The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Don’t mind her,” Monique whispered. “There’s no way Jean-Marc could love a girl like Aimee. She’s not real. He’d see right through her.”

  I had thought so too—until now.

  “She’s not really that bad,” Monique continued. “She just has a lot of growing up to do.”

  I nodded, relieved when Bishop Rameau stood at the podium to start the meeting. Now Monique wouldn’t expect a reply. I felt my heart break, threatening to plunge me into the abyss of gloom and despair I had felt after Nette’s death, when I had believed myself all alone.

  The only thing that saved me was the precious gift from heaven cuddled in my arms. I buried my face in Monique’s daughter’s fuzzy hair, breathing in all the baby smells of her, holding her to my chest, feeling her trusting innocence. She opened her eyes to look at me. Those dark eyes, so wise, still filled with heaven’s glory. Eyes that reminded me of Nette’s.

  I felt the pressure of Monique’s hand against my leg. I looked over to see tears in her eyes. “You hold her for as long as you want,” she whispered. I smiled and nodded. But after a time I gave the infant back to her mother. She was rooting around to nurse, and I had no milk to give her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aimee caught me at church a week later. This time Monique was not there to buffer her attack. It had been raining steadily all morning—wet, cold, and depressing. I had participated in the church meetings, had drunk them in like a man stranded in the desert drinks the clear waters of his rescuers, but now I had to go out into the dismal, cold day.

  I stood staring out the double glass doors before I left the church building, trying to sort out my future. I was planning to go back to school in January and had already moved up a position at the bank. In fact, I was fast becoming my father’s right hand. I loved the work and adored being with my father, but I missed Jean-Marc endlessly. I still hadn’t given up hope of working out whatever it was that had come between us.

  But what?

  Aimee?

  I thought not, but men were sometimes hard to decipher.

  “Oh, it’s raining,” said Aimee’s sweet soprano voice behind me, interrupting my thoughts. “Now I’ll have to ask one of the men for a ride home.” Her voice didn’t sound disappointed. She studied me closely, beautiful as always in her modern dress, hair arranged just so, makeup accentuating her green eyes and thin face. “Have you heard from Jean-Marc?” she asked suddenly, her voice almost too casual.

  I sighed. “Oh, Aimee. What does it matter to you?”

  Her chin raised slightly, her eyes held mine. “Because I love him. Oh, I know you were close and that he wrote you while you were on your mission, but I got to see him a great deal. I often went to visit him on Sundays where he was stationed. He was always glad to see me. We’re good friends, and now that he has finished his army service, I intend to make him see me as much more than a friend.”

  “What makes you think he wants you as more than a friend?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be rude; I really wanted to know.

  She pulled back as if I had slapped her. “He at least has written me,” she hissed spitefully. “He still hasn’t written you, has he, Ariana? I thought not. You see, it’s one thing to be friends and to write letters, but when it comes down to choosing a wife, a man has to consider a woman’s past. A man has to be sure that such temptations as drugs, immorality, and such won’t get in the way of an eternal relationship.” She glared at me pointedly. “And we both know your past is none too good, Ariana. Maybe you’re not worthy of a man like Jean-Marc.”

  I would have slapped her for real then, but she whirled away before I could do anything. And I might have also sent words as evil and hateful as her own ripping into her back, but my missionary training prevented me. Instead, I shook my head in amazement. How could she talk about eternity and my past in the same sentence? My life before I knew the Church was gone, forgiven, and forgotten, or so I had thought. Evidently some people did not forget easily.

  I left the church, whose steeple rose high and beckoning into the low, dark clouds. Not bothering to pull my hood over my head, I made my way to the subway, hoping the freezing, snow-like rain would hide my tears and wishing I had accepted my father’s offer to use his car. Unpleasant and dangerous as driving in Paris sometimes could be, at least I wouldn’t have had time to think about the words Aimee had said—words that were eating away at me as I walked.

  Those words never left me that week as I struggled to work and to forge a new life without my dreams of Jean-Marc. I was failing miserably, because deep down inside I knew Aimee was right. Why would a man choose a woman with a past when he could choose one who had always been in the Church? No, not Aimee; I could never believe that Jean-Marc would choose a woman like her. But maybe there was someone else. Perhaps a woman like Monique, who had never broken the law of chastity or stooped to drinking and drugs. Was that why Jean-Marc hadn’t written? Was he worried about my future faithfulness? Had he turned to someone else because of this fear?

  The more I thought about it, the more likely I thought it to be true. Should I call him and tell him not to worry?

  I was at work when I had the idea to call him, but even as I thought to do so, I began doubting myself. Was I really on the strait and narrow? Could I be truly free from that old life forever? What if I actually wasn’t worthy of Jean-Marc? I loved him so much and wanted him to succeed in life and especially in the Church. What if I wasn’t the woman who could help him reach his eternal goals? Suddenly the ache in my head matched the one in my heart. I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes.

  “Why don’t you knock off early today, Ari?” my father said. I looked up from my desk at the bank to see him standing anxiously over me. “You’ve put in enough time as it is this week, and you deserve a couple of hours off today.”

  I shook my head and stared down at the papers I was going through. But I couldn’t focus on them. I sighed. “Maybe you’re right, Father. Besides, I can always take these with me.”

  He smiled. “Sometimes I think you’re too much like me.”

  I stood up to hug him. “I like that idea.”

  “It’s going to be all right,” he said, tightening his arms around me. “I know you’re going through a tough time right now, but you’ll find your way. And your mother and I are here for you—this time.” The last two words were said with regret, and I knew he was thinking of Antoine.

  I would have gone home, but as I was leaving, someone stopped me just inside the bank.

  “Hey, Ariana!”

  I looked over to see a man my age coming from one of the tellers. He had long brown hair that hung like strings around him. His thin, crowlike face boasted a hooked nose, evasive brown eyes, and a chin blackened with beard stubble. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. He was wearing old jeans that were ripped at the knees, dirty tennis shoes, a faded green sweater, and a worn jacket.

  I didn’t know who he was.

  “It’s me—Maurice,” he said, seeing my blank expression. “One of the old gang. Jacques’ friend . . .” His voice trailed off as he waited for me to remember, to look past the years and lifestyles that separated us.

  “Oh, yeah, I remember. It’s been a long time.” We were walking out the door now.

  “Hey, come have a drink with me for old times,” he urged, holding up a white envelope. “My parents sent me some money for Christmas, so I’m good for it.” He smiled, revealing yellowing teeth. I was revolted at the sight, but he looked at me so hopefully that I felt pity in my heart. “Please,” he said as I hesitated. “There isn’t anyone left from the old gang anymore. We all went our own ways. Can’t you spare a few minutes to talk about old times? Remember, it’s Christmas. You know, goodwill and peace on earth and all that.”

  Christmas was still more than two weeks away, but I nodded. “Okay. But only one drink and nothing alcoholic. And I choose the place.”

  His expression was puzzled, but he shrugged his agreement. We walked toget
her down the street and to the next, finally finding a café with a bar that didn’t look too sleazy. I went in, and Maurice followed. He immediately ordered two beers, but I asked for hot chocolate. “I forgot about the no alcohol,” he said sheepishly.

  I took off my coat and laid it on my lap over my thin briefcase. “That’s okay. So what have you been doing these past years?” As I asked the question, the bartender brought the two beers and hot chocolate.

  “Nothing much. Just hanging out, working from time to time. I get kind of lonely for the good old days. I sometimes go see Jacques at the prison, but he’s different now. Ever gone there?”

  I shook my head. “No reason to. You knew we’re divorced, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but you never know.”

  “I have seen Paulette, though.” I told him how she was living in Bordeaux and planning to be married in February. We also talked a lot about our shared past. The memories hurt more than I cared to admit.

  The small bar was rapidly filling with people, mostly men coming from work. The wild crowd, the kind I had always run with, usually didn’t come in until later. I remembered how out of place I had felt at first when I had joined them, but they had accepted me and loved me when I didn’t have anyone else. I also remembered how the drinking had dimmed the pain of Antoine’s loss; even now I could feel the taste of it on my lips, the warmth spreading through the cold in my heart. Oh, how I could use that warmth now! Temptation struck hard and quick, and feeling as hopeless as I did about my own future and self-worth, it was almost too much to bear.

  “I always liked you, Ariana,” Maurice said suddenly. “I would have tried for you if Jacques hadn’t come along.” He watched me for a minute before continuing. “You look pretty depressed now. Tell me, what’s wrong? Or wait, I have something better.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a thin, homemade cigarette that I knew was full of marijuana. He thrust it into my hand, and I sat clutching it in surprise.

  I was embarrassed to be holding it, but worse was at that moment I would have given almost anything to smoke it, for it would temporarily make me forget that I wasn’t worthy enough for Jean-Marc, or any other good man in the Church. And what was my future worth without Jean-Marc, whom I loved more than I could express? Better to drown myself in alcohol and drugs than to risk disappointment time and time again.

  But something inside me rebelled at that, and at the last instant before giving in, I remembered to pray to the One who had never let me down. Oh, Father, please help me out of this! I begged silently. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m so afraid! And at that precise moment my salvation came, though certainly not in the form I would have chosen.

  Aimee.

  I glanced up to see her watching me from the cashier where she was buying a bottle of soda, triumph etched on her face. The homemade cigarette slipped from my fingers and instantly I was saved, freed from the almost magical hold it had over me. What on earth was I thinking? Could I forget my daughter and how she had died? I knew better than this! Suddenly everything was clear, and I found myself again.

  Maurice chose that second to lean over and kiss me, clumsily but passionately, his arms reaching around me in a tight embrace. As if in slow motion, I saw Aimee’s green eyes grow even wider, her triumph more pronounced. I pushed Maurice forcefully away. “I’ll be right back,” I muttered, slipping off the bar stool to confront Aimee, who had turned to leave.

  “Aimee! Wait!”

  She was already outside in the cold December afternoon before she turned to face me, a mocking smile on her pretty lips.

  “So, Ariana,” she began before I could explain, “I see you have fallen back into your old ways. Jean-Marc will be sad to hear that his precious Ari has been drinking and smoking and even has a new boyfriend.”

  “It isn’t what it seems,” I protested.

  “Isn’t it? There you are in a bar, with a beer in front of you and a cigarette in your hand, kissing a man who’s obviously a drug addict. Those things add up to one thing, Ariana. Don’t the scriptures say something about a dog turning back to his vomit? Well, that’s what you’re doing, and I’m glad Jean-Marc has thought to reconsider his involvement with you. What kind of wife could you possible make him?”

  I could feel my face burning as my anger grew. All at once it exploded. “You hypocrite! You talk about my past as if it’s something you personally have to forgive, as if you’re the judge of my worthiness! Oh, yes, you even had me wondering. But not anymore. I suddenly see everything clearly. I know my Savior loves me and that He died for my sins! They are gone, every one of them. And if you don’t believe it, you have a lot of searching to do, because that means you don’t believe in the Atonement of Jesus Christ, that He can really do what He promised: take away our sins so we can be free of them forever. Well, I see the truth now. When I looked up to see you there, so ready to judge me, I suddenly realized that you haven’t the right! No one on earth has! And as for Jean-Marc, if he does feel the way you claim, if he can’t forget my past, then he’s not worthy of me! No future husband of mine will ever doubt the power of Jesus Christ!”

  I left her and went back into the bar, letting her spiteful retort disappear into the air: “I’ll tell Jean-Marc about you. I promise I will!”

  It made no difference to me. I was free of her, and what she thought no longer mattered. The change in me wasn’t complete; but I had seen the situation as it truly was, and now I needed time to sort it all out. But first I had to face Maurice.

  “Maurice, I don’t feel romantically about you,” I said firmly. “In fact, I’m in love with someone else, though I don’t know how things are going to work out between us. Besides, my life is different now. You and I don’t live in the same world.” Then my missionary spirit kicked in. “But I would like to introduce you to my world, if you’re willing. It’s not an easy way, but it’s much better. Paulette found it, too.” He just stared at me, and I knew he didn’t know what to say. I hastily pulled my extra Book of Mormon out of my briefcase. I opened it to write my phone number below the missionaries’ number I had already printed there, along with my testimony. As I did so, my sheet of ten names fell out. I looked at it for a moment before placing it back in my briefcase.

  “Here, consider this your Christmas gift.” I handed him the book. “If you’re curious, call the first number. You’ll reach the missionaries, and they can tell you all about it. The other number is mine. Call whenever you want to talk. Leave a message if I’m not home, and I’ll call you back. Or come to the bank. Will you do that?”

  “Yeah, sure, Ariana.” His eyes went curiously to the book; but I had been a missionary long enough to know that if you left it up to the investigator, sometimes things never got off the ground. “What about your number? Do you have one?” Maurice nodded, and I wrote it in my address book. I slipped it back inside my briefcase and shut it with a decisive snap. “I have to go now. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  He nodded, and I touched his shoulder briefly. “It was nice seeing you.” I turned and left, walking purposely though I didn’t have any destination in mind. I knew only that I had to sort out what had happened, to understand it completely. My feet traced the familiar path to the Seine River, and I walked along it as I used to with Antoine and later with Nette. It had been a long time since I had come, maybe too long. The wind was blowing slightly, and the cold air hurt my lungs. I pushed up my scarf to cover my mouth so that my thoughts could race unhampered by the searing in my throat.

  Jesus died for me! He paid for what I did in the past! How could I have lost sight of that? I thought of Paulette and how she had been so afraid that her sins were too deep and too many ever to be forgiven and how I had assured her that the Atonement was expansive and profound enough to cover anything, if we were willing. Jesus, a God, had done the suffering, and He would remember our sins no more. The familiar and beloved scripture played across my mind: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red
like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

  I thought about Aimee, too, and I suddenly saw that she was hurting. She might be right about Jean-Marc worrying that I might not be worthy, but she knew he didn’t want her, either. In the words “his precious Ari,” she had revealed to me that there was more to her story than she wanted me to know. But it made no real difference. If Jean-Marc loved me, he would have contacted me. What Aimee said or did shouldn’t make any difference.

  Sorrow nearly overcame me at the thought of Jean-Marc, his gaze so intense and caressing, the words of love in his many letters. I loved him so much—more than I had ever dreamed of loving even Jacques, the man I had once married.

  I stopped walking now and set my briefcase on the short stone wall that looked down over the Seine. I stood leaning there with my hands pressed against the rock, feeling them slowly numbing from the cold and wishing the feeling could extend to my heart, at least to the part that ached for Jean-Marc. Boats passed in the river below, some cargo, a few with passengers, leaving paths of rough water in their wakes, unmindful of their solitary observer and the tumultuous feelings within my soul.

  Oh, Jean-Marc! How can I go on without you?

  At the same time, a thought came so firmly into my mind that it seemed as if I was hearing it with my earthly ears instead of my spirit: “Trust in Me.” Hoped filled my heart. Yes, that is what I would do. I would have faith in the Lord and believe that He would do what was best for me. I would believe that even if things didn’t work out the way I wanted, they would work out somehow, and I would be happy. I clung to this thought as a drowning man clings to a piece of flotsam wood. For eighteen months I had taught others about faith and repentance, but only now had I truly begun to understand how they applied to my life.

  “I will make it!” I said aloud and triumphantly. The cold breeze lifted my words out across the river like a promise.