This Time Forever

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Oh, no! He glanced at the clock on the dash. He was already half an hour late, and he hadn’t remembered to call. He’d been so wrapped up in the accident . . . and Mickelle. But how could he leave Belle now, with her arm in this condition? She had said it was all right for him to go out, but he knew it wasn’t. The doctor had warned that she would probably be in pain and awaken several times during the night. She would need him to hold and comfort her.

  He glanced in the backseat where Belle slept soundly and realized he didn’t want to leave his daughter. Rebekka wouldn’t be happy about his decision, and he could understand that. But he’d try to make her understand the need he felt to be with his injured child.

  “I wonder what she sees in him, anyway.” When he spoke the words aloud, Damon realized that his mind really hadn’t left Mickelle or her policeman date. The man was younger than Mickelle. Immature, Damon thought. Of course, her date was still pleasant-looking by any standards. Baby-faced. And if Mickelle liked him, the policeman was probably a nice guy. Saccharine.

  Why can’t he stick to dating women his own age?

  He thought of Rebekka and himself, seeing the same situation in reverse. That was different, wasn’t it?

  Maybe Mickelle and the police officer were simply friends.

  His cell rang, and Damon tore his thoughts away from Mickelle, hoping it was Rebekka so he could explain. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dad. It’s Tanner. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the car. I’ll be home in a minute.”

  “Rebekka’s in there, playing the piano. She’s steamed. Gosh, Dad, why didn’t you get home for your date? Even I know not to keep a lady waiting.”

  Damon groaned. Rebekka was angry, and justifiably so. He should have called her. “Belle fell off a fence and broke her arm. We were at the doctor’s.”

  “Is Belle all right?”

  “Yeah, she’s asleep now. But she’ll have a cast for about six weeks.”

  “Well, that’s a good excuse, anyway. Maybe Rebekka’ll forgive you.”

  “I hope so.”

  Damon said goodbye to his son and ended the call, noticing an angry glare from the passenger of a passing car. Yes, he’d read the statistics and knew that using a cell phone while driving increased the chance of accidents by four times, and he usually tried to pull to the side of the road. Tonight, there hadn’t been time.

  He sighed. Sometimes he wished there were more hours in the day. Next week, he would have to work overtime to make up for the time he’d lost today.

  Belle was worth it. And being with Mickelle had been very enjoyable.

  The way she had kissed his daughter came to his mind—gently, caressingly, longingly. At that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to take Mickelle in his arms and kiss her. Just to take a brief taste of her soft lips. The attraction between them had been like an invisible elastic band, pulling them together, and the intensity of the emotion had shocked him.

  If it hadn’t been for the cop . . .

  Rebekka is very beautiful, he reminded himself. And smart. She actually likes me. And she has no children, either.

  But he liked Jeremy very much, and what he’d seen of Bryan. And Mickelle obviously got along with Belle. She was beautiful, too—not in the same dramatic way as Rebekka, but in a rather classic sense.

  Damon pulled into his driveway, wishing he could drive back to the Hansens’.

  The cell rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Damon? Hi it’s me, Brionney. I’m sorry to call you when I know you’re probably on your date with Rebekka—she told me you were going out—but I just had the best idea. Well, actually, I had it a few days ago, but I’ve been so busy that I kept forgetting to tell you. What about my sister watching your kids? She’s intelligent, patient, very nice, and I know she could use a job. What do you think?”

  “I think,” Damon said with a smile, “that might be the best idea you’ve had yet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Rebekka suspected the moment Belle was missing that she and Damon wouldn’t be able to keep their date. Even when Damon had called to say he had found his daughter, she had understood that events would somehow conspire against them.

  Though prepared, she became angry when he didn’t show up at six-thirty. It wasn’t that she was upset with Damon or Belle so much as she was at the situation. The little girl was only trying to protect herself from what she saw as an infringement upon her property, and Damon was simply doing the best he could as a single father.

  Understanding didn’t make Rebekka feel any better. She was angry at Damon and Belle anyway, and even at Tanner for being so solicitous of her feelings as he waited with her for them to return home.

  She was also angry at Samuel for not being around to take up Damon’s slack.

  While she was being angry, she might as well be upset at her mother for marrying a nonmember and at her father for being one. If she hadn’t seen the great pain in their lives because of their religious differences, she might well have taken Samuel up on his invitation. She still might.

  Most of all, she was furious at Marc.

  She played out her frustrations on the Steinway. The music boomed throughout the house, an echo of her restlessness. She played every piece of music she could find in the piano bench, and then the ones she knew by heart. Perspiration dotted her brow, and her arms began to ache with the effort. She purposely avoided playing the as yet nameless song she had composed for Marc. In her present mood, she might cry, and that was unthinkable. She was young, healthy, educated, and at least passably good-looking. She had everything going for her. Why couldn’t she find happiness?

  At last she heard Damon in the hallway, though how she managed it above the waltz she was playing, she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was more the movement she had seen from the corner of her eye than an actual sound. Though waltzes were her favorite, she stopped playing and rose to meet him.

  Belle was in his arms, looking considerably worse for the wear. There was blood on the edge of her T-shirt and tear stains on her cheeks.

  Rebekka’s eyes flew to Damon’s weary face. “What happened?”

  “Didn’t Tanner tell you?”

  “No. He’s in the garage. He came in once, but he must not have wanted to interrupt my playing.”

  “She was climbing on a fence and fell. Broke her arm.”

  “Was the break bad?”

  He saw her looking at the blood on her shirt. “Fairly. It didn’t break through the skin or anything like that—the blood’s from the scrape.”

  “Poor Belle.”

  The girl opened her eyes groggily at the sound of her name. She moaned softly.

  “Does it hurt, Belle?” Damon asked.

  She nodded and took a shuddering breath.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Rebekka asked, already feeling guilty for the anger she had felt toward the child.

  “I broke my arm,” Belle said mournfully. “It hurt real bad . . . And I’m not getting a horse.” There were tears in her eyes.

  Damon rocked her. “It’ll be okay, Belle. Why don’t we give you something for the pain? It might help a little.”

  “Are you leaving? Is Tanner going to tend me?” Belle’s voice wavered slightly as she asked.

  “Your daddy’s not going anywhere, Belle,” Rebekka answered. “No one is. We’re going to stay right here.” She risked a glance at Damon, who smiled at her gratefully. “Would you like me to do something for you?”

  Belle regarded her seriously. Rebekka half expected the little girl to ask her to leave, and was surprised when a request actually came. “I want you to play that song. It’s my favorite.”

  “What song is that?” Rebekka asked almost eagerly.

  “The one—I don’t know its name. It goes like this—” Belle hummed a few bars, and Rebekka recognized it immediately.

  Her heart sank. “Are you sure that’s the one, Belle? What about a Primary song?”

  “No
, that one’s the best.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Don’t you want your medicine first?” Damon interjected.

  “No, the song.”

  Damon sat with Belle on the couch while Rebekka went to the piano. With a heavy heart, she began to play the song she had written for Marc, wondering how Belle even knew the music well enough to hum the opening bars. As she played, Rebekka found herself caught up in the music, and her anger and frustrations melted away. Perhaps she had been wrong to avoid the music that had come directly from her soul.

  “Thank you, Rebekka,” Belle said when she was finished.

  Damon nodded in agreement. “That was beautiful.”

  “Thank you for listening,” she returned.

  “I guess I don’t care if you go out with Daddy,” Belle said. “But now that you aren’t our baby-sitter, are you still going to come over?”

  Rebekka looked at Damon. “You found someone?”

  “Brionney’s sister. I think she’ll be great.”

  “Are you sure? Isn’t she the one whose husband . . .” Rebekka trailed off as she noted Belle’s interested stare.

  “You’ll have to meet her,” Damon interjected. “She’s a lot like Brionney.”

  “She’s great!” Belle put in. “She plays the piano, too.”

  “She sounds nice.” Rebekka was relieved, or at least mostly relieved. Now she wouldn’t feel so guilty at work, knowing that Belle had someone she liked looking after her.

  She listened quietly as Damon and Belle talked about Mickelle and her boys. Was that a light she saw in Damon’s eyes? She couldn’t be sure of the light—or of her feelings if Damon had actually seen something special in the other woman.

  “Daddy, my arm’s hurting again.” Belle touched the top of the temporary cast. “It feels like it’s pounding inside.”

  “Let’s get you fixed up and ready for bed,” Damon said. “I’ll read you a story until you fall asleep.” He met Rebekka’s gaze. “We’ll take another rain check, okay?”

  She smiled. “All right.”

  Rebekka held her smile in place until she was safely in her own room. Then she let it drop and sighed. Her room seemed empty and cold, devoid of the life and memories that had filled her room in France. She had left most of her pictures and other memorabilia there. Today was the first time she had missed any of it.

  At the laptop, she checked her e-mail and found nothing of interest. Raoul had written yesterday and so had her mother, but she had hoped Marc would write. The tears that hadn’t come during the song gathered in her eyes. I won’t cry for him! she told herself for what seemed like the millionth time.

  Staring at her empty inbox, she knew that for all her running away, she’d still hoped Marc would come after her. But he wasn’t coming. Not now, not ever. Too much time had passed. And what if he had come after her? How could she ever be sure he loved her for herself, and not because she reminded him of her mother? She would have spent a lifetime of being second-best. Better that she never saw Marc again.

  The tears came, and this time she let them. Yes, she would cry, but not for Marc. Never for Marc. She would cry for the little girl who had lost her dream. She would cry for the little girl she had been.

  When at last the tears had subsided, Rebekka felt curiously free.

  * * * * *

  On Saturday morning, Marc checked his computer. Rebekka usually answered his e-mail after she received it, and he had written her last night. Although her replies were usually short and unsatisfying, he looked forward to hearing from her more than he would readily admit to anyone.

  This time she hadn’t answered, and the depth of his disappointment shocked him. Why hadn’t she written? Was she off dancing again with some nameless suitor?

  Another thought came: Maybe she was offended by something I wrote. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d said something idiotic. But she had always boldly pointed out his missteps, and he had done the same with her. Could it be she no longer cared even that much?

  Quickly, he went to the computer folder where a copy of each of his sent e-mails was automatically filed. There was no recent message to Rebekka.

  “But I know I wrote it,” he muttered. It hadn’t been much, mostly full of trivialities about the people they both knew. He had written it sometime near midnight.

  He found it then, in the outbox, waiting to be sent. A sickening feeling grew in his stomach. Rebekka didn’t get his letter because he hadn’t sent it. So of course she hadn’t replied. Angrily, he clicked on the send key. Now he would have to wait hours for her reply. With the time difference, she would still be sleeping.

  Marc rubbed his hand through his hair, which was long overdue for a cut. Suddenly, he stopped. What was wrong with him? First he had dreams about Rebekka, and now he was going crazy wanting to hear anything at all about her life. They were only friends . . . this was ridiculous! When had all this happened?

  His eyes fell on a journal near his monitor, where he had set it the previous night after writing to Rebekka. Since his teen years, he had written in the journal religiously . . . well, at least once a month, although since Rebekka had left, he seemed to be writing more.

  He looked at the last line of what he had written the previous evening:

  Wonder what Rebekka’s doing. If she were home, I’d call her and see.

  Nothing odd there. After all, he had just been writing to her. Naturally, she would have been on his mind. It wasn’t as if he wrote about her all the time.

  The week before, he had written:

  I remember when Rebekka and I used to go down to the river during lunch breaks.

  Rebekka again?

  He began thumbing through the pages more rapidly. On every page there was mention of Rebekka—in fact, she was in almost every paragraph. Snatches of text came to him seemingly all at once: Rebekka would have laughed at this . . . Rebekka used to say . . . loved to listen to her play . . . she could set Raoul straight . . . the way her eyes seem to stare straight into my soul . . . skating was always an adventure with Rebekka . . . hated me calling her a pest, but it was just a joke . . . odd not having her at church . . . that if my kidney was going bad, I’d die and not be able to tell her goodbye . . . I miss her . . . talk me out of this weird mood I’m in . . . her laugh . . . those gorgeous gray eyes . . . probably marry and have a dozen kids . . . she’d make a beautiful bride . . . I miss her . . .

  He stopped reading and put his head in his hands. For all his strange American ways, it appeared that his brother-in-law Zack was right. Even though Marc would never admit it to him or to his wife, Josette, the answer to Marc’s malaise was indeed in his journal. His twin sister would laugh him out of the country if she knew.

  Knew what? That he cared about Rebekka? That he was completely and utterly obsessed with her?

  Josette’s laughter would be heard all the way to America.

  To America . . . where Rebekka was falling in love with her boss. As she had every right to do. More than anything, he wanted her to be happy.

  He snapped his fingers. That’s it! Maybe it was time he checked this guy out. He had a right, didn’t he? As Rebekka’s friend.

  Friend?

  Could she ever possibly see him as anything else?

  An idea came swiftly, as though it had been lurking in a far corner of his mind, waiting for the slightest attention. He had a passport and a visa ready for the engineering convention he and André planned to attend next month in New York. What was to stop him from going earlier? And taking a detour to Utah?

  Yes! He would find a plane to America if it was the last thing he did. Marc bolted from his chair and ran to the phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Damon spent a rough night with Belle. He read her stories until she fell asleep, and then lay near her, listening to her soft breaths. She awoke often, and he held her while she moaned at the throbbing in her arm. He gave her medicine to ease the pain. The doctor had said she would feel better after the
first night, and the arm shouldn’t hurt at all once the real cast was on, as the bone would be immobile.

  He had a lot of time to think, but instead of solving business problems or contemplating his children, he let his thoughts stray to Mickelle. She was a beautiful woman, and he was very much attracted to her. His admiration for her seemed to increase each time he saw her.

  Having lost his own wife, Damon knew how much effort it took to cope with even the smallest everyday things. Sometimes he still felt very much alone. He missed Charlotte terribly, but worse, he found it hard to remember a time when she had not been sick. Their early years together had now faded into a dreamlike quality, and if not for the children, which were proof of their intimacy, he thought he might have only imagined that part of their life.

  Mickelle would understand, he thought.

  At last he dozed, only to be awakened as daylight came into the room. Belle was still sleeping, less restlessly now, and Damon felt he could leave her.

  Despite the lack of sleep, Damon didn’t feel tired. He went down to the garage and found Tanner already there, working on Mickelle’s station wagon.

  “Hi, Dad. I’ve almost got it done.”

  Damon surveyed the work. The bent fender had been straightened, sanded, patched with car putty, sanded again, primed, and then spray-painted. While it wasn’t a professional job, it looked considerably better than the rest of the car.

  “The door was the biggest problem,” Tanner said. “You think she’ll mind this little folded-over part?” He ran his finger over the place where the edge of the door met the fender. “There was nothing I could do about that without replacing the whole fender. But with the little bend and the new handle, she can open the door just fine. Watch.” Tanner demonstrated.

  “That’s really great!” Damon had supervised Tanner for a few nights, but the boy had done most of the work on his own. “I’m really proud of the way you dug right in and got this done. I am very impressed.”