Ties That Bind

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Claire was gone and Marc had asked him to take care of Rebekka if he died.

  Don’t think about it. Marc has to live.

  André took a deep breath and headed for the door. He’d taken only two steps when it burst open. Desirée Massoni strode flamboyantly into the room, chin held high, dark eyes daring him to protest. He felt no surprise at the intrusion; he had learned in the past month that Desirée never did anything quietly.

  “Do you know where Raoul is?” she asked, smoothing her tight leather skirt. She also wore a matching black leather jacket and tall leather boots with the highest heels André had ever seen.

  “Out at one of the sites.”

  Desirée’s well-outlined lips puckered into what she obviously thought was an appealing pout. “Oh, dear. And I was coming to go out to lunch with him. Now the surprise is ruined.” She removed her leather jacket to reveal a tight white top with a low neckline.

  André was briefly embarrassed for Raoul. Desirée was a beautiful, alluring woman, and as a man he could see why Raoul was attracted to her, but her choice of clothes today was inappropriate. Not because they were made of leather—he’d seen many women wear leather tastefully and attractively. This outfit was simply too tight. She also wore too much makeup for his taste.

  Yet there was a certain part of him that did react to her presence—the lonely part of him that longed for a woman’s touch, though ultimately it was Claire he longed for, not another woman.

  André felt suddenly uncomfortable, as though he had jumped from an ice-cold stream into a warm hot tub. He immediately stepped away from Desirée, but she closed the space again with two steps of her own. Her full, dark hair fell over her shoulders in shiny waves, and her brown eyes, accentuated by long, painted lashes, studied him. He noticed that she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, almost hidden by makeup.

  Strange. Rebekka should have the freckles, he thought. She’s the redhead. Yet Rebekka’s hair wasn’t really red, but more a dark auburn, and her skin was almost unnaturally smooth and clear of any marks that he could remember. Still, she should have freckles, he thought irrationally. At least one. Maybe I never noticed.

  For the life of him he couldn’t understand why he was comparing the two women. One was Raoul’s wife, the other nearly Marc’s. They had nothing to do with him. He loved one as a longtime friend and tolerated the other because of Raoul. That was all.

  Desirée took another step toward him, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “Of course not,” he lied. At that moment he wanted to be anywhere but in that room alone with her. “I do have an appointment right now. I was just leaving.”

  Her hand reached out to adjust his tie. “That’s too bad. I thought maybe you could take me to lunch since Raoul’s not here.” Her long, plum-painted fingernails raked softly down the pattern on his tie. She looked up at him under those long lashes, meeting his gaze firmly, and he saw an invitation there that utterly terrified him.

  Violently repelled, he took a step back. His mind refused to work. An invitation for what? Was he going crazy? But, no, he’d worked in the world long enough to have run into this before—he knew without a doubt what he was seeing. Desirée had tried to flirt with him often—as she flirted with everyone. André had decided it was simply her nature and had not taken her seriously. He even went out of his way to be nice to her when his real urge was to avoid her.

  Desirée continued to gaze at him as if reading his thoughts. She stared up at him with her painted lips slightly parted, offering . . .

  Worst of all, had he not been so horrified—she was his partner’s wife, and he had just said good-bye to the most wonderful woman in the world—he might have considered her invitation, maybe even believed her feelings were genuine.

  His stomach churned in disgust. Claire had been gone almost a month—the longest, most difficult, and painful month of his entire life, and he still longed for her almost constantly. Her touch, her laugh, the sound of her breathing at night, the feeling of connection. It was all gone, and yet he knew logically—while his heart rebelled—that someday he might find a companion again. Perhaps even find love. He yearned for it, for the normalcy it represented, and at the same time was utterly appalled at the suggestion. No one could ever replace Claire in his heart and in his life, and he felt guilty even entertaining the thought for a mere second. Certainly, he would never look twice at woman like Desirée. No, he would go on with his life. He would make his daughters happy. He would wait to see Claire again. Beyond that . . .

  Dear Lord, he prayed for strength. A distinct memory of Joseph from the Bible fleeing Potipher’s wife came to his mind. Yes, that was what he needed to do: flee. Or get her to flee, since this was his office.

  He purposely retreated. “I can call him for you if you wish,” he offered, reaching for a phone on the desk.

  “No!” her voice was sharp with barely hidden anger.

  Something inside him broke. “Look at you!” he said, not bothering to hide his repulsion. “Look at what you’re wearing and what you’re thinking! Raoul is my friend and I would die before I would do anything to offend him. Or the memory of my wife.”

  “It’s not Raoul you’re afraid of. It’s your God!” she hurled back at him.

  “Either one,” he declared firmly. “I believe in God and do my utmost to obey His commandments. I believe in friendship and in the sanctity of the marriage covenant. What do you believe in, Desirée? Isn’t it time you find out?”

  Her face had become sneering, her voice vindictive. “I believe that you’re lonely. I believe that you are going to die a lonely, shriveled-up old man who will forever wish this day had turned out differently.” She shook a finger at him. “Don’t bother trying to tell Raoul. I’ll just deny it. And you know what? I wouldn’t have you now if you gave me the moon.”

  “I see right through you,” he murmured softly, dangerously. “I only hope you change before Raoul sees what I already do. I don’t want him hurt.”

  With a sound of disgust, she turned on the heel of her boot and flounced from the room, leaving André trembling with fury. How dare she play upon his emotions, so volatile and erratic since Claire’s death. Yes, he was lonely—how dare she take advantage of that. Worse, how could she treat Raoul so carelessly? And should he tell his friend and partner? Or would it put a wedge between them that could never be removed? Raoul would have to believe Desirée’s account of the event, whatever that might be, or leave her, and André didn’t think Raoul was ready to do that, not yet. He was too blinded by his love.

  André gave a long sigh. Maybe he should keep quiet and leave well enough alone.

  * * *

  Rebekka stood up as André entered the large reception area outside his office. As usual, he was dressed like a successful businessman, complete with a dark double-breasted suit and tie. She considered the tie more closely. Not all successful businessmen wore ties these days, a habit she was sure André would never give up. Marc might, but not André. “Hi,” she said more brightly than she felt.

  “Have you been waiting long?”

  “No, just a little while.”

  He smiled. “Sorry. I had a last-minute visitor.”

  “I saw Desirée.”

  His eyebrows rose. “She say anything?”

  “She didn’t even see me. But whatever you said to her must have made my sweet little sister-in-law furious. What’s wrong? Wasn’t Raoul there to do her bidding right when she wanted him?”

  “Uh . . .” André looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  Rebekka felt her face flush. “Oh darn, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say anything like that about her. I don’t know why, but try as I might to like her, she rubs me the wrong way. Please don’t think too badly of me for judging her—although I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I should at least like her for Raoul’s sake, shouldn’t I? I used to think she was a nice girl before I actually talked to her. Oh no, there I go again.” She glanced
toward the exit. “Can we go now before I say anything worse?”

  André chuckled and felt inside his jacket for the dark sunglasses he had taken to wearing outside during the day. “For what it’s worth, I agree with your assessment of Desirée. I just hope she doesn’t cause your brother too much pain.”

  She checked to see if his expression was as hard as his voice. It was, and the atypical behavior made her stare. “What really happened in there, André? Anything I should know?”

  He put on the sunglasses and shook his head. “No. You already have too much to worry about.”

  They were silent as they walked across the cobblestone sidewalk to the curb. Rebekka had been about to cross the street when a taxicab pulled from the side of the road.

  “Watch out, there’s a car.” Andre tugged her back.

  She waited until it passed before asking, “Well?”

  “I mean it, Rebekka,” he said as they crossed. “I definitely don’t want to spoil this day further by talking about Desirée.”

  She knew she would get nothing more from him. “All right, then, let’s talk about something more pleasant.” Of course, what she wanted was to hear what Marc had said to André about her idea of getting married in the hospital. She had mentioned it many times to Marc over the past few days, but he had been almost downright belligerent in avoiding the conversation. She felt ready to hit him over the head with a rubber hammer and would if he wasn’t so weak.

  Because they had a whole lunch to get through, Rebekka decided to wait until near the end to bring up the issue. Her stomach was growling fiercely—she had forgotten breakfast—and she didn’t want to start crying before she filled the emptiness with something. Besides, there was much to be said for not knowing. That way she could still hope that André had made her stubborn fiancé see the light.

  The restaurant André had chosen was nearly full with the lunch crowd, but they were immediately ushered to a table in the back room. In this area, the tables were partially sectioned off with portable linen screens. She chose the chair across from André and allowed the waiter to seat her. “Did you call ahead?” she asked when they were alone.

  He smiled. “No, but since it’s so close to the office, I come here a lot—usually with clients. Business lunches. They like me. I think they save a few tables back here for preferred customers.”

  She surveyed the tasteful wallpaper and paintings with interest. “Marc and I’ve eaten here before but usually out on the sidewalk. I’ve never even been inside.”

  His smile became wistful. “Marc likes the fresh air. I do too, but sometimes the privacy is preferable when you’re discussing business.” He gave a short laugh, and his eyes, freed now from the dark sunglasses, held a private memory. “Or for private assignations. You know, sometimes Claire and I would come here. She’d have one of the waiters call over to the office saying that Madame so-and-so was at the restaurant waiting for me to buy her lunch and to discuss business. She’d use a different name every time and speak with an accent. She also would wear these ridiculous cat-eye glasses we bought on our honeymoon and smile mysteriously. She never fooled anyone, of course; they all knew she was my wife, but it was a lot of fun. I think they enjoyed it as much as we did.”

  The melancholy in his voice was almost palpable, and Rebekka had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come here.” She put her hand on his briefly. “We could leave right now. They won’t mind.”

  “I need to stay. Claire has gone to a better place, but I’m not going there anytime soon. I have to adjust.” His eyes asked her to understand, and maybe she could, just a little.

  The maître d’ arrived with their regular waiter, and before Rebekka and André could order he placed a gentle hand on André’s shoulder. “First let me say that I am so sorry for your loss,” he said with sincerity. “We will all miss your wife.”

  “Thank you,” André said. “That means a great deal to me.”

  The maître d’ bowed slightly and turned to Rebekka. “And you, Mademoiselle, perhaps will be the one to bring the smile back to his face, no?”

  Rebekka smiled, deliberately misunderstanding. “Of course. All of his family and friends will do their best.”

  “Very well.” He bowed again. “This young man here will take good care of you. I must get back to my post.”

  The situation could have been awkward, but they didn’t let it become so. André quickly ordered and Rebekka did the same, though once the waiter left she couldn’t remember what she had requested.

  They shared an enjoyable meal—Rebekka was relieved that she’d asked for a salad of mustard greens and barbecued chicken chunks, with dressing on the side—and she hardly noticed when the restaurant cleared out as the business world returned to work.

  “So, I guess you’re going to make me bring it up, aren’t you?” she said finally.

  André sighed. “It’s just not good news. I’m sorry, Rebekka, but Marc wants to make sure he’s going to recover before he lets you commit your life.”

  Her voice rose slightly. “I’m already committed.”

  “I know that and he knows that,” André replied calmly, “but if he takes a turn for the worse, he doesn’t want you to be tied to him. He wants you to find someone else and be happy.”

  Helpless anger boiled up in her heart. “And you agreed with him? Why?”

  André rubbed his hand through his hair, much as she had so often seen Marc do. The watch on his arm slid with the motion as though it were loose. “I admire him for it,” he admitted reluctantly, staring into her eyes. “Quite honestly, I don’t think I could refuse you if I were in his place.”

  She was so angry that her words came out in a splutter. “Why . . . you . . . I think . . . so mad . . . kill you if . . .” She groaned in frustration and gave up.

  André regarded her with compassion. “Rebekka, think about it logically. I know you love Marc, but you’re only twenty-five. You have your whole life before you. If something were to happen to Marc, you’d eventually find someone else and be happy.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to Marc,” she snarled.

  “Then why are we having this conversation!”

  “Because I—” Rebekka’s eyes filled with tears.

  “He just wants you to be happy. That’s all. You can hardly fault him for that. He loves you, Rebekka, but he won’t marry you unless he knows he’s going to be around to see that you’re happy. He knows how you feel about him now, but what if he died and you did find someone else? Over the years you would grow and change with that person and you might love him more than you loved Marc. I know you can’t see that now, but couples do grow together and love does deepen. If that were to happen, he feels he’d be an obstacle to your happiness.”

  Rebekka’s chin lifted in defiance. “Is that what Claire is to you now that she’s dead? An obstacle?” Even as she spoke Rebekka couldn’t believe she was voicing such a malicious thought.

  “Fair enough.” The compassion still reflected in his eyes, but his voice was tight and controlled. “As a question, I mean. But my relationship with Claire is not the same as yours with Marc. We’ve been married for seven years, and we have two daughters. I know you’ve loved Marc for a long time now, but that’s not the same as being married.”

  Rebekka knew it wasn’t the same—and she was desperately trying to remedy that. But no one else seemed to understand. “I envy you,” she said through gritted teeth. “Oh, how I envy you.”

  André inclined his head in acceptance. From across the table, he reached over and took her hand. “He’s still alive, Rebekka, remember that. Marc still has an excellent chance. Louis-Géralde will soon be home and you’ll see.”

  His words turned her thoughts in another direction. “Have you heard from them? Did they find out why Louis-Géralde didn’t call in?”

  He released her and drew away, though the comforting warmth of his touch remained. “No, but we could call now. He felt for the cell p
hone she knew he carried in his jacket pocket. In a few seconds he was talking to Ariana.

  “Well, have you heard? Good. What did—” He broke off and listened for a long time, a disbelieving expression stealing over his features. Rebekka could faintly hear the rise and fall of Ariana’s voice, but could make out nothing of the meaning. She stifled the urge to rip the phone from André’s grasp.

  When at last he ended the connection, he was visibly shaken. Rebekka’s voice abruptly failed her, and she couldn’t form the words to her questions.

  “It’s Louis-Géralde,” André said heavily. “The zone leaders apparently arrived and found him. Don’t worry. He’s okay.” He added this hurriedly, obviously reading the fear in her eyes, “But he won’t be coming home as soon as we hoped. He and his companion are in jail.”

  “Jail?” It was all too preposterous to believe.

  “Yes. Don’t know what the charges are. Seems no one does. Maybe they haven’t even been charged yet.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Apparently they’ve offended some high official in the small village where they’re teaching. So things are stalled.”

  “When can they get him out?”

  André shrugged. “That’s just it. The president doesn’t know. He’s getting the French Embassy involved, but it still may take a while. Possibly weeks.”

  “Weeks!” Rebekka was horrified. “That’ll be too late. Marc’s getting weaker every day. You see it, don’t you? Oh, André!” She started to cry, grateful now for the privacy screens and the few customers.

  He slid into the chair to her right and put his arm around her. “It’s going to be okay. Please don’t cry. We’ll find a way to help Marc. My father already told the president that we’re going to do everything possible from this side. We’re an influential family, the lot of us. We’ll call in favors if we have to.” He gingerly wiped the tears from her face with a crumpled napkin. She leaned into him, grateful for his presence.