Many times before.
And I didn’t even need to peek up at the street sign to know that I was standing at the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germain and rue de l’Ancienne Comédie.
I simply knew.
With my back pressed up against the cold stones of Ruby’s apartment building, and chic Parisians raising their brows at me as they strolled past, I recalled again that bizarre vision of Paris that I’d experienced while dancing with Édouard. Except this time I knew for certain that it hadn’t been my imagination. The soles of my shoes really had stood on these rough cobblestone streets before.
But how?
“Suivez-moi.” Follow me, said a female voice, shaking me from my confused trance.
Another strong whiff of roses encapsulated me as I flipped around and caught a flash of silvery-gray hair and luminous violet eyes.
It was her.
The elegant older woman who’d been in my grandmother’s dance studio in San Diego, in the year 2012, less than an hour ago.
And she was jetting through the crosswalk, not even giving me a second to catch my breath.
Three teenage boys clad in old-fashioned trousers and black caps hooted and hollered at me as I pushed past them to catch up with the woman, my mind struggling to make any sense of this insane situation.
“Attendez!” I yelled to her as she zipped with ease across the lively boulevard.
It was only after I’d rounded a slow-walking older gentleman that I realized I’d just spoken French. In a perfect accent, no less.
I’d never spoken French before in my life. In my life as Claudia, that is.
What a freaking trip.
Spotting the woman’s silvery hair and long indigo peacoat ducking into a café a block down the boulevard, I only hoped she wouldn’t magically disappear before I could reach her.
A few moments later, I burst into the crowded café and exhaled a sigh of relief as the woman raised a brow at me from a tiny table nestled in the corner. I rushed over to her, my legs shaky from the cold, the adrenaline, and from the confusion of it all.
“Asseyez-vous.” Sit down, she said with a deliberate nod as she took a sip of what smelled to be a steaming hot chocolate.
I stared at her incredulously as I took a seat, a plethora of questions hanging at the tip of my tongue, burning to be answered.
“Mmm, a tasty chocolat chaud in the middle of winter in Paris,” she said, with that same mischievous gleam in her eye I’d noticed in the dance studio. “There is nothing better, n’est-ce pas?”
“Hot chocolate? You’re seriously talking about hot chocolate when I just saw you less than an hour ago in San Diego in the year 2012? How—” But I stopped speaking when the woman calmly pushed another steamy cup in my direction. There hadn’t been a second mug on the table just a second earlier, had there?
“Try some, dear. It’ll warm you up. You really must start dressing for the weather. It’s not always springtime in Paris, you know.” She unwrapped the silky red scarf from her neck and placed it in my hand.
I gazed down and realized that I was still wearing the tight, silver-sequined leotard I’d woken up in, with Ruby’s outrageous cleavage bursting over the top.
Oh, dear God. No wonder those boys were drooling and shouting as I ran past them.
I wrapped the rose-scented scarf around my neck and chest, telling myself it didn’t matter that I’d just dashed, half-naked, across a busy Parisian boulevard. Because I wasn’t planning on staying here for much longer.
“You did this, didn’t you?” I said to the woman. “I don’t understand how or why, and I can’t believe I’m acknowledging that this is really happening, but I know it was you who sent me here. And I need you to send me back right now. Back to my real life.”
A soft chuckle danced from her full red lips. “It’s not that easy, my dear. I do suggest you eat something, though.” She nudged a plate in my direction—which, much like the cup of hot chocolate, seemed to have materialized out of thin air. Thick slices of ham and melted cheese spilled out over a warm baguette, the aroma making my stomach ache with hunger.
“Go on. Take a bite,” she urged. “And in case you were wondering, I am aware that Claudia is a vegetarian, but Ruby, my dear, is not. Now, mangez.”
“Who are—?” I began, but as my eyes landed once again on those juicy slices of ham, I realized that I didn’t feel a single ounce of the usual distaste I’d garnered toward meat in my life as Claudia. Instead, my mouth watered.
Oh, screw it.
After taking a huge bite of the hot, buttery sandwich, I washed it down with a steamy sip of chocolat chaud and gazed up at the stubborn old woman. “Happy?”
“There, that’s better.” She leaned forward in her seat, her penetrating violet eyes piercing right through me. “These past-life trips can really take a toll on you, so it is imperative that you take care of yourself while you’re here. You don’t have much time, after all.”
I almost choked on the second piece of buttery baguette I’d just bitten into. “Past-life trips?”
“Like I said, you don’t have much time to accomplish what you were brought back here to do. Five short days, to be exact. So the sooner you recognize what you already know to be true, the smoother things will go. That’s not saying this is going to be easy, though. A past-life revisit is rarely a walk in the park. Especially in your case.”
“Are you saying that the reason I remember Jean-Pierre, Titine, Gisèle, Ruby’s apartment, and her view of the Eiffel Tower, is because I used to be Ruby? That…oh, God, I can’t even believe I’m going to say this. I’ve never believed in this nonsense before. But you’re saying that I was Ruby in my past life?”
She nodded, her sparkly eyes suddenly taking on a grave regard. “That is exactly what I’m saying. And if you listen to your intuition, you will know, my dear, that this isn’t nonsense. Au contraire. Your situation is quite serious; your position here in this lifetime is vital. And there isn’t a single moment to waste.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, letting the baguette slip from my fingers, my heart pounding inside my chest.
“There is a specific reason you were sent back to this lifetime—a specific task that you must accomplish. And like I said, you have five days to do it.”
“So what is it? I mean, whatever it is, I’ll do it right now. Then can I go back to being Claudia? To being pregnant and living in San Diego, in the twenty-first century?”
She raised an eyebrow. “We often don’t realize how wonderful things are until they are taken away from us, no?”
“Listen, I’ve lost enough in my lifetime to understand how precious life is…and how easily we can lose it. Just tell me how to get back. Tell me what to do.”
Her long eyelashes batted quickly before a shadow crossed her face. “That information, I do not have. Such is the nature of a past-life revisit. Only the soul in question will know the time and the hour of this one monumental event. Only you will know yours. And only you will know what action to take when that moment comes. That is, if you are listening.”
“Listening to what? To who?” I asked, feeling panic overtaking my system.
The old woman tapped her weathered hands over her heart. “Listen to Ruby. After all, you used to be her. You know her better than you think you do.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed my throbbing temples in my hands, wishing I could just go back. Wishing this wasn’t really happening.
The old woman continued, “If you engage in this life—fully engage—the answers will come to you when you need them. But you must listen carefully, Claudia. Pay attention to everything you see and everyone you meet. And above all, no matter how frightful this experience becomes, you mustn’t run. For the fates of countless people—including yourself, your future husband, and your future child—rest on your shoulders.”
She took another leisurely sip of hot chocolate, making me want to smack the cup out of her hands and force her to tell me what in the hell she was
talking about.
“But I’m not married. In case you didn’t know, I’m a pregnant, single, thirty-five-year-old.” I glanced down at my flat, silver-sequined tummy. “Well, I used to be pregnant.”
“Tell me, Claudia, have you ever felt as if the events that have happened in your life weren’t supposed to happen? Your father’s murder just before he was about to run for Senate, your mother blaming you for his death, you getting pregnant right before you finally meet the one man who feels right to you? The first man you’ve ever truly loved? Haven’t you ever wondered why life has played out in sometimes tragic ways for you? Haven’t you found yourself bewildered over the irony of it all?”
Goose bumps prickled my arms as I searched her violet gaze. “Who are you? And how do you know all of that stuff about my father, my family, and my life?”
“You can call me Madame Bouchard. And as for how I know what I know…there is a long explanation, which we, or you, rather, do not have time to hear. Nor is it relevant. The important question at hand, my dear, is haven’t you ever wondered about fate? And why yours seems destined to be on the wrong track?”
“I don’t believe in fate. I believe that these are the cards I’ve been dealt, and it’s up to me to figure out how to live with them. Fate, destiny, all of that is just nonsense people rely on so they don’t have to take responsibility for their lives.”
The old woman gazed around at the Parisians smoking cigarettes and sipping their strong French cafés before a knowing smirk glided over her lips. “You didn’t believe in past lives before, and yet, here you are.”
I opened my mouth, ready to retort with more of my therapist drivel, but Madame Bouchard was right. Here I was. In Paris. In 1959.
“Suppose I did believe in fate, that I thought there was some grand reason why my life has gone so off course, what does that have to do with this?” I asked.
She set her chocolat chaud down in the saucer, then leaned over the table and whispered, “Because, my dear, now you have been given the chance to correct your ill-fated course. All of it.”
“But how will I know—”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, sending those familiar sparks soaring underneath my skin. “If you listen, if you pay attention, you’ll know. And no matter what happens, do not lose your dancing shoes. After all, you have rehearsal in ten minutes.”
I peered underneath the table, and for the first time since I’d woken up in Ruby’s body, I noticed that the shoes on Ruby’s dainty feet were the exact same pair of sparkly red heels I’d been wearing in my grandmother’s dance studio.
“How did—” I began, but when I lifted my gaze, the old woman was gone, her rose-scented perfume lingering in the smoky air of the café, drowning out my questions, mocking my search for answers.
And when I peered down at my tingling fingers, there, resting in Ruby’s soft palms, was the photo of my baby, its faded colors like a ticking time bomb in my hands.
FIVE
Struggling to grasp the utter insanity of this situation, I discreetly tucked the photograph into my sequined leotard, then pushed past a bewildered Parisian waiter and rushed out of the café.
I wrapped the cherry-red scarf tighter around my neck as a gust of wind barreled down the boulevard. Combing the street, I searched for Madame Bouchard’s silvery hair and her indigo peacoat, but she was nowhere to be found.
How could she just leave me here like this? After telling me I had some monumental task to accomplish in my past life? After telling me that I could potentially change my future? My fate?
How is this happening to me?
Another bitter draft whipped past, reminding me that I was standing on a busy Parisian boulevard in the middle of winter in a tight, wet, silver-sequined leotard with bare legs and sparkly red heels—heels that had traveled back in time with me, no less. And besides, the bitter air was beginning to turn my fingertips and nose into ice, and the sophisticated Parisians all bundled in their chic winter clothing were beginning to stare. I needed to get inside.
Turning back toward the club, I smacked straight into someone.
“Mais qu’est-ce que tu fous là?” What in the hell are you doing out here?
It was Jean-Pierre, the bossy club owner from earlier. I opened my mouth to respond, but what was I supposed to tell him? That I’d been magically transported from Ruby’s apartment to the street, had just eaten a sandwich and a hot chocolate that appeared out of nowhere with an old woman who vanished into thin air? And, oh yeah, I’m not actually Ruby. Well, I used to be her in my so-called past life, but my real name is Claudia and I’m from the year 2012. Somehow I didn’t think any of that would go over well.
Luckily, Jean-Pierre didn’t wait for my answer. He stripped off his long black coat and wrapped it around my shoulders as he ushered me back across the boulevard. “Allez, viens.” Come on, let’s go, he said firmly, his eyes nervously combing the street around us.
Neither of us spoke another word as we entered through the side door of the club and wound through the dark hallway to the dressing room where I’d been with Titine earlier. Jean-Pierre closed the door behind him, then charged toward me, the anger in his gaze making me flinch.
“What in the hell were you doing out there? Merde! Roaming the streets of Paris in the middle of winter in barely any clothing! Les policiers are watching us, Ruby. The last thing we need after Gisèle’s murder is to bring more negative attention to the club.” He grabbed my arm and lowered his voice. “And in case your little fall made you forget, the police think you could be the one responsible for Gisèle’s death. Pretending to lose your memory right now will not help. It will only make you appear more suspicious.”
“I’m not pretending. I don’t even know what I would tell the police if they came to question me.”
He shook his head and huffed out an angry breath. “You would tell them exactly what you told them the night you found Gisèle. That after the show, you drank a little too much at the bar and suddenly didn’t feel well. You went up to your apartment to take a rest, but half an hour later, you felt a little better and decided to come back downstairs to mingle. On your way through the wings, you heard a commotion, and that is when you found Gisèle lying on the floor in her dressing room.”
When I didn’t respond, Jean-Pierre raised a brow. “This is what you told the police, correct?”
“Is the story true? Did I really go up to my apartment because I was feeling sick?”
Jean-Pierre took a step closer to me, his brown eyes severe and unforgiving, his grip on my arm tightening. “I do not like these games you are playing with me, Ruby. You know exactly what you were doing before you found Gisèle, and if you even think about mentioning François Lefevre’s name to the police, you will lose everything: your career, your apartment, your reputation, everything.”
I yanked my arm free of his grasp and pointed to the door. “You need to leave.”
Jean-Pierre muttered something under his breath, then turned and reached for the door handle while I braced myself against the makeup counter to keep my knees from buckling underneath me.
But before he left me alone, he turned back around one last time, the edge in his gaze and the sharpness of his tone not softening one bit. “You have five minutes to get yourself together, change out of that wet costume, and be back onstage to rehearse. Tomorrow is the single most important performance of your life, not to mention the most important performance this club has ever had. And in case you have forgotten, the arrangement we have for after the show is still on. Do not even think about backing out now.”
“What arrangement?” I hurled through the lonely space only seconds after he had left. God, that man was a pushy, chauvinistic lunatic.
I steadied myself against the counter, my knees still shaking from the cold, but more so from fear. What in God’s name was I expected to do after the show? And who was François Lefevre? I closed my eyes and remembered the way his name had rolled of Jean-Pierre’s
tongue in his thick French accent, and somewhere in my confused, terrified head, “Lefevre” rang a bell.
But when I couldn’t remember a face to match the name, I shook my head and gazed over at the rack of sparkly leotards and shimmering, provocative costumes lining the wall. How was I supposed to rehearse, let alone perform, when the most dancing I’d ever done was taking lessons at Grandma Martine’s studio?
I squeezed my eyes closed, hearing the old woman’s voice from moments before come soaring back to me.
No matter how frightful this experience becomes, you mustn’t run. For the fates of countless people—including yourself, your future husband, and your future child—rest on your shoulders.
But to be the star of the show? And to pull off the most important performance of Ruby’s life?
Listen to Ruby. After all, you used to be her. You know her better than you think you do.
All I knew for sure about Ruby in that moment was that she needed to get out of this wet costume because she was freezing. I was freezing.
I crossed over to the rack of slinky leotards, picked out the most conservative one I could find—which, with its dangerously low neckline and equally low scoop-back, was not something I would’ve ever worn before this insane time warp. But at least it was dry.
I slipped Jean-Pierre’s coat from my shoulders, pulled the fading photo of my baby from my chest, then peeled off the tight mass of silver sequins. But just as I was about to slip on the dry leotard, I couldn’t help but gaze at this new, naked body of mine in the floor-to-ceiling mirror before me.
And there she was.
There I was.
My long, chestnut-brown hair had been replaced by a head of thick, shoulder-length, wavy blonde locks. My cheekbones were higher, my eyebrows more heavily arched and perfectly plucked. My lips were full and luscious, and when I smiled, a set of straight, pearly white teeth glistened back at me. Even my skin was much paler in contrast to the olive complexion I’d had my whole life as Claudia.
Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 4