Authors: Rachel Ann Nunes
He laughed and looked chagrined. “Actually, it’s not socks. Sorry.”
She snorted. “Damon, you don’t have to bring me gifts all the time. If you do, I’ll feel guilty about charging you for watching your children.”
“Hey, anyone who’s as good with Belle as you are is worth her weight in gold.”
“Then I’d better start eating more.”
He laughed, reaching for a box under his arm. She knew it said a lot about her frame of mind that she hadn’t noticed it before.
The box was a dark red, about three inches wide and a foot long. He handled it carefully, as though it held the finest crystal. “I saw it yesterday at the mall after I found the socks. I bought it because it seemed like something you should have, something you would enjoy. But I didn’t . . . I wanted to give it to you, but I thought you might think me too forward. Then after last night . . .” He paused before hurrying on, “I know what you said last night, and I respect your feelings, so please don’t read anything into this. It’s just something I know you’ll like, and if you accept it, I swear I’ll only give you socks from now on. Sale socks.” They both grinned at this, and she didn’t fight the tenderness swelling in her breast.
She was also dying of curiosity. What was in the box?
Finally, he handed it to her. Through the plastic window that covered a portion of the box lid, she saw what looked like a once-living gold rose plucked from King Midas’s garden. She felt her eyes widen. Below the window was a black oval sticker with a thick gold border and gold lettering that read
Real Rose Dipped in 24 kt Gold.
With Damon close behind, she turned into the living room, sat on the couch, and then carefully removed the lid. Inside, the gilded rose gleamed, reflecting the light. She’d never seen such a bright, beautiful gold color. The rose itself was perfectly formed, from its petals and leaves to the thorns on its stem, frozen forever in its encasement of precious metal. In awe, she removed the flower, felt its weight. This was no garage-sale rose.
“Damon, you shouldn’t—” Mickelle tore her eyes away from the rose and looked at him.
“But you had a collection, and all those rose bushes outside. I thought it belonged with you.”
He sat beside her, his amber eyes more earnest than she had ever seen them. At that moment, staring at him over the gold rose, she knew she loved him. Not because he’d noticed her passion for roses, or because he’d bought her an expensive present, and not even because of the vision she had seen of herself as Belle’s mother. She loved him because he was good and kind and caring. She loved him because their souls had touched, and in that instant she knew—
knew
—she had to give him a chance. Or spend the rest of her life wondering what might have been.
“Kelle.” His voice was a whisper, almost a question, filled with yearning and uncertainty. “I know you’re afraid to trust me, but I swear you won’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I want you to be happy, please believe that. All I ask is a chance. You can have as much time as you—”
“Shut up,” she said, her voice low. Before his eyes could register surprise, she added, “Shut up and kiss me before the kids find out you’re here.”
She set the rose on her lap as he reached for her. His kiss was tender and full of promise, and Mickelle felt her heart soar. Yes, Damon would demand complete devotion, but he would give it as well. He would love her enough to give her space, cherish her enough to let her go free in the end, if that was what she wanted.
For right now, she wanted nothing more than to feel his lips trace the contours of her face, eyes, lips. A delicious tingling rippled up her spine. Maybe getting to know Damon wouldn’t be as frightening as she had expected.
She moved into his kiss, and without warning the golden rose slid down her leg and tumbled to the floor. Mickelle pulled away from Damon, trying to save it. For a brief moment, she envisioned the long-stemmed Capodimonte rose that Riley had given her and later crushed into the carpet that terrible day in May.
Damon quickly scooped up the rose from the carpet. “No damage,” he said, examining it. He laid it carefully in her waiting hands.
Mickelle stood and moved to the curio cabinet. She still hadn’t replaced the glass, but decided her collection looked fine without it, especially with this new addition. She caressed the smooth metal once again before facing Damon.
“I love it,” she said, suddenly shy. “Thank you.” How should she act around him now? She might be in love with him, but she still didn’t know him very well. And she was more than a little afraid of the tempestuous emotions in her heart.
He held out his hand, as though reading her thoughts. “Come on, let’s go play ball with the kids. You’re so beautiful, and I think right now I’m in desperate need of four loud and obnoxious chaperones.”
Mickelle smiled and placed her hand in his.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The moment Rebekka entered the plane, she started crying and couldn’t stop. She told herself at first that the liquid seeping from her eyes wasn’t tears, but that her allergies were acting up as they had when she was a child.
Her heart felt as heavy as lead. Ever since she’d left Mickelle’s, the heaviness had grown. And grown. Was it because she felt so guilty about leaving Belle?
She tried to concentrate on imagining how joyful Samuel’s face would be when he met her at the airport, but all she could see was Marc as he had been that morning—so alive and . . . so Marc.
Sighing, she took her scriptures from her carry-on bag. Reading the sacred words always had a calming effect on her, but lately she hadn’t been giving them the attention they deserved. Lovingly, she fingered the leather cover. These battered scriptures were special to her for more than one reason. They had accompanied three Perrault missionaries: first Marc, then Josette, and finally André, who had given them to her when she’d received her call. There were teeth marks in them where Marc had once fended off a mad dog, and the pages were well-marked and worn, but she treasured them more than any other set she possessed.
As she opened the scriptures, a bookmark fell out. It was from Marc. She picked it up, remembering the day he’d given it to her at church almost a year ago. As president of the Sunday School, he’d prepared one for each teen—well, she suspected he’d enlisted his sisters’ help for the actual production—and he’d given her one because she was a teacher in the Sunday School. Bubble letters across the front read:
Did you think to pray?
A new rush of tears blurred her vision, and she wiped at her eyes impatiently, hating her weakness. She’d always been taught to make a decision and then to pray about it, but she hadn’t done that since leaving France. Once she even had prayed for Marc to love her. He never had.
Tears continued to fall, despite her efforts to stop them. She felt the stares of the other passengers. An older lady leaned over the aisle. “Are you all right, dear?”
Rebekka nodded and looked down at the bookmark in her hand, purposely allowing her long hair to hide her face.
Stop it,
she ordered herself.
You’ll be a mess when you land. What will Samuel think?
Dear God,
she prayed.
What’s wrong with me?
“You don’t have to go, you know,” the old woman said in a firm voice. “If you’re that upset, why don’t you stay? Is it really worth it? There’s always tomorrow. God’s time, you know, is different from ours.”
Rebekka lifted her eyes and stared at the woman, whose white hair was cut short and immaculately styled. Wrinkles gathered closely around her eyes, which twinkled with kind understanding. Next to her was an equally aged man who was reading a magazine, one hand clasping his wife’s.
Many thoughts went through Rebekka’s head as she stared at this loving woman who had so much concern for a complete stranger. Rebekka realized that she wanted the kind of relationship the woman seemed to share with her companion.
Now that she thought about it, love and companionship were so much more than learning to like five-way chili. Could she develop such a deep and lasting bond with Samuel? Perhaps in everything save religion. But was she willing to forsake her God even that much?
Never.
Her heart felt like it would burst with the pain. No! She could not abandon her God, her Father in Heaven. He meant too much to her.
Then why was she so willing to settle for a relationship that didn’t fit her eternal plans? She didn’t love Samuel, not yet. Given her lingering feelings for Marc, she probably wasn’t ready to love anyone, and pursuing a relationship with Samuel wouldn’t be fair to either of them, even if he shared her religious beliefs.
She’d thought she was free from her obsession with Marc, but she wasn’t. All this time she’d been trying to replace him. She could see it so clearly now. First she’d gone after Damon as a substitute because of his similar age, and when that hadn’t worked, she had practically fallen into Samuel’s arms. Anything not to be alone.
All because of Marc.
So what now?
She lifted her chin, still staring at the elderly couple. Millions of women had dealt with broken hearts. She was strong and would survive. She wasn’t going to waste a second more of her life questioning her worth simply because she didn’t have a man at her side.
I’m a daughter of God, and I’ll get down on my knees and pray to be happy. And I will be.
A strange euphoria filled her, and Rebekka felt light and free. Happy.
The Father rewards those who follow Him,
she thought, acknowledging the source of her happiness.
Forgive me, Father, for not understanding until now.
She stood, dragging her flight bag with her. “Thank you,” she whispered to the lady. “Thank you so much.”
She ran down the aisle and off the plane, stopping to tell the gate attendant that she would not be on the flight. Passengers were still boarding, but Rebekka walked away, not looking back. Taking a deep breath, she went into the rest room to fix her face. She had some honest talking to do with Marc that evening.
She was through with hinting. She was going to tell him how she felt and get it out of her system once and for all. Maybe then they could be friends again. More tears started behind her eyes, but this time the melancholy was tempered by a sweet feeling of relief.
She spent a long time in the rest room, collecting her wits and repairing her makeup. When she was almost ready to leave, a blonde woman in an airline uniform came into the room. “Excuse me,” she said, “but do you speak French?” At Rebekka’s nod, she continued. “Then I really need your help. I don’t think one of our passengers realizes he’s at the wrong gate.”
* * * * *
Marc looked up not into the airline attendant’s eyes, but Rebekka’s. Her thick auburn locks perfectly framed her oval face and did absolutely nothing to hide the red-rimmed eyes. He jumped to his feet in surprise. “But you’re—” He glanced out the window where he’d seen her plane leave.
“The lady at the desk told me you were here,” she said. He couldn’t believe how soft and wonderful her voice was, although her French sounded slightly Americanized.
“I was in the ladies’ room,” Rebekka continued. “She came in a minute ago and said she needed someone who spoke French. She says you’re at the wrong gate.”
Marc sent a look of pure gratitude to the lady behind the desk. She smiled at him and turned back to a conversation with a fellow employee.
“Marc, I—” Rebekka began.
But Marc had planned what he would do from the minute he’d lost her. He fell to his knees on the worn carpet, taking her hand in his, uncaring of all the stares. “Dearest Rebekka, I love you. I didn’t know it before, but I do now. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been a fool—I know that. Please, please forgive me! I love you, and I want nothing more in this whole world than to marry you!”
Her mouth opened in surprise, and her face suddenly paled. For a moment, Marc thought she would faint. Instead, she eased into the seat he’d vacated. She blinked twice, but still didn’t speak. Her hand was limp in his grasp.
“I know you might love this Samuel guy, but you love me, too, don’t you? Rebekka, I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy, if you’ll just give me a chance. I miss you so much! I can’t live without you!”
“What about my mother?” she asked slowly.
Marc knew then that he had lost. If she knew about Danielle, she would never believe that he loved her and not her mother. Yet he had to try. He gripped her hand more tightly. “It’s always been you, Rebekka. What I felt for Danielle was a young boy’s crush, but it was replaced years ago by my feelings for you. I didn’t even know it until you were gone. I swear that’s the truth. Everyone knew it—my mom, André, Raoul. And you. Only I was too blind, too scared, too much of an idiot—”
She put her fingers over his lips to silence the words, tears streaming down her face. Leaning forward, she pressed her cheek against his.
Oh, no. Here it comes,
he thought, and knew he deserved every bit of the letdown she would give him.
“Part of me wants to hit you,” she said softly, huskily, “for all the years I’ve waited to hear you say those words. Part of me would like to string you up by your toes and leave you there for at least a month . . . without food or water.” She pulled away from him slightly, and he could see her grimace. “Or air, for that matter.”
He held his breath, waiting for what would come next.
“But I’m not going to waste one more second of our life together.” She met his gaze without wavering. “I will marry you, Marc Perrault, and I’ll make you the best wife you ever dreamed of.” Her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, and her voice deepened and sounded odd, as though she was fighting tears. “And you’d better make me the best husband ’cause you’re getting old and you won’t have another chance.”
Marc couldn’t believe his ears. He whooped and caught Rebekka up in his arms, bringing them both to their feet. He hugged her tightly, his happiness suddenly so large and all-encompassing that it threatened to take flight.