I am honored to have gotten the chance to know her ... and even more so, to have helped in saving her life.
My feet carry me to her, and we hug one last time. We don’t speak, but the way we hang onto each other after this wild storm has swept through and taken so much from us, says it all.
Before I’m ready to let go, this luxurious old train slows to a stop.
Rosie pulls away from me, squeezing my hands one final time before she skips down the corridor, down the stairs, and out onto the platform, searching for her man.
Hand in hand, Samuel and I follow closely behind. Just as we step onto the platform, a light snow begins to flutter down from the wintry Paris sky…and there, through the sparkling white flakes, stands my grandfather.
Dressed impeccably in his crisp navy-blue uniform, Jacques shoots Rosie a smile so warm, it could melt the thick layer of snow collecting beside us on the tracks. The two lovers break into a sprint, meeting underneath the big round clock, which at this exact moment reads thirty-seven minutes past the hour.
Jacques pulls Rosie into his arms, spinning her around and showering her sweet face with kisses. Tears stream down Rosie’s cheeks as Jacques brushes the hair out of her eyes, holds her face in his hands, and pulls her into another long, adoring kiss.
As Samuel and I stand underneath the flurry of snow in the middle of this bustling Parisian train station, the tender, emotional moment playing out before us leaves no question in my mind that this was how it was always supposed to happen.
Rosie and Jacques were meant to be together, and whatever is to happen after this moment will lead to a better future…hopefully, for all of us.
Finally, the two lovebirds surface for air, and Rosie turns, motioning for us to come meet Jacques.
As I come face to face with my young grandfather, I am immediately struck by how much he resembles Isla—the violet specks in his eyes, the chestnut color of his hair, the boldness of his smile.
“Jacques, meet Jillian and Samuel Kelly, the couple who saved my life,” Rosie says in French.
Jacques takes not one but both of my hands in his. As he gazes down at me, his eyes fill with tears of gratitude, and so do mine.
“Thank you, Jillian. Thank you for saving my Rosie,” Jacques says, squeezing my hands. Then he turns to Samuel. “And Samuel, thank you. You have no idea…” His voice cracks as he brings his gaze back to mine, continuing to squeeze my hands.
Suddenly, beneath the emerald that still shines brightly on my left ring finger, I feel a spark of energy. It pools around my hand, around our hands, growing stronger and more powerful until all I can see is Jacques, blinking back at me with love, pride, and appreciation.
He nods at me, letting me know that he feels it too.
And as quickly as it swooped in, the heat surrounding our hands flies away, and Jacques lets go.
Then, grinning his charming grin, my young, dapper grandfather turns to Rosie and gets down on one knee.
Rosie lifts her hand to her heart, furiously blinking back the fresh tears springing to her eyes.
Jacques pulls a tiny red velvet box from his uniform pocket, then raises it to Rosie.
“Rosie, my sweet, my angel. I never want to spend another day on this earth without you by my side. Will you marry me?”
Jacques flips the box open, and tucked inside, all shiny and new, is the gorgeous emerald ring that Samuel placed on my finger when we first stepped onto the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express train in 2012.
My gaze shoots down to my left hand, only to find—as I expected—that the ring is gone.
Rosie accepts Jacques’ proposal, and as he takes off her dainty white glove and slips the emerald onto her ring finger, I turn to Samuel, knowing in my heart that this is it.
This is our moment.
Samuel grasps my hands, pulling me closer to him. He knows too.
The sounds of the crowds bustling past us on this snowy platform, of Rosie and Jacques kissing and laughing beside us, of the giant clock ticking overhead, fade to only a whisper of chilly air brushing past my cheeks.
The final noise that breaks through this quiet pillow of air is the blast of the train whistle as the Orient Express chugs faster and faster at our backs.
Swirls of shimmering snowflakes mix with the emerald in Samuel’s loving gaze as we hold onto each other.
Come with me, I plead with my eyes. Please, Samuel. Stay with me.
Suddenly a force of energy surges beneath our feet, and the snow, the emerald, the train, Samuel—all of it disappears in a flash of blinding darkness.
I don’t feel Samuel’s hands any longer. I don’t feel his presence by my side.
It is Isla who is here with me now, her shining violet eyes radiating through the blackness.
“Jilly! Come on!” Isla calls impatiently, her voice young and naïve, like a little girl who hasn’t a care in the world. “Grandpa Jacques and Grandma Rosie are here. Hurry up!”
CHAPTER 23
January 1…
Paris, France
A loud whistle shoots through my ears, startling me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I blink my eyes open, but it’s difficult to focus on the passing scenery because everything is moving so quickly.
A slow glance around my surroundings reveals a luxurious train cabin, a little black carry-on bag, and a folded newspaper tucked in my lap. Confused as to what I am doing alone on this fancy train, I lift my gaze back to the rolling images outside the steamy train window.
At first, the glare of the morning sun blocks my vision, but soon, the unmistakable—and breathtaking—sights of Paris come into focus. Rows upon rows of lovely French apartment buildings pass by, their black iron balconies filled with frosty, empty flower boxes, waiting for spring to arrive. A woman dressed in a black pea coat and a beautiful lavender scarf strolls down the chilly Parisian boulevard, smoking a cigarette and talking on her cell phone. Miniature cars and fast scooters buzz through stoplights; charming cafés and boulangeries dot the sidewalks. Even in the winter, this gorgeous city is bursting with life.
A sudden and distinct feeling of relief washes over me. I made it to Paris. Finally.
But where did I travel from? And why do I feel as if the voyage I’ve just taken was the longest of my life?
Stifling the pressing questions that are popping up every second, I realize that the modern sights whizzing past the train window seem oddly out of place to me…but I’m not quite sure why. Wondering why I feel so utterly confused, I lift up the newspaper hoping that it will give me a little more clarity as to what I am doing in the magnificent City of Light.
The date at the top of Le Figaro catches my eye immediately: January 1, 2013.
It’s my twenty-ninth birthday…and Isla’s.
Just as a picture is forming in my mind—a picture of Isla and me, blowing out the candles on our thirteenth birthday cake, surrounded by family and friends who look only vaguely familiar—the train rolls to a stop, and the conductor announces our arrival.
“Paris, Gare de l’Est.”
Tucking the newspaper under my arm, I grab my little rolling suitcase and follow the line of passengers down the elegant corridor. Just as I am about to step off the train, a gloved hand lands on my arm.
“Mademoiselle Chambord?” It’s the conductor, dressed in a royal-blue uniform trimmed in gold. He smiles warmly at me as he hands me an envelope. “You left your lifetime pass to the Orient Express in your sleeping compartment,” he says in French. “Please don’t ever lose this, Mademoiselle. It is irreplaceable.”
A vague memory of a different Orient Express conductor handing me this same lifetime pass flashes through my mind. But as quickly as the vision shoots through my brain, it is gone.
“Merci, Monsieur,” I tell the kind conductor before I tuck the pass and the newspaper into the front pocket of my suitcase and step off the train.
The crisp winter air brushes past my cheeks as my feet hit the platform. Travelers bustle around me, but I stand
still, taking it all in. The rolling suitcases, the modern clothing, the cell phones. I glance to my left and catch the time on the giant ticking clock overhead.
It is 9:37 A.M.
Isla’s time of birth.
Just as I am thinking about how bizarre that is, a whiff of familiar perfume drifts past my nose.
I turn, knowing exactly who that perfume belongs to.
“Isla.”
The minute her name passes through my lips, the minute I see her shining violet eyes, her silky chestnut hair, her high cheekbones and long, curvy lashes, I remember.
I remember everything.
Dropping my suitcase, I run to my beautiful twin sister, wrapping her up in my arms.
“Jilly,” she says. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too, Isla. You have no idea.”
I pull back to get a better look at the sister I thought I’d lost forever, the sister I traveled so far to save, and am surprised to see that she doesn’t have a single bruise or scratch on that beautiful pale skin of hers.
And something else is different about her. She is still just as stunningly beautiful as she always was, but the shape of her face has changed slightly—it is more of a heart shape, friendlier, sweeter. She is wearing less make-up than she usually does—with only a pale pink lip gloss lining her lips and a light coat of mascara brushing her lashes.
I run a hand down her long, wavy hair and look deep into her striking violet eyes—those haven’t changed a bit.
“Isla, you’re here. You’re alive,” I whisper. “How?”
A knowing expression passes over her delicate features as tears rim her eyelids. “You changed everything, Jilly. Everything.”
Isla takes my hand and places it over her abdomen, and my tears match hers the minute I feel the growing baby bump and the tiny kick beneath my hand.
“You saved us, Jilly. Me—and the baby,” Isla says. “I knew you were there with me the whole time. I felt you—the way we’ve always been able to feel each other. I knew you would figure out a way to save me. And a few times—in the nursery, in the woods, and in the castle—I actually saw you. But that last time, just as you were going for Hélène, something happened—a strange flash, then everything went dark. When I woke up, I was in this beautiful Parisian apartment, pregnant, and engaged to Christophe.” Isla gestures to three people chatting over by the escalator.
A handsome man with prominent dark eyes and wavy dark brown hair turns and smiles warmly at Isla, then at me. I recognize him as the man who painted that seductive portrait of Isla—Christophe Mercier.
A cute, older couple stands next to Christophe, waving and grinning at me. I focus in on them, noticing how the woman’s heart-shaped face looks exactly like Isla’s. She even has specks of violet in her bright blue eyes. The man’s smile is kind, fun-loving, and sweet, and as he gazes at Isla and me, pride fills his eyes.
I squeeze Isla’s hand, wondering if I should trust the gut instinct that is telling me—beyond all reason—those are my parents.
I wave and smile back at them, and just as I am preparing to ask my twin a million and one questions, a burst of new, vivid memories flood into my consciousness. The mother who plagued our original childhood with nothing but trauma and heartbreak is now barely even a distant recollection. The father who left us when we were only little girls has vanished.
In their place are the two loving, wonderful people who are now walking in my direction.
Leaning into my ear, Isla whispers, “No one else remembers the way it happened the first time around. I can barely even remember myself. It’s all new now, Jilly. You changed our entire past.” Then, just before they reach us, she nudges me in the side. “Just go with the flow, okay? The new memories will come to you, just like they did for me.”
I smile at my beautiful, vibrant sister, overcome with gratitude that we have all been given a second chance at life…and most of all, that I didn’t lose her.
“Jillian, sweetie, happy birthday!” my mom says as she pulls me into her petite frame. Wrapped in her loving, motherly embrace, I breathe in my mom’s sweet, flowery scent, and just like Isla said they would, a flood of new memories comes rushing in.
I remember my mom—who I know now is named Marion—strolling down the Seine while Isla and I skipped along at her side, two little girls having a ball growing up in Paris with their kind, elegant French mother.
More happy images speckle my mind as my mom kisses me lightly on the forehead. “Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, realizing how amazing it feels to say those words.
Next comes my dad—the tall, burly American who fell in love with the petite, sophisticated French woman so many years ago and has never looked back. He leans in, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Only one more year until the big 3-0, Jilly Bean,” he says with a chuckle.
“Don’t remind me, Andrew!” our mom says, slapping him on the arm. “That only means we’re getting old!”
“See what you’re in for, Christophe?” Dad says, giving Christophe a friendly nudge. “A lifetime of making your wife feel better about her age. I’ve found it’s best to just nod and smile most of the time.”
Christophe laughs before pulling me in for a hug. “It’s nice to have you back in Paris, Jillian,” he says in a thick accent. “Isla really missed you.”
Isla shoots me a wink as she rubs her firm belly.
“I missed her too,” I say.
Feeling immeasurably blessed as I gaze around at this new, loving family of mine, I realize that I am still missing the most important person—Samuel.
The last time I saw him was at this very train station, when snowflakes were falling from the sky and Rosie and Jacques were in the middle of their emotional, heart-warming reunion…in 1937.
But where is Samuel now?
A stab of panic soars through my chest as I comb the bustling platform, searching for the rugged, handsome face and the penetrating emerald eyes of the man I cannot and will not live without.
Isla’s hand wraps around mine. “Jilly, what is it?”
“Samuel,” I whisper, praying Isla won’t tell me that in this new version of our past, where we grew up in Paris, and not in Washington, D.C., that Samuel and I never even crossed paths.
The corners of Isla’s glossy pink lips turn up into a grin as she nods toward the large ticking clock just behind my head.
And when I flip around, there he is.
Samuel’s dark five o’clock shadow and his full, sexy grin lure me straight to him.
When we meet underneath the clock in this modern day version of the train station we stood in only seventy-five-years and a few moments ago, Samuel swoops me into his arms and pummels me with kisses.
“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” I whisper in Samuel’s ear as I revel in the feeling of his strong hands wrapped tightly around my waist, his warm breath on my cheek, his lips finding mine over and over again.
“I promised you I would never leave you, Jill,” he says. “Do you actually think a time-traveling train would stop me?”
A relieved giggle passes through my lips as Samuel weaves his fingers into mine and turns to face my family.
“Now if that wasn’t the kiss to end all train station kisses, I don’t know what was!” my dad says with a hearty laugh.
Mom slaps him again on the arm, then raises a flirty brow. “I think we’ve had our fair share of passionate train station kisses over the years, haven’t we, honey?”
Dad wraps his arm around Mom’s teeny waist and kisses her on the cheek. “Of course we have. I just don’t want to make the kids jealous, you know?”
“I don’t think any of you can top Grandma Rosie and Grandpa Jacques,” Isla says. “Even at ninety-five years old, those two can really put on a show.”
My mom’s pretty blue-violet eyes crinkle as she laughs. “Speaking of Grandma Rosie and Grandpa Jacques, they’re waiting for us with breakfast back at our apartment. You know how Grandpa likes his pain au choco
lat. He won’t be able to wait much longer, so we better get going.”
As we take off through the train station together, Isla leans over my shoulder once more.
“Grandma Rosie and Grandpa Jacques are mom’s parents. First they had the twins, our Aunt Madeleine and Uncle Georges. Ten years later, they had mom.”
“And they’re ninety-five years old now?” I whisper back. “Meaning Grandpa Jacques never went off to World War II?”
Isla shakes her head. “No, after Grandpa proposed to Rosie, he left the army. They traveled to America and stayed there for the entire duration of the war. But by the time they had mom, the war was over, and they were ready to come back to Paris.”
“And Madeleine and Georges?” I ask. “They’re doing well?”
“They’re off traveling right now…but I have a feeling you may be hearing from them soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how we have that special ability to sense the other one, being twins and all? Well, Madeleine and Georges have the same connection we share…only much, much stronger. And I think they had something to do with helping you save me,” Isla says with a serious eyebrow lift.
Christophe pops his head over Isla’s shoulder. “What are you two girls whispering about?”
Isla kisses him on the cheek. “Rien, mon amour.” Nothing, my love, she says before turning back to me. “We’ll talk more later, sis,” she mouths quietly.
Samuel slips his arm around my waist and keeps me close as we follow Isla, Christophe, and my parents down through the busy station and out onto the sidewalk.
My dad nods toward two black town cars parked at the corner. “That’s us,” he says. “Samuel and Jillian, you two can take the second car by yourselves. I’m sure you want some alone time after Jillian’s reporting trip down in the Alps.” Then my dad walks up to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We saw your article on the front page today, Jilly Bean. I couldn’t be more proud to call you my daughter. You’re amazing.”
Midnight Train to Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 21