Like Claire’s.
Of course, a million people in the world had turquoise eyes.
“That’s my mom,” Thierry said, pointing to a thin, unhappy-looking woman with brown hair. “And that’s me. There’s more of me and my mom, but the rest of the people I don’t know. Must have been people he met.” The sadness in his voice was the longing of a son to know his father.
At last, buried in the middle of the thin album, André found what he was looking for: a picture of Claire as a small girl, holding onto her mother’s hand. Unlike the other photos in the album, it was not inside the protective plastic, but looked as though it had been simply shoved into the book to take care of later. He flipped it over and read the careful manuscript writing: I miss you, Basil. Claire asks about you all the time. Please come home.
André’s heart ached at the pain Claire’s mother had endured. How had Basil felt about the words his mother had written? Was this why he had eventually returned to Strasbourg—only to find his family gone?
“It’s Claire,” he said through the sudden lump in his throat. He looked at the young boy, who stared at him with a strange yearning in his eyes. “I know it’s going to take some getting used to, Thierry, but it appears I’m your uncle. I can’t wait to talk to your dad.”
Thierry’s tentative smile faded instantly. “He’s not coming back.”
André studied him. “I thought you said . . . Why’s that?” He tried to make his voice light, but the weight of the world was in Thierry’s eyes, and he had to know the reason Basil would desert his son.
“I can’t tell you, but he’s not coming back. And I don’t care!” Thierry grabbed the photo album from André and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and broke apart, spilling several photographs onto the floor. “I don’t need him or anybody.”
“But we need you.” André answered. “Listen, Thierry, we’re family. I don’t know what that means to you, but it means everything to me. If Claire were alive, she’d thank God she found you. I’ll do the same. If you’re in some trouble, I want to help. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. Anything. And the same goes for any member of my family.”
Thierry gaped in amazement, apparently not knowing quite what to make of him. He looked at the missionaries and they nodded encouragingly. Lastly, his gaze drifted to Philippe.
“He means what he says,” Philippe said. “My wife is only a member of the Perrault clan by way of her cousin’s marriage to André’s sister Marie-Thérèse, but they’ve always been there for her.” He smiled warmly.
Thierry searched their eyes another time before André added. “If Basil’s in trouble, we need to know. You can trust us. I promise you that.”
Elder Ferguson nodded. “You can trust Brother Perrault. Can’t you feel that?”
Thierry relaxed, as all the fight went out of him. He stared at the ground. “We were in the alley that night,” he whispered.
For a moment André didn’t understand. He glanced at Philippe, who spoke. “Your father was the one who hit me, is that right? That’s why he left town. He was afraid of the police.”
Thierry nodded once, quickly, but didn’t look up. “We needed money. He was going to hit you again, but I recognized you from Louis-Géralde’s farewell. I knew you were married to Sister Massoni, and I couldn’t let him do it. I thought he would kill you. He’s done it before. Not when I saw; he told me about it. When I didn’t let him hit you again, he pushed me down and ran. I haven’t seen him since. I think he was afraid I’d tell, but I wouldn’t have. I just didn’t want him to kill anyone. I took your money, though. I needed to pay the rent.” Thierry let his gaze slowly rise. He looked not at Philippe, but at André. “I’m sorry. Are you going to call the cops?”
André brought his hand to Thierry’s shoulder. “No, I’m not, though Philippe might want to talk to them about your father. I don’t think you have anything to feel guilty about—except for taking Monsieur Massoni’s money, and that we can make up later. One thing I do know is that our meeting is no coincidence, Thierry. Claire prayed every day for her brother and any family he might have. I bet those prayers are what led the missionaries to you, and you to us.” While still addressing Thierry, he turned his gaze to Philippe. “What happened in the alley is that you possibly saved Monsieur Massoni’s life. I’m proud of you.”
Thierry’s eyes glistened, and he smiled the smile that was so like Claire’s. In that instant, André saw not the brash, independent teen, but a small boy who desperately needed someone to love him, the son André never had.
André glanced at his watch. “I really have to pick up my girls,” he announced. He pretended not to see the disappointment on Thierry’s face. “You want to come with me, Thierry? We have a lot to discuss. I’m sure the girls will be so excited to know they have a new cousin. What do you say? We could grab a bite to eat afterwards.”
“I guess so,” Thierry said with false reluctance. “I do have some homework, though.”
“Bring it along. Why don’t you bring a change of clothes too, just in case? We might not have the time to come back tonight. If you don’t mind, you could crash out at my house. My office there has a sofa bed.” André was determined that Thierry would never sleep in this apartment alone again.
“Okay—I guess. I don’t have plans.” Thierry moved toward the bed and the clothes lying on top.
Philippe drew André aside. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“He’s family,” André replied in a quiet voice. “I don’t pretend it’s going to be easy, but he belongs with us.” He laughed at Philippe’s doubtful face. “Look, I won’t be leaving my daughters alone with him any time soon, or leaving my credit cards lying around, but there’s nothing in my apartment that can’t be replaced. He’s what’s important now. Claire would want it this way. Besides, he’s a good kid, can’t you see that? He saved your hide, didn’t he?” He slapped Philippe on the back. “I owe you one.”
Thierry had finished his hasty preparations and was talking quietly with the missionaries when André approached. “You ready?” André asked. Thierry nodded and followed him to the door.
“Yeah.”
André waited while Thierry locked the door and followed him down the stairs. Outside, André put his hand on the boy’s back and gestured toward his car. “See you around, Philippe, Elders.”
“Isn’t he going with you?” Elder Pike asked, glancing at Philippe.
“No.” André flashed a smile at Philippe. “He came with me, but he can find his own way home. This conversation is between Thierry and myself.” He almost laughed at Thierry’s relieved expression.
“Well, then I guess I’ll phone a taxi,” Philippe said, pulling out his cell. “Elders, would you accompany me? There’s a guy I want you to meet—if you have time, that is. He cuts hair.”
As he drove off, André wondered why Philippe was setting people up with the missionaries. He really has changed, he thought.
He chatted easily with Thierry on the way to the girls’ school, keeping the conversation light. Together they walked in to collect Ana and Marée.
“So what do you think of engineering or architecture?” André asked as they waited for the girls to gather their things.
“Don’t know much about it,” the boy answered. “But I’m a fast learner. I’m best at languages, though.”
André smiled at Thierry, who was now being inundated with questions from his daughters. How grateful he was for their cheerful faces. So much of his precious Claire was in them.
And how grateful he was for Thierry. One way or the other, André would make them all happy.
I’ll be happy, too, he promised himself. With the Lord’s help.
“Okay now,” he said brightly. “Ana, Marée, I know you’re dying of curiosity, but before you kill our new friend here with talk, Thierry and I are hungry. What we need is an early dinner. Where do you want to go eat? I’ll explain
everything on the way.”
He didn’t tell the girls about Brandon. Not yet. Before doing so, he would check in at the hospital. He hoped by then Brandon’s condition would have changed for the better.
And if it hadn’t?
Then we’ll go wait with the others, and I’ll tell them about Thierry. They’ll be glad for some good news. The anticipation of that moment left him feeling happy. He had a son . . . of sorts.
Thank you, Father, he prayed. Whether Thierry realized it or not, he was the answer to many prayers, and André was determined to make his life a good one. Not only for Thierry or for the girls, but also for the memory of Claire.
Chapter Thirty-Four
When Rebekka arrived at Marc’s apartment, there was no answer. She used her key to let herself in, the gnawing fear of losing him growing every minute. She wished she could turn back the clock to Saturday and change her reaction that evening. If only she could have understood her true feelings then.
She quickly glanced through the rooms. The scattered papers in his office showed signs of its recent use, but the bed was made and there were no dirty dishes. Where had he gone?
She tried to think like Marc, but was uncertain if her reasoning was accurate. Last month she would have felt in her heart where to find him, but now she wondered if she had lost that intuition.
Ridiculous, she told herself. I still know him. And I love him.
The thought steadied her. “When I didn’t call him, he would have gone to my house,” she said aloud. “But I wasn’t home. He can’t go to the office, and all his family is at the hospital, so where else would he go?”
She snapped her fingers suddenly and headed for the underground garage. After a moment’s hesitation she left the elevator on the main floor and went outside, nearly jogging the block to the metro station. Where she was going it would be a lot easier to not worry about her car.
She had to pay a ticket because her pass had expired when she had been in America, and she hadn’t needed to renew it since most of her traveling had been to and from the transplant hospital, for which she had used her car. Impatiently, she counted the stops.
Please be there, Marc, she said in her head. Please be there.
When she arrived at her station, she was the first one out the doors and raced down the marble steps two at a time. She blinked briefly in the weak winter sunlight and buttoned her long leather jacket against the chill in the air. With a flood of other people, she crossed the street at the crosswalk but hurried on alone to the Seine River. A single artist painted on the parapet overlooking the river, his hands encased in gloves that left his fingertips bare. His nose and cheeks were reddened with wind, as though he’d been there for hours. Next to him in a midsize wooden crate was a stack of unframed paintings lying on their sides, separated carefully from one another by white tissue paper. He looked hopefully at Rebekka as she passed, but she was in too much of a hurry to stop. Smile fading, he turned back to his work.
Rebekka hurried down a flight of cobblestone steps to get closer to the river. This was the same place she and Marc had come that day so long ago when he had collapsed. He had to be here. Her eyes anxiously scanned the area, her thumb toying with the engagement ring on her finger. How often they had come here over the years. Surely he would remember!
The music she had composed for Marc, to be played for him on their wedding day, began in her mind, slowly building to a loud crescendo. Vivid, turbulent, warm, tender, and passionate—like her feelings for him. The warnings it had once haunted her with were gone.
Marc wasn’t in sight.
A couple of teenagers lounged on one of the stone benches, and an old man with a cane walked farther down the cobbled path next to the river.
How could he not be here? Rebekka’s heart ached. Would he listen to her explanation? Would he believe that she loved him, not with a portion of her heart as she did André, but with her entire soul?
There was a movement behind a tree growing from one of the few squares of dirt placed periodically in the cobblestones. Rebekka’s heart lurched. Marc! She would recognize him anywhere.
He turned and saw her at that moment. He took a step, revealing the rest of his body that had been hidden by the trunk of the tree. Rebekka also took a step in his direction, marveling at the emotions in her breast. How much she loved him! Having almost lost him gave her new insight to the extent of that love.
Their eyes met. “Rebekka.” His mouth formed the word, but she was too far away to hear. He was wearing jeans and a polo under his long, black leather jacket, and had two sets of in-line skates slung over one shoulder.
Skates?
They closed the distance between them until they were only inches apart. Rebekka wanted to throw herself into his arms, and searched his face for a similar desire. Had she destroyed all her dreams?
His eyes were unreadable and the fear of losing him grew to a stabbing pain in her breast. “Marc,” she whispered.
He fingered one of the metal blades. “I went to your house,” he said softly. “I thought that . . . I wanted to remind you.” His hands shot out and grabbed hers. “Rebekka. I know there’s someone else, but you are my life and I’m going to fight for you. I believe we’re meant to be together!”
The silliness of him going to her apartment with in-line skates when he couldn’t possibly use them during his recovery brought a lump of tenderness to her throat. His expression turned to one of torture as she struggled to speak. “I know,” she managed finally, simply.
With a finger, he unhooked the skates from his shoulder and sent them crashing to the stones at their feet. He reached for her, and she stepped into his arms.
“You’ve been crying.” His thumb smoothed a tear on her cheek.
“I was afraid of losing you.”
He held her tightly and she could feel his body tremble. “When I was here just now, I kept thinking the same thing. I was scared that I had lost you.”
Rebekka smoothed his brow and kissed his cheek, vowing never to hurt him again. “I’ve waited nineteen years to become your wife, and I’m not giving up now. I love you, and I’m sorry for Saturday night.”
“I was wrong.” He stared earnestly into her eyes. “I should have married you right there in the hospital. If I had to do it over again, I would. Oh, Rebekka, I know it’s selfish, but I can’t stand the thought of eternity without you.”
No, you were right, she wanted to say. If you had died I might have married André. I might have grown to love him.
Love him more than Marc?
It really didn’t matter anymore, though she was honest enough with herself to admit that if Marc had married her and then died, she might have eventually come to resent him later. From this moment, she vowed to never look back. Instead, her mind raced with plans for the future.
“Kiss me,” she murmured, lifting her lips to his. “Just kiss me.” He did and in his arms, nothing else mattered.
After a long time, they wandered from the river. Rebekka spotted the young artist, still painting in the cold, and pulled Marc to a stop to peruse his work. “He’s really quite good,” Marc said.
Rebekka smiled at the artist. “Will you do one of us?”
A flush covered the already cold-reddened face. Without speaking the artist turned his easel toward them, and Rebekka saw that he had already begun a rough rendition of a couple embracing by the river.
“That’s us!” Rebekka exclaimed with wonder, marveling at how the artist had captured their joy.
“It’ll take me a few days to finish,” the man said, smiling at her contentment. “I’ll need half the money now and half when I deliver the painting. It would work best if I could take a few pictures of you up close—to work from in my studio. So that the faces are right.” He held up a camera. Rebekka suspected that he had already taken their picture while they had been embracing below, but she was glad. Now she would always have something to remind her of this moment.
“Shoot away,” Marc said
, encircling Rebekka with his strong arms. He kissed her again.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Night fell and Marie-Thérèse was alone in the room with Brandon. The extended family had departed and Mathieu was with Larissa somewhere. She rose slowly to use the bathroom, careful not to turn on the overhead lights. Once there, she fell to her knees near the tub and began to pray again. But though she prayed long and fervently, it was without hope, because she knew Brandon’s fate was already decided. Inside, she felt her testimony dying. I pray and pray, she thought, and they still die. Mother, Father, Pauline. And now Brandon.
As she came from the bathroom she felt someone in Brandon’s room, and heard the person talking in a low voice. Marie-Thérèse’s steps faltered as she recognized Larissa.
“I wish it was me,” she was saying, her voice a brutal kind of sad. “You should see Mom. She’s a basket case. I thought she was going to have a heart attack on the spot when they told her. If it was me, she wouldn’t be so bad. So don’t die. You gotta come back . . . for her. I’m so sorry I told you last week that they didn’t want you. I know it’s not true. It’s me they wish they’d never had.” Larissa shuddered deeply and continued through intermittent sobs. “I love you so much, Brandon. I know why Mom loves you the way she does. You deserve it. I wish I did.” She bent over Brandon’s body, weeping heartbrokenly.
Marie-Thérèse came forward slowly, her own agony dimming in the realization of her daughter’s pain. She reached the bed and drew Larissa into her arms. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, turning her daughter to face her. “I’ve never loved Brandon more than you. Never. Please believe that, even if you believe nothing else I say. If it were you”—Marie-Thérèse gulped—“on that bed right now, I would be in every bit as much pain. The only difference is that Brandon would help me face it, and I would be stronger for the help.” She paused. “Can you help me, Larissa? I need you so much.”
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