creative pursuits, in building a life that honors both our artistic souls and our practical responsibilities."
The proposal—so unlike anything I could have imagined in either of my lives—touched me deeply. This wasn't Tom's carefully planned proposal at an expensive restaurant, designed to fit neatly into his five-year life plan. This was Alexandre offering a genuine partnership, one that recognized and celebrated the very essence of who I was.
"I don't want you to answer immediately," he added when I remained speechless with emotion. "It's a significant decision, and you should—"
"Yes," I interrupted, finding my voice at last. "Yes, Alexandre. I want to build that life with you."
His expression transformed with joy as he slipped the ring onto my finger—a perfect fit, as if it had been made for me rather than his grandmother decades earlier.
"It suits you," he said softly, his fingers lingering on mine. "As if it were always meant to be yours."
The locket warmed against my skin as Alexandre drew me into his arms, his kiss conveying everything words couldn't express—gratitude, joy, promise.
"I love you," I said, the words carrying all the gratitude and wonder I felt for this second chance at life, at love, at artistic fulfillment.
"And I love you," he replied, his voice rich with emotion. "More than I ever thought possible."
As we sat together on the stone bench, the locket warm against my skin and his grandmother's ring gleaming on my finger, I felt a sense of rightness so profound it brought tears to my eyes. This was the path I was always meant to walk—not perfect, not easy, but true to the deepest parts of myself.
In my first life, I'd chosen security over authenticity, compromise over creative integrity. In this one, I'd found a partner who valued precisely what made me most myself—my artistic voice, my stubborn honesty, my refusal to create merely decorative work.
The locket pulsed once more against my skin, its warmth spreading through my chest like liquid courage. Whatever challenges lay ahead, we would face them together, two creative souls who had found in each other not completion but amplification of their truest selves.
