As he entered her, she cried his name again, and he told her finally, and with absolute certainty, that he loved her, that she was the love of his life.
————
THEY LAY AMID rumpled pillows and tangled sheets, resting quietly in the soft, dim light of his bedroom.
The impact of seeing each other again had been devastating to them both, and they had fallen into their own thoughts.
For Alexa, their passionate lovemaking on this bed for the past hour and a half was merely a confirmation of what she already knew, had known deep down inside herself for the last few years. She loved Tom, always had, always would, and nothing could ever change that fact.
Endeavoring to move on, because he had been unable to make a commitment to her, she had strived for a successful career, a good life, and eventually she had even enjoyed a relationship with another man … Jack Wilton. The thought of Jack made her heart sink. She was going to have to tell him she couldn’t marry him; she hated the thought of hurting him. But even though there might not be a future with Tom, she could not marry Jack or anyone else. Her heart belonged to this man cradling her in his arms, one leg thrown over her body, his hands clasping hers, as if he were afraid she was going to escape his tenacious grip.
He loved her; she had always known he did. And he desired her sexually. They were intense in bed and out of it; they were compatible. Yet he couldn’t take that final step. At least, not in the past. Now he might. He had told her he no longer felt guilt about the tragic deaths of his wife and child. And yet she wondered … had he really conquered it?
As far as she was concerned, marriage didn’t matter anymore, she just wanted to be with him. “Living in sin” it was called. But she didn’t see it that way. If you loved each other, it wasn’t a sin. Marrying a man you didn’t love, and spending the rest of your life with him, well, that was surely living in sin, wasn’t it?
Alexa closed her eyes, imagining the child she had wanted. Correction. His child. But if that was not possible, it didn’t really matter. Tom was all that mattered to her, and being with him for the rest of her life.
As he lay next to her, Tom was contemplating the dichotomy in his nature. How he loved her, this woman in his arms, with all his heart; sexually he craved her constantly, wanted to be joined to her. They were hot together, and perfectly matched; her passion, ardor, and sensuality in bed had echoed his since their first night together years ago. She truly satisfied him and he knew he satisfied her.
Yet despite all this, he was afraid to make the relationship permanent, afraid he might somehow hurt her in the long run.…
But if he lost her again, where would he be? He groaned inwardly. When he thought of all the mindless, meaningless sex he’d had in her absence, he was appalled at himself.
He had told her the truth when he said he had vanquished the survivor guilt. Sixteen years he had lived with that, and he thanked God every day that he was free of it at long last.
When Tom considered the research he had done into global terrorism, and what he had found out, he inevitably shriveled inside at the enormity of it all. The knowledge of terrorism in the future that he now possessed was a burden. He knew too much. It weighed him down, and what he had learned filled him with despair. Apprehension about the years ahead never waned. But there was nothing he could do but go about his daily life, hoping for the best, praying that goodness would outweigh evil ultimately.
Alexa moved in his arms, and he tightened his embrace, but she wriggled around so that he had to loosen his grip, and finally she was facing him.
Her cool green eyes looked deeply into his. “I want to tell you something, Tom.” Her face was serious.
“Then tell me.” He held his breath, wondering what was coming.
“I want to be with you … and being married doesn’t really matter to me any longer. Just so long as we’re together, that’s all that counts.”
He searched her face; his eyes, fastened on hers, were filled with love. “And I want to be with you, I feel the same, Alex. But mostly we’re so far away from each other. You’re in New York, I’m here.”
“I know, but I’m coming back soon, to do the movie.”
“And after that?”
“I think we can work it out … if we want to.”
“I know we can, darling.” He kissed her, and they clung to each other for a few moments. And they both knew a bargain had been sealed.
After a while, he said against the hollow of her neck, “You’re my one true love, Alex.”
She moved again, so that she could see him, and stared hard at him, frowning. Then she said slowly, “When we were making love, you said I was the love of your life … but … “ She left her sentence unfinished.
He returned her gaze with one equally as steady. “I know, you’re thinking about Juliette, and my feelings for her. Of course I loved her deeply, but we were children together. Childhood sweethearts, Alex darling, and in many ways we were very young. I came to you as a grown man, scarred by life, and you were a mature woman. You’d lived life a little. And it’s a different kind of love I feel for you … and so yes, you are the love of my life. Now.”
Reaching out, she touched his cheek very gently, and leaned into him, kissed him lightly on the lips. “Everything will be all right. We’re going to be all right, Tom.”
He smiled at her, and she settled down in his arms. He rested his face against her head, ruminating again on the evening they had spent together. It had been marvelous to see her again, to look at her across a dinner table, to make love with her, to hold her here in his arms like this … he was lucky.
Tom relaxed, closing his eyes, and he realized then that the pain had finally ceased. That awful pain he had lived with all these long years had miraculously ceased to exist … and he was at peace.
————
“WHY DO YOU HAVE this photograph in your album?” Tom asked, looking up at Alexa as she came out of the bathroom in her hotel room. It was Sunday morning. They had gone to the Meurice half an hour ago so that she could shed her clothes of the night before, put on something more suitable for lunch. As he waited, Tom had seen the album and picked it up, curious as always.
She glanced at the small red leather photograph album in his hands, and shook her head. “Which one are you referring to?”
“This one,” he said, holding the album out to her.
Alexa took it from him and stared down at the photograph he was indicating. It was of Jessica and Lucien. The two of them stood on the Pont des Arts, and she had taken it just a few weeks before graduation.
“It’s Jessica Pierce,” Alexa explained as she looked up at Tom. “She was at Anya’s school with me.”
“No, no, it’s the man I’m talking about. I was curious why he was in your album. I didn’t know you knew him. He’s a neighbor of my parents.”
Alexa was gaping at Tom. She exclaimed, “That can’t be. Lucien disapp—”
“Why do you call him that?” Tom interrupted.
“That was his name … Lucien Girard.”
“No, no, Alex,” Tom argued, shaking his head. “The man with Jessica is Jean Beauvais-Cresse, and he lives in the Loire Valley.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ALEXA WAS SPEECHLESS FOR A SPLIT SECOND, AND SHE sat down heavily on the chair opposite Tom. She had been startled and shocked by his words, and it showed on her face. After looking down at the album and the photograph of Jessica and Lucien once more, she finally managed to say, “Tom, are you sure about what you’re saying?”
He leaned back on the sofa, a reflective expression crossing his face fleetingly. “Well, they say everybody has a twin somewhere, but I’m pretty certain this is Jean Beauvais-Cresse. Obviously, I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am.” He leaned forward, held out his hand. “Let me look at the picture again, please, Alexa.”
Rising, she bent toward him, handed him the album, and then sat down, crossing her legs, waiting for him to continue their conversat
ion. She was still taken aback, her mind racing as she considered a variety of scenarios and possibilities.
Once he had carefully studied the photograph of Jessica and Lucien on the bridge, he flipped through the album again, glancing at some of the other pictures, many of them of himself and Alexa.
Finally placing it on the coffee table, Tom said, “Listen to me, Alex, people don’t change that much between their twenties and thirties, their looks remain pretty much the same for the most part. The man in the picture appears to be in his mid-twenties at the time. Did you take it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“When? About seven or eight years ago?”
“Yes. Not long before our graduation actually, Tom.”
“The man I know, well, I shouldn’t say I know him, I’m acquainted with him, that’s all. Anyway, he’s in his mid-thirties now.” Tom focused his eyes on her; leaning forward slightly, his hands on his knees, he finished, “I know it’s Jean when he was much younger.”
Alexa bit her lip and shook her head, her eyes suddenly clouded over. “Then at a certain time he led a double life. Or he led a different life as someone called Lucien Girard.”
“Tell me about him and Jessica, Alex.”
“There’s not a lot to tell. Jessica and Lucien met, fell for each other, and started to date. Soon they were inseparable as they became more and more involved, and in love. She told me they planned a future together, that they wanted to marry. And then one day Lucien disappeared into thin air. Without a trace. She never saw him again.”
It was Tom’s turn to be startled, and he exclaimed, “Nobody disappears just like that! Like a puff of smoke floating away! Surely he was in touch with her eventually, gave her a full explanation.”
“He wasn’t. And Jessica was heartbroken. It was all something of a mystery at the time. She and a friend of Lucien’s did everything they could to find him, but without success. In the end she just gave up and went back to the States.”
“And she never heard from him later?”
“I … we … well, we weren’t in touch by then. We weren’t speaking. But if Lucien Girard had turned up, Anya would have known, because Jessica would have told her. And Anya or Nicky would have told me. Remember, I lived in Paris for almost three years after graduation, before I went back home.”
Tom nodded, settled back against the cushions on the sofa, enormously puzzled by this odd coincidence … that two men could look so much alike. “What a strange and troubling story.” He frowned, then asked, “And what was this Lucien Girard doing at the time? Was he a student also? Or was he working? Or what?”
“He wasn’t a student, Tom. He was an actor. Not well known, he had only small parts, but he was quite good, from what I heard.”
“What else do you know about him?” Tom probed, the lawyer in him coming to the surface. “I’m very intrigued, I must admit.”
“I don’t really know anything else. Jessica spent a lot of time with Lucien, usually alone, except for the few occasions when we were all together.” She shrugged, suddenly at a loss for words.
Tom also was silent. He brought a hand up to his chin, rubbed it a few times as he sat pondering on the sofa. “Well, it’s none of my business,” he murmured eventually. “Although it’s quite peculiar when you think about it … uncanny that two men look the same. Maybe identical twins.”
“That could be it!” Alexa exclaimed. “Perhaps this Jean fellow who lives near your parents actually has a brother. Even a twin, as you’ve just suggested.”
“Yes, that’s a possibility. I don’t know much about the family. But look, Alex, as I just said, it’s nothing to do with us.”
Alexa nodded, rose, went to the window, stood looking out for a moment or two at the Tuileries across the street. After a short while she turned around, came back to her chair, sat down, and looked across at Tom. “But what if Lucien and Jean are the same person? Don’t you think Jessica Pierce has a right to know … that he’s all right, that he’s alive. That way she would have closure finally.”
“That’s true, to a certain extent. Look, Alex, think about this … what would be the purpose of telling her, really? Wouldn’t it be opening up a lot of old wounds? Anyway, it may not matter to Jessica now. She’s probably married to someone else.”
“No, she isn’t. Anya told me we were all still single, except for Kay Lenox, who’s now married to some lord. I ought to give Jessica this information, even though we parted on bad terms. Anya wants us to be friends. Perhaps I owe it to Jessica.”
“Honestly, you must think about this carefully,” Tom cautioned. “Might it not be rather cruel, hurtful, to tell Jessica that I think her old boyfriend is alive and well and living in the Loire?”
“I suppose so, especially since we don’t really know whether Jean is Lucien. But what if they are the same man? He was a bastard, wasn’t he?”
Tom inclined his head, seeing the truth in what she said. He ventured, “Could it be that Lucien wanted to break up with Jessica, and not knowing how to do it gracefully, he simply … slipped away … never to be seen again?”
“That’s possible. Rather cowardly, though. Here’s another thing, Tom. If Lucien is actually Jean Beauvais-Cresse, why did he become Lucien Girard for a period of time?”
“I don’t know … I can’t even imagine why.… ”
“A mystery,” she muttered, and jumped up. “I’d better finish getting dressed. I’ll be only a few minutes, then we can leave for Anya’s. We mustn’t be late for Sunday lunch. It’s a sort of ritual with her.”
————
ALEXA WAS QUIET in the taxi on the way to Anya’s house, and several times Tom glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She seemed preoccupied, and so he knew it was wisest to keep silent.
Settling back against the seat, he thought about their morning together. They had awakened early, and prepared breakfast in the kitchen; later Alexa had wandered around, exclaiming about the changes he had made in the apartment since she had last been there, showing her approval. Then she had called her hotel for messages; the only one was from Anya, inviting her to Sunday lunch. He had heard her on the phone, asking if she could bring him, and then the whoop of jubilation as she had hung up the phone. “She can’t wait to see you, Tom! You’re invited too.”
On their way to lunch they had stopped off at the hotel, so Alexa could put on makeup and change. He glanced at her now, thinking that her clothes stamped her nationality on her. She could be only an American in her blue jeans, white silk shirt, and brown penny loafers worn with white wool socks. A dark-blue cashmere sweater was tied around her neck, and she carried the brown Kelly bag he’d given her years ago.
He loved her looks. Well, he loved her, didn’t he, and he knew she loved him. There had never been any doubt in his mind about that; he had been the one at fault in the past. A jerk, if he thought about it.
Instinctively, Tom knew that Alexa was going to tell Anya about the resemblance between Lucien Girard and
Jean Beauvais-Cresse. He had seen Alexa put the small red leather album into her bag before they had left the hotel, and he wondered what Anya would have to say. Instantly, his thoughts settled on Jessica, who looked so young, beautiful, and sweet in the photograph. She must have been utterly devastated when her boyfriend had disappeared, and he asked himself again whether it was appropriate, wise, to say anything to her about Jean.
Before he could stop himself, Tom suddenly asked, “Why did you and Jessica part on bad terms, as you put it?”
Alexa turned away from the taxi window and looked at him. “It wasn’t just Jessica and me. You see, Tom, there were four of us, and we all quarreled. It was a big bust-up.”
“What about?”
“It’s too complicated to tell you now. I’ll fill you in later. But I do think we’ll have to meet and make up before Anya’s party.”
“That might be a good idea.” Tom took hold of her hand. “I’ve been thinking about Jean Beauvais-Cresse, and as I t
old you, I’ve barely met him. But I could phone my father and ask him what he knows.”
Alexa’s face quickened. “Would you mind?”
“No, I’ll call him after lunch. And by the way, is anyone else going to be at lunch?”
“Anya didn’t say. But Nicky could be there. He’s very close to her.”
“I’d like to see him again.”
“I’ve just remembered something, Tom. If I remember correctly, I think it was Larry Sedgwick who introduced Lucien to Jessica, not that this means anything really.” She bit her lip, staring hard at him. “The idea that Lucien might have been playing games really bugs me. I just don’t know what to do about it.”
“Nothing right now,” Tom answered swiftly in a firm voice. “You can’t go around accusing people of once being someone else; you’ll find yourself in the middle of a lawsuit.”
“I wasn’t going to do that,” she said a trifle huffily, and glanced out the window. Immediately, she turned her head and said in a lighter tone, “But you’d always defend me, wouldn’t you?”
“With my life,” he answered, and put his arms around her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ANYA SEDGWICK GLANCED AROUND HER UPSTAIRS SITTING room through appraising eyes, decided that it looked particularly warm and welcoming this morning.
Red and yellow tulips made stunning pools of vivid color in various parts of the room, and a fire burned brightly in the hearth. Although it was another sunny May day there was a nip in the air, and earlier she had asked Honorine to make a fire. She had always liked to see one burning in this room, even in spring and summer.
Moving around, her bearing as elegant as always, her eagle eyes sought anything that might be out of place; she found little amiss except for a crooked photograph frame on the skirted table. After straightening this, she went and sat down behind her large desk in the corner near the fireplace.
As she waited for her luncheon guests to arrive, she once again looked at the list of acceptances for her birthday party. It had grown somewhat in the last few weeks, since almost everyone had accepted, and new people had been added as well. Nicky had told her only the other day that the number had reached one hundred and fifty. She couldn’t wait to greet them all.
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