When I wake, I'm in a sunlit room, one that does not smell or look like a hospital. General Hospital is playing on the TV across from me, overdubbed in French. The windowsill and nightstand hold a wealth of flowers.
A nurse stands beside me. It's just a blood pressure check, she says testily. At first I assume she's talking to me, but then there's a low grunt from the corner of the room: D'accord, someone says.
It’s the man from earlier. His jacket has fallen open just enough to reveal the holstered gun at his side. No wonder she sounds so defensive.
Just once I’d like to land in a version of France where I’m not greeted with guns.
"Who are you?" I ask. My voice is hoarse.
He startles a bit at the sound of my voice. "I’m surprised you’re awake. They gave you enough sedative to fell a horse for a week,” he says. “My name is Philippe. I'm one of your grandmother's bodyguards.”
I glance at him warily. I know for a fact that both of my grandmothers are dead, and that neither of them were French, or had bodyguards. Sooner or later, he’s going to realize I’m not who he thinks I am. I'm still not strong enough to jump, so my only chance to escape is now, before this Cecelia Boudon, whoever she really is, arrives to rat me out.
"When...when is my grandmother coming?" I ask. The nurse is leaving and I'm no longer restrained. Surely there will be a moment when this large man has to step out of the room.
"I'm calling her now," he replies, picking up the phone.
I sit, pulling the blood pressure cuff from my arm, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and he rises. "I'm just going to—" I begin.
He cuts me off with a low laugh and a wide smile that makes him seem slightly less dangerous. "Slow down, Mademoiselle Besson."
I gasp. "What did you call me?" That’s when it occurs to me to lift my wrist.
Amelie Besson, the hospital bracelet says. DOB: 5-8-1966.
My made-up French name. My actual date of birth.
He hangs up the phone. “Madame Boudon has asked me to reassure you she is a friend of the Durand family.”
A friend. Does that mean Henri and Marie-Therese asked her to look out for me? But how could they, when they had no idea where and when I’d be arriving? Does it mean they’re alive?
Maybe she is Henri’s daughter, or his wife.
My throat tightens at the thought.
Please God, don't let it be either of those. I wanted Henri to be happy after I left, and I do hope he had a family. I’m just not ready to witness it firsthand.
Within thirty minutes there's a bustle at the door, and a woman strides in with a retinue behind her. She is in her early forties, perhaps, wearing a Chanel suit and subtle but clearly expensive jewelry. There’s a diamond on her finger that could easily pay for my last year at Penn. To my relief, she does not look at all like Henri. She’s blonde like me, and blue-eyed as well—but they are not the eyes of a time traveler, which is also a relief.
She dismisses Philippe and the men who followed her in with a mere nod of the head, and perches elegantly on the edge of my mattress.
"Hello, Amelie. I’m Cecelia," she says with a fond smile. “You’re probably a little confused right now.”
I meet her gaze warily. "How...how do you know who I am?”
Her smile grows slightly wistful, sad, and my stomach drops. I pray she’s not thinking of Henri and Marie-Therese when she smiles like that.
"You’re so young. I hadn’t realized how young you were,” she says, a hand smoothing over my hair. “But I think it might be best if we exchange very little information. It was brought to my attention that your arrival here would go…poorly. And perhaps I should not have intervened..." her brow furrows. "I hope I've made the right choice. I didn’t want you to suffer the way you would have.”
She knows I'm a time traveler. I feel a small skittering panic and try to rein it in, running my tongue over my dry, chapped lips.
"So you’re friends with Marie-Therese and Henri?” I ask.
Her expression gives nothing away. "Naughty girl. Don’t try to trick me into giving you information. Now I've rescued you, but I have a condition. It will probably sound a bit extreme, but I need to know that my rescue will not change what’s going to happen from here.”
“What is going to happen?”
She laughs to herself and shakes her head. “I’m not telling you that, because telling you would change it. So here is my condition: the next three weeks need to go as they would have, had I not intervened. So you must remain in Paris for that period of time, and you can’t see anyone until it’s through.”
I open my mouth to object and she holds up her palm, very clearly a woman used to getting her way. “Are you glad now that Marie-Therese wouldn’t fix your ankle?” she asks abruptly.
My mouth falls open. How she knows what happened is a mystery, but I can’t argue with what she’s saying, even if a part of me wants to. Denying that I’m happy I stayed also means denying all those afternoons with Henri. It means wishing away our hours on the porch spent reading, the days we went riding, or watching the sun descend. It means there’d be no dancing, there’d be no kiss.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m glad.”
“I know for a fact that you want the future you will have if you remain for the next three weeks and do as I say. And I don’t know that you’ll still have that future if you leave before then.”
I want to trust her, but she must have a motive of some kind. “Maybe I’ll have a future I like just as much.”
She gives me a look—exasperated and amused, as if she already knows what I will decide but is humoring me by continuing to debate this. “You will gamble so many times in the coming years. Please don’t gamble with this.”
"How do I know you're actually trying to help me? How do I know you're not just trying to keep me here so I don't do something I’m supposed to do?"
She smiles. "You don’t. I suppose this is the first of your many gambles.”
I look at her. She seems nice enough. She did rescue me, and if she wanted to stop me from leaving, she probably has the power to keep me drugged for the next three weeks.
“Okay. So what am I supposed to do here?”
"Recover,” she says. “It’s what you’d have done anyway, just in much more difficult conditions. I’ve arranged a hotel room for you, and everything will be taken care of. You won't see me again, but Louis or Philippe will be nearby at all times and can get you whatever you need.”
"I don't think I need..."
"A guard? I'm sure you do not," she says with a soft smile. "But I cannot risk any harm coming to you here, and I’m changing the past a bit, simply by interfering, so let me reassure myself you'll come to no harm."
A bodyguard is better than being locked up for the next three weeks. I nod, reluctantly, and she rises. “Be well, my friend. We will see each other again."
She leaves, and I find myself alone and awake for the first time since I got back. There’s a TV on the wall across from me. A menu on the nightstand that probably offers all the foods I missed. I ignore both, closing my eyes, trying to picture what Henri and Marie are doing now. No, not now, I correct. In 1938, what are they doing? It’s nearly lunch. Marie is probably teaching English or German and Henri is in the fields. In a month or two he will see me again during my attempt to try out my ankle—and what will happen then?
My last memory is of him running up the hillside, perhaps to change my mind, and his last memory of me is yet to come—it’ll take place two months ahead, and I pray it isn’t a memory of me stumbling away from him after he’s kissed me.
God, I wish I'd done things differently. I thought I'd be grateful, overjoyed, to get home. Instead I'm so weighed down by regret I don't even want to open my eyes.
I spend most of the next three days sleeping in the yellow room, which I’m informed is a private hospital on the outskirts of Paris. I’m too exhausted, for the most part, to give it much thought, but during the time I’m
awake I wonder why this is happening. Who Cecelia could be and why she cares enough to rescue me in the first place.
I’m fed at regular intervals, though it turns out that hospital food is still hospital food, even in France and even for the wealthy. I occasionally catch glimpses of Phillipe or a similarly intimidating man in a suit, but they remain outside the room and silent.
As I recover I find I’m missing 1938 more rather than less. I spend my lucid time watching TV, trying to keep my mind off a past that does not belong to me, but it doesn’t work.
On the fourth day, when I’m finally recovered enough to get restless, Louis—the other guard—tells me we are going to the hotel, and hands me a small bag from Gucci. Inside I find black heels and a black sheath, very Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Things I could never afford and would have few places to wear.
I glance at it, and back at Louis. “I’m supposed to put this on?”
“Unless you’d prefer to wear a hospital gown.”
Where the hell are we going that I’d need to wear this stuff? I have sudden visions of some party for the extremely wealthy, where I’m trotted out like a circus freak for viewing and questioning. I set the bag on the bed and fold my arms across my chest.
“I thought we were going to a hotel,” I say. “Why is all this so fancy?”
There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but his face betrays nothing. “We are going to the hotel, and I believe Madame Boudon would not consider these things fancy. She’s merely chosen for you what she herself might wear.”
I guess it makes sense, as much as any of this makes sense, except the stuff in this bag is easily worth a thousand dollars, and I’m struggling to understand why Madame Boudon would spend a thousand dollars on a broke girl she doesn’t know.
The limousine that picks me up from the hospital reaches the highway quickly, and just as soon is weaving through the streets of Paris. The city itself doesn’t look so different than it did when I was here with Henri. The traffic is heavier, and moves faster, but the biggest difference is the people. Their clothes, the speed with which they walk down the street. They don’t seem to look at each other quite as much as they did.
We turn just off the Champs Elysees and come to a stop. “We are here,” announces Louis.
Here is the Ritz Carlton.
And, as I discover five short minutes later, here is also a suite. Two bathrooms, a living area and a bedroom. It’s got more square feet than my shared apartment in Philly, along with a plush couch, huge mahogany bed, and a fruit tray on the four-person table. I forget everything else and go straight to it, like a child set free in a chocolate factory, popping a massive piece of pineapple in my mouth. It dissolves on my tongue in an explosion of sweetness. Okay, pineapple I have definitely missed.
"Mademoiselle Durand," says Louis quietly, nodding at the bellman who's watching, stupefied, as I shove another piece in my mouth.
"Oh," I say, attempting to swallow. "Um, c'est tout?" Louis' mouth curves upward. He tips the bellman and then laughs when the door closes behind him. "It is customary to tell the bellman that is all, rather than to ask him."
I smile, a bit sheepish. “I haven’t spent a lot of time dealing with bellmen.”
He grins. “Yes, I gathered as much.”
I bite my lip. The fact that Louis is capable of smiling encourages me. Mostly it encourages me to pry a little, because I’m dying to know exactly who Cecelia is, and why she’s helping me.
"You know Madame Boudon well?" I ask. "You've worked for her a while?"
His smile fades and he folds his arms across his chest. "Yes. And that is the last question about her I will answer. Phillipe or I will be outside at all times. You have appointments tomorrow also, so please be ready to leave by 10.”
My head shoots up. They somehow acquired my passport and credit card from the woods in Saint Antoine, but I’d still rather not spend money I don’t have. And the money in my savings account is for tuition, nothing more.
"Appointments?” I ask. “I don’t need…”
"It is taken care of," he replies.
I squirm. I can just picture my mother's reaction if she knew I was blithely accepting such largesse from an absolute stranger, especially one I’ve come to meet because I time traveled. "I don't feel comfortable—"
"Madame Boudon is the wealthiest woman in France, and among the wealthiest in the world. Do not insult her by refusing her generosity," he says, and with that he walks out, shutting the door behind him.
I spend the rest of the day in the room, shaking off the last of my fatigue. The suite has three TVs. I turn each of them on and back off, wondering if it’s possible ease and happiness don’t have as much overlap as I once believed.
It’s been a week since I left 1938. Henri and Marie are probably used to it now, life without my casted ankle knocking about and my ineptly made bread, but I can’t get used to being gone. I order a burger and look out the window. Paris waits outside for me, but I don't have the heart for it just yet. Will I hold every future trip to this city against the day spent here with Henri? I will, and I’m pretty sure they’ll all fall short.
The next morning Philippe taps on the door just as I'm finishing my omelet. I’m wearing the black dress and heels because I have nothing else and I feel sort of ridiculous.
"Where are we going, anyway?" I ask.
"First, to get clothes."
I frown. "I need an appointment to get clothes?"
"At the stores Madame Boudon frequents you do."
The limousine drives me only three blocks, which seems silly, although I wouldn’t have wanted to walk them in these heels anyway. It stops in front of Chanel.
My head swivels to Philippe. "I can't shop here. Even a t-shirt probably costs a thousand dollars. Can’t we just go to, like, The Gap? Or whatever the French version of that is?”
"Madame insists,” he says.
Cecelia appears to know something about my future—does all this mean I turn into the kind of woman who will only wear couture? Mark’s mother is, but that has never been the kind of luxury I was after. I just want to be able to pay for my kids’ braces and replace the washing machine when it breaks. I want the luxury of not needing to time travel, not needing to risk lives, in order to meet my family's needs.
I follow him inside. The women working there fawn over me as if I’m someone famous, or wealthy, which just makes me feel worse. I’ve been given the distinct impression from Philippe that I’m not leaving until I pick out something, so eventually I relent and buy one dress and one pair of shoes I might wear at home if I was attending something especially nice.
He relents once we get outside and gives me enough cash to get a pair of sneakers, a pair of jeans and a few t-shirts at a cheap place nearby, all for less than the cost of a scarf at Chanel.
That afternoon I’m taken downstairs to the spa where I undergo the kind of transformation I’ve only seen in movies. Pedicure, manicure, facial. My brows are plucked, my skin is waxed, my hair trimmed. It's as if Cecelia is trying to get me ready for Mark's proposal. Maybe this is part of the future she promised I’d want, but all I feel when I imagine it is dread.
I spend the next days wandering the streets of Paris. I go to Montmartre, to Trocadero and Les Invalides, the Louvre and yes—the Eiffel Tower, despite how much Henri maligned it. I take day trips to St. Malo and Mont St. Michelle and Omaha Beach. The driver takes me to the Normandy American Cemetery, and I chicken out at the last minute. There are French graves there too. I’m terrified I might see Henri’s name.
I go to Giverny, which is now open to the public. I go to Versailles but spend most of my trip there sitting beside a rectangular pool outside its perimeter. I’m not scared of the water so much anymore, and I guess I have Henri to thank for it. That’s probably why I spend the entire time thinking only of him.
Eventually I end up back in Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Les Deux Magots and Cafe Flore are still there, but they are now packed with photo-taking
tourists. The restaurant where he and I dined is gone. But I continue to wander the streets anyway, trying to find what is missing.
26
When Mark finally reaches Calcutta, he calls me at the private number Cecelia arranged for me. He sounds so happy to hear my voice that I force myself to act as if I’m happy to hear his too.
“My flight gets into Paris on the 16th,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you.”
I bite my lip. I don’t want him to come here to have the I need some space conversation, and I don’t want to have it by phone. And perhaps it won’t even be necessary, because I’ll see him and things will finally feel right. But I’d rather not take any chances.
“If you want to fly straight home to New York you can,” I suggest. “You’ve got to be sick of traveling. I can just meet you there instead. My flight gets in on the 22nd.”
I want him to agree. I want it desperately. “Are you crazy?” he asks. “It’s Paris. And you’re there. Of course there’s nowhere else I want to be. Where should I pick you up?”
I hesitate. He knows I can’t afford the Ritz Carlton. “I’m pretty far outside of the city,” I tell him. “Why don’t I just meet you somewhere?”
And naturally he suggests the one place I don’t want to share with him: Saint-Germain-des-Pres.
On the evening of the 16th, at the appointed hour, I wear the Gucci dress with the Chanel heels and I insist that Phillipe, my guard for the evening, sit this one out.
“I’m probably not coming back tonight,” I tell him. I wait for him to protest, and when he doesn’t, I grow more aware of a sick, swirling feeling in my stomach, one that’s been here every time I’ve considered what tonight entails.
I know what Mark’s expecting, but I can’t go through with it. When he touches me, I will crave calloused hands on my skin that are not his, Henri’s weight and size and smell pressing against me. I’m missing those things more and more with every hour that passes.
I take a cab to the corner of Quai Voltaire and Rue Bonaparte. Mark is already waiting, a wide smile on his face when I emerge from the car.
Across Time: Across Time Book 1 Page 21