When I'm With You: Part Eight: When We Are One

by BETH KERY

  “Please tell Francesca that Ian said he would call her later,” Lucien was saying. “He’s . . . tired at the moment.”

  “Lucien . . .” she began, glancing anxiously at Francesca. She desperately wanted a private word with him. She longed to apologize for her faux pas.

  “Can you tell Sharon that I’ll be out of town indefinitely as well?”

  “But Lucien, can’t—”

  “I’ll be in touch when my plans are settled.”

  “Lucien,” she blurted out, desperate lest he hang up before she got the opportunity to apologize. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You never do.”

  Shame swept through her at his words. He’d said something similar to her before, when she’d offered up a lame excuse for her impulsiveness.

  “It’s done now. Try not to worry,” he said.

  The line went dead. Elise pulled the phone from her ear, feeling numb all over again.

  “What is it?” Francesca asked sharply.

  “Ian is with Lucien. They’re on Ian’s plane, flying to London.”

  “Ian left without me?” Francesca asked, her voice ringing with shock.

  “He says to tell you he’ll call later. Lucien said he was tired,” Elise said soothingly, even though she was quite sure that Lucien was using tired as a euphemism. She sincerely doubted Ian Noble was sleepy at that moment.

  Francesca stood and picked up her phone, paging for a number.

  “What are you doing?” Elise asked.

  “Booking a flight to London,” Francesca replied grimly.

  Helplessness gripped at Elise. She envied Francesca’s position as Ian’s fiancée that she could make such a decision. She—Elise—felt like a powerless outsider. She couldn’t go storming into the private hospital, demanding to see Lucien. Not after what she’d done.

  No, she was worse than an outsider. It’d been her impetuousness that had created all this anguish tonight.

  * * *

  Twelve days later, Elise rode the elevator up to Ian Noble’s penthouse, her heart feeling as heavy as a lead weight in her chest. Francesca was waiting for her in the foyer when the elevator slid silently open. Francesca had lost weight in the past week, with the result that her dark eyes looked larger than usual . . . haunted. Without saying a word, Elise walked over to her and they hugged.

  “The funeral was today,” Francesca said while they still embraced. “Anne, Ian’s grandmother, just called to tell me right before I called you at Fusion. I can’t believe it,” she said shakily. “I’m still in shock. Ian promised me he’d give me time to get there.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Elise said. She and Francesca had been in contact since that night the truth had come out. Francesca had immediately flown to London while Elise stayed in Chicago, ritualistically going through her routine to keep herself distracted from what she couldn’t control. Lucien had called Elise the day after he’d left, but after that he had resorted to text messages with updates on Helen’s status. He’d corresponded with Francesca ever since she’d been forced to return to Chicago because of her graduate program demands. Lucien’s regular contact with Francesca reaffirmed Elise’s anxiety that he was too angry to speak with her.

  Elise had been so guilt-ridden on the phone with Lucien on the one occasion he’d called that she’d stumbled over what to say. He seemed distant as well . . . perhaps cold? Clearly, he hadn’t come to terms with what had happened. True, he’d told Ian that night that he’d suspected his mother was alive, further prying open the door to the secret, but it’d been Elise’s impulsive statement that opened the lock in the first place.

  “Thank you for coming over so quickly,” Francesca said, releasing her.

  “It wasn’t a problem. Denise is covering things at Fusion,” Elise assured. Elise took Francesca’s hands in her own when they broke apart. “I can’t believe there’s already been a funeral.”

  “It was a memorial service more than a funeral. Apparently, Helen had made a request during one of her more lucid periods to be cremated. I had just heard from Lucien early in the morning that Helen had passed away, and before I had a chance to make some last-minute plans at school and pack, Anne was calling to say they’d already held a service and not to come.”

  Elise’s heart leapt at the mention of Lucien’s name. Elise repressed an urge to ask a slew of questions about Lucien. She knew from those messages he’d visited Helen Noble in the hospital with Ian, but she had no idea about the outcome of those meetings. Once again, she experienced that terrible feeling of being an outsider.

  Alone.

  “Don’t you see, Elise?” Francesca asked her miserably. “Ian didn’t give me a chance to even get to the service because he doesn’t want me there. Why is he avoiding me this way?”

  Elise shook her head, determined not to show her worry about Ian’s actions regarding Francesca. Although Francesca had immediately flown to London when she’d heard Ian was there, she’d only stayed for three days. After learning that a professor refused to extend a deadline for a project, Ian had insisted she return to Chicago, assuring her he’d contact her when things got worse with his mother. Apparently, Ian hadn’t done that, however, and that’s what Francesca was so upset about.

  “He’s confused and grieving. Give him time,” Elise assured, taking Francesca’s hand and leading her to a salon that led off the main gallery hall. “Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink,” she said, spying a pitcher of water and some decanters on a sideboard.

  “But I’m his fiancée, aren’t I? I’m supposed to be with him while he’s going through something so terrible. When Anne called and said I shouldn’t come, she said Ian had to leave for an important business crisis in Germany. She was being elusive on purpose. I know it,” Francesca said shakily as Elise handed her a glass of water.

  “Ian doesn’t strike me as the type of man who would want you to see him while he’s vulnerable.”

  “Well too bad!” Francesca blurted out. “You can’t have a relationship with someone and avoid that person just because you feel vulnerable. Of course he feels bowled over after his mother’s death . . . after what Lucien told him. Who wouldn’t? All the more reason I should be by his side right now. But he’s barely said two words to me since he stormed out of here that night, even while I was in London. He kept insisting I shouldn’t come until Helen had passed. But when Helen did go, he never told me! I’m furious at him,” she said, her voice breaking in anguish. “And I’m sick with worry. What in the world is he thinking?”

  “I wasn’t defending him, Francesca. I just meant, it’s not too shocking that he’s throwing up some walls at this point.”

  “I have this awful feeling he’s going to leave me.”

  Elise’s mouth fell open in surprise at Francesca’s stark declaration. Francesca had never struck her as being prone to hysterics. “Ian leave you? No . . . never. He adores you. He worships the ground you walk on.”

  Francesca shook her head as if she couldn’t adequately convey her fear. She set down the water on the coffee table untouched.

  “You don’t know Ian. You don’t know what a nightmare this all has been for him. It’s bound to send him into a crisis,” she said hoarsely. She blinked and brought Elise into focus. “It’s been awful for you, too. You knew more about Lucien and Helen than Ian and me on that night, but the rest of it—the part about Trevor Gaines—was a shock to you as well.”

  Elise nodded grimly. “And Lucien has been just about as uncommunicative with me as Ian has been with you. Lucien has a good excuse, though. He’s got to be furious at me for forcing the issue that night. He’s always considered me impulsive . . . a loose cannon. I had to go and prove him right, didn’t I?”

  Francesca patted her hand where it lay on her knee. “Lucien made a conscious decision that night to tell Ian. You didn’t force him to it, Elise. You acted from the heart. That’s not a bad thing. You were worried Lucie
n would never get a chance to find out about his biological mother with Helen so ill.” Her expression lightened slightly. “Oh . . . and Lucien told me good news about that when I spoke to him early this morning. Has he told you, by chance?” Francesca asked delicately.

  “No. What is it?” Elise asked, the back of her neck prickling with awareness.

  “Helen Noble was able to give him his mother’s name. At first, she couldn’t. She was barely conscious when they first arrived. But she rallied just a bit before she passed and became somewhat lucid. Ian and his grandparents got to say their good-byes.” A sad expression settled on her face. “Apparently, even though she was so weak, and so easily disorganized from her psychosis, she seemed to recognize something about Lucien. It sounds as if she’d been very fond of Lucien’s mother, because she smiled and reached for him, and said his mother’s name. It’s funny, the memories that can linger so sharply, even in a mind that was so ravaged like Helen’s.”

  “That’s amazing that she connected him to his mother without ever seeing him before . . . like a miracle,” Elise breathed. “He must look so much like her. And what is it? What’s her name?”

  “Fatima,” Francesca said. “Fatima Rabi, I believe he said her name was. Helen Noble was even able to give him the name of the town where she’d grown up in Morocco. With that, and her name, there’s a good chance he’ll be able to find her . . . or at least other members of his family.”

  Her heart leapt and then throbbed as she thought of Lucien getting his prize. “He must have been so happy . . . so relieved to get that news. All these years, he’s waited for it. He’s waited for family. I know it came at a heavy price, with Helen passing, but . . .”

  Francesca tightened her hand on Elise’s.

  “Lucien’s search had nothing to do with Helen Noble’s illness or death. Absolutely nothing. He may not see it right now, Elise, but if it hadn’t been for you setting off that chain of events, he would never have his mother’s name. He would never have had even the remotest opportunity to meet her. Helen Noble was the last link. Because of you, he’s been given that chance.”

  Elise made a show of smiling. She was ecstatic that Lucien had a clearer path to his biological mother. But she couldn’t help feeling bereft as well, knowing he was likely on his way to Morocco even as she and Francesca spoke.

  Not knowing when she’d see him again . . . if ever.

  * * *

  She returned to finish her duties at Fusion after talking to Francesca. When she arrived at the penthouse late that night, she stood in the opened doorway to the bedroom suite. Since Lucien’s absence, the room had taken on a funereal feel. His elusive scent remained like an insubstantial ghost, haunting her.

  A pang of longing went through her—so sharp, it stole her breath. God, she missed him.

  She should leave. Of course she should. She’d been engaging in wishful thinking by remaining at all, hoping for that opportunity to meet with him face-to-face . . . to beg for his understanding. But what was the point? She’d proven to him that she deserved his lack of faith in her. She’d illustrated precisely why he shouldn’t trust her. In fact, she’d ended up behaving in the precise manner he’d always accused her of.

  Impulsive. Impetuous. Self-indulgent.

  Tears stung her eyes as she pulled out her suitcase. It hadn’t been long ago that Lucien had packed it for her there in that rundown hovel where she’d been staying. Where would she stay now? She knew she should make plans, but a pressure seemed to be pushing down on her chest, a weight of grief, making the ability to make such a huge decision seem like an utter impossibility.

  She tossed item after item into her suitcase, straining to keep control, but increasingly seeing the interior of Lucien’s luxurious suite through a film of tears.

  Impulsive. Impetuous. Self-indulgent. The words kept repeating in her head like a bully’s chant.

  She sunk onto the edge of the bed and shuddered with grief. It was the first time she’d wept since Lucien had left Chicago. She’d even been reckless in falling in love, doing so deeply. Irrevocably. Now she’d done it, and there was no going back—only forward, into a future that looked bleak and lonely without Lucien.

  But she’d learned something about herself since coming to Chicago, hadn’t she? She was a hard worker. She had a passion for cooking. And despite everything that had happened recently, she still felt that newly found kernel of strength in herself—impossible to deny or ignore.

  She wouldn’t fold. She would endure. No matter how difficult that might be.

  Wiping off her face with the back of her hand, she stood and continued with her packing, determined to proceed one minute at a time. One second, if need be. Plans needed to be made, and they would be. No matter how hollow she felt on the inside.

  * * *

  The penthouse had a flat, lifeless quality to it when Lucien opened the front door the next day. It was early in the morning on a Sunday. He hadn’t slept except for a few hours on the plane, and his eyes were gritty from exhaustion. It’d been a heart-wrenching past few days, watching Ian and his grandparents at Helen’s side, seeing her fade from this life ever so slowly.

  He’d left as soon as he’d assured himself he’d done everything he could. He had an overwhelming desire to look upon Elise’s luminous face . . . to find solace in her vibrant presence.

  If he had to guess, he’d say the penthouse was empty. Perhaps she’d gone for a run?

  Anxiety built in him as he walked back to the bedroom suite to check and make sure his assumption was correct. Sure enough, the large bed was empty and made—a very depressing sight after his increasingly frequent fantasies of finding Elise in it, warm, soft, and pliable from sleep.

  His brow furrowed as he examined the master suite. It looked entirely too neat. Elise wasn’t messy by any means, but she usually left signs of her presence—a magazine or book on the bedside table, a scarf tossed across a chair . . .

  . . . her grand-mère’s brush on the vanity cabinet in the bathroom.

  He strode to the bathroom in search of that telltale evidence. He saw no brush, nor did he see Elise’s bottle of perfume that used to sit next to his cologne. None of her personal belongings to which he’d become accustomed were there.

  Alarm rushed through him, potent and jarring.

  “Elise?” he bellowed. He quickly checked the living room, kitchen, dining room, extra bedroom, and den. All empty.

  She was gone. An icy chill went through him. He’d half worried that she might be disgusted by what she’d learned at Ian’s penthouse the other night. She’d certainly seemed awkward and uncomfortable when they had briefly spoken on the phone, and she hadn’t called him once while he was in London. He knew they needed to talk, but he felt the uselessness and hollowness of doing it via the phone, so he’d just sent her messages to keep her updated. They’d talk face-to-face once he returned.

  He hadn’t believed things were so bad that she’d leave. But maybe it wasn’t her discomfort about Trevor Gaines? Maybe she was angry because he hadn’t confided the full truth to her?

  He’d always preached to her about honesty after all, he recalled grimly.

  He pocketed the keys he’d set on a table in the living room and headed for the front door, already drawing his phone out of his jacket. He’d find her, he thought, his moment of panic giving way to grim determination. If she didn’t answer her phone, Francesca probably knew of her whereabouts . . . or Denise and Sharon were good possibilities, although Fusion was closed today . . .

  His hand was on the front door when he glanced aside at an entryway table and paused.

  Elise’s purse rested on it. A powerful feeling of relief swept through him, stealing his breath. Trepidation was close on its heels.

  He realized fully for the first time that he was colluding with Elise in their distant, impersonal communication. He wasn’t sure what to say to her.

  He thought of how he’d encouraged her to be honest, how he’d told her he’d n
ever be disappointed in her if she was. She’d deserved the same courtesy, but he’d deprived her of that. Yes, he’d had a good reason. The truth about Trevor Gaines was not only his ugly story, it was Ian’s. Lucien had decided it was only right that Ian be the first to hear the facts. He truly believed in that decision, but his secrecy had come from more than just respect for Ian. He knew that now. His rationale had given him the excuse he needed to keep a distance from others for years. The women he’d dated, his adoptive mother, his foolish adoptive father . . .

  From Elise.

  It’d been Lucien who had been too insecure about the truth. He’d been so disgusted by it, he’d guarded the ugliness of it even from her.

  Especially from her.

  Which was the same thing as putting up a wall against his own heart.

  * * *

  Elise stood at the east-facing parapet, a cool, pleasant, early-morning lake breeze brushing against her cheeks and fluttering her hair. Scattered clouds occasionally blocked the sun, so that she stood in bright light one moment, shadows the next. She was on the roof terrace, but she had the strangest feeling she was at a symbolic crossroads.

  Her plans were in place. It was time for her to leave Lucien’s residence for good. He couldn’t want her there. He wouldn’t.

  Her bags had already gone ahead of her. Instead of having to return to Paris, her tail between her legs—as she’d feared—Denise had been her savior. The chef had insisted last night that Elise stay with her.

  Elise had called her mentor and told her an edited version of her reasons for needing to leave Chicago, not wanting to betray Lucien to his employee. It turned out she needn’t have worried. Being the perceptive woman Denise was, she’d already guessed at Elise and Lucien’s relationship, and was sympathetic to a breakup, wisely not taking the side of either party. Elise had assured the older woman she would pay her back the rent money as soon as she was able, but Denise hadn’t been concerned.

  “With your talent, you’ll have your own restaurant very soon. You can pay me back then if you choose, but the most important thing is that you finish your training,” she’d said.