Love on the Edge of Time

by Julie A. Richman

  I’ve died here before.

  Chapter 4

  Kylie looked at her phone shaking her head and smiling. Not only had Jesse Winslow programmed his number into her phone, he had taken a selfie, lopsided smile and all. She had no idea it was in there.

  It had been well over a month since their conversation in Starbucks and Kylie had secretly been hoping that she’d hear the tapping on the window after each of her sessions with Claire. But it didn’t happen and after the first few weeks she was convinced it never would again.

  That day in Starbucks had been so emotionally charged, she thought, and although they’d only just met, and he was who he was, Jesse Freaking Winslow, she really felt something special had gone down, an affinity only the two of them could ever share.

  She replayed that morning in her mind, scarcely believing it was true and allowed her mind to wander. Could she be his friend? His confidante? The person with whom he shared secrets and demons? He would understand what she was going through and she would understand him in a way that no one else would. Well maybe Claire, but she was a doctor, and not the one visiting these other worlds they’d lived.

  The initial thought that she might see him the following week after Starbucks motivated a purge in her refrigerator and freezer, a Whole Foods run resulting in a shopping cart filled with brightly colored fresh foods, and a trip to the dreaded health club where she purchased a dozen-session package with a personal trainer. Ding. Check that one off the list, Claire. I hired a personal trainer.

  But with each week, that glimmer of sharing this other world, this strange and parallel universe with Jesse grew dimmer, receding to a pinpoint on a distant horizon. She’d blown off her training session the week before, her motivation waning. A new wave of self-loathing encroached. Were you really trying to get healthy for some guy who doesn’t even remember you? What you won’t do for yourself, you were doing for him? Pathetic, Kylie!

  And now here she was back at the gym, just a week and a text conversation later, with newly found incentive to work out, to want to look good.

  Standing there with a smile on his handsome face, arms crossed over his muscular chest, “Okay, Gorgeous,” he greeted her. “I’m going to work your ass double-time for missing your last session. I don’t like to be stood up.”

  “I’m betting not a lot of female clients stand you up,” she mumbled, as he led her to the mats to stretch out.

  Tall, blonde and handsome. Zac had a smile that could melt hearts, yet Kylie found his faraway blue eyes to be his most interesting feature. “You were my first and a man never forgets his first.”

  “I’ll bet not,” Kylie laughed. “Was your first good for you?” The sear in her calf made her choke slightly on her words, but it was clear she had changed the meaning to talk about his personal life.

  “My first? My first was, umm … inappropriate, to say the least.” He continued to position her to get optimum stretch on her muscles. “Have you ever done Pilates?”

  “I used to.”

  “Did you like it?” He pressed down on her shoulder, nearly flattening her to the floor.

  “Yes,” she squeaked out.

  “I think we should add that into what you are doing. I think it’ll really center you. Get your head back into taking care of you, for you.”

  Shit, what is he? Psychic?

  “Not yoga?” Kylie was surprised he wasn’t pushing yoga.

  “Let Pilates help get you the flexibility back so that if you want to move into yoga you’re positioned for success. Both are great for a holistic approach to health. Okay, now let’s go get your heart rate up.”

  An hour later, Kylie was drenched, her muscles spent and aching.

  “I told you I’d make you pay,” Zac smiled his sexy smile. “Drink a lot of water today, take a hot bath tonight.” With hands on both shoulders, he looked her straight in the eyes, “We’re going to get you back to loving you.”

  “What makes you think I don’t love myself?” Kylie searched his distant blue eyes.

  “Just a hunch.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and released her. Turning back as he was walking away, Zac pointed a finger at Kylie, “Don’t stand me up again.”

  “I won’t.” She smiled back at him. He’s right, I need to love myself. That removed look in his eyes made her wonder if what he recognized in her was something he knew all too well because he had seen it so often in the mirror. We all hide demons, she thought. Some we know and others are hidden deep in the recesses of our brains.

  ••••••

  “Bomp bomp-bomp-bomp-bomp. Bomp.” Jesse scatted along, using his index and middle fingers to keep beat on the edge of his tablet’s keyboard. Stopping to hit a few notes on the onscreen keyboard, he made the notation in his leather-bound journal, a journal he had found hidden in a secret compartment of his mother’s prized, eighteenth-century tiger maple secretary desk. The old leather wrapper was casted with a chariot and cherub design attached to leather string, making Jesse always think its origins had been Italy. The only thing that had been inside was an old, worn deck of playing cards with a red-plaid back and surprisingly colorful and beautifully detailed face cards. He assumed the cards were possibly a few hundred years old and the journal wrapper potentially significantly older than that. Adding bound pages to the journal, and replacing them as necessary, Jesse filled the ancient diary with two things: hit song after hit song and the antique card deck.

  “Stop that.” Claudine pulled a pillow over her head. “You know I have a night shoot.”

  Tomorrow Jesse would fly home and he wondered why Claudine had even wanted him to join her in Paris. Shutting down his tablet, “Okay, I’ll get out of here for a bit and let you sleep.” Pulling the pillow off her head, he smiled down at the exquisite beauty. “Want to go for a light bite before your shoot?”

  “Are you high?” she snarled.

  The accusation ripped deep. The last month and a half had been hell, but he’d fought like a motherfucker to get through it, to take on the responsibility of toughing it out on his own to get clean and sober, without the coddling support of a spa-like, Malibu-based facility. Jesse also knew he couldn’t blame her for throwing out the snarky comment, she had lived through his over-the-top addictive behavior for nearly four years, as he watched her voluntarily starve herself to climb the modeling ranks.

  “You know I don’t eat before shoots,” she continued and then pulled the pillow back down.

  He did know that, but he wasn’t thinking. He was thinking it would be the last time they’d have to spend together before he headed back to the States and they were separated for another few weeks while she remained, shooting at multiple locales throughout Europe.

  Packing his tablet, journal and headphones into a fraying messenger bag, he silently slipped from the room, headed for the Paris streets to find an out-of-the-way café where he could get lost in his latest composition. Camouflaged in his uniform of a leather jacket, baseball cap, mirrored aviators and a loosely wrapped scarf, Jesse headed down to the Seine, walking east on the river bank and enjoying the cold air stinging his cheeks. With a gray sky looming and a stiff wind prevailing, the pedestrian walkway had a fraction of its usual crowd. The openness was a stark contrast to the hotel room’s claustrophobic presence.

  At Rue du Louvre, he headed north back onto the streets, suddenly knowing exactly where he was going. For as deserted as the Seine was of pedestrians, the Rue Montorgueil’s foot traffic was still robust with Parisians braving the cold to people watch at the cafés over steaming, bowl-like cups of cappuccino and latté.

  Without knowing for sure, he somehow knew it was up ahead on his left as he strolled the narrow cobblestone street, picking up on the energy of the locals and propelling him onward toward the blue and gold awning. And there it was. Patisserie Stohrer, the oldest bakery in Paris. Maison foundee 1730 was painted on the building’s stone façade. 1730, Jesse marveled.

  Approaching the window, it was impossible to contain
his smile as his eyes roved the neatly lined rows of beautiful pastries. Fruit tartes, baba au rhum, a colorful display of macarons, napoleons, cream puffs, and éclairs. He could feel his frozen cheeks broaden into an even bigger smile. He had to go in and get one for her.

  Once inside the warmth of the small shop, he was overwhelmed by the sweet aroma of choux pastry, dark chocolate and sugar.

  “Deux éclair, s’il vous plait.”

  Exiting the shop with a small, smartly wrapped box and an accomplished feeling, he hoped they would stay fresh long enough for her to enjoy them. What would her face look like when she saw this little surprise, he wondered? It really had been quite some time since that day he’d ambushed her in Starbucks. And then to go from such an intensely personal first encounter to dead silence must have been confusing to her. Bet she thought douche rock star. And although she wasn’t wrong, I wasn’t not back in touch because I was being a douche. I was de-douching. In a few days, he’d get to explain it to her. Come clean on the silence and his disappearing act. De-douching, he chuckled.

  Strolling into Café Marie Stuart he noticed the inside was fairly empty and headed for a small table in the corner where he faced the wall, his back to the street and the crowd eating and drinking on the sidewalk.

  “Café crème, s’il vous plait.” He didn’t remove his scarf and sunglasses until the waitress had delivered the coffee. Earbuds in, he dove back into the creation he had halted when Claudine had gotten annoyed with his scatting.

  Claudine was often annoyed with him and Jesse had the feeling they were probably pretty close to running their course. Beneath the surface of being a “super-couple” there wasn’t a lot of glue holding the fractured pieces together. They’d probably been together for as long as they had because their careers forced extended absences. On some level, Jesse knew if he was being totally honest that he actually feared what extended time together would bring, besides the end. That was inevitable. It was the ugliness in between that was going to be problematic. But then again, maybe being clean and around, as well as undergoing intensive therapy, he’d be able to be a better partner to her than he’d been in the past.

  Drug addicts and alcoholics were selfish and he knew it. He wondered why she had stayed. Love? Prestige? Laziness? Some combination of those things. Convenience? Press?

  Where are you shooting? he texted.

  Opéra de Paris Garnier, the answer arrived twenty minutes later.

  Looking up from composing, he glanced at his phone, pleased to see that she was within walking distance. He then returned his focus to the melody he needed to get out of his head.

  Another two hours had passed before he emerged onto the Rue Montorgueil, the frosty air and rough-hewn cobblestones immediately pulled him back to the now from the far away reaches of his consciousness, where he had sojourned during the creative process. Passing the cafés lining both sides of the street he wondered how close the mental state he would achieve during Dr. S’s regressions would be to where he went while composing. He concluded there might be a link to hitting that alternate-reality zone that was his creative treasure trove.

  Across the street, a small market had large white buckets of brightly colored tulips lining the sidewalk. There was something so European about the kaleidoscopic blooms in the dead of winter, Jesse thought. They didn’t have far to travel from Holland, did they now? Wandering across the street, Jesse walked up and down past the flowers until he finally settled on a pale purple, knowing how much Claudine loved anything lavender.

  With a large bouquet in hand, as he continued down the cobblestone and marble-tiled street, something different in the stonework caught the corner of his eye, and he noted lettering on a plaque near his foot. Stopping, he read the bronze plate inlaid into the sidewalk.

  Le 4 Janvier 1750

  Rue Montorgueil

  Entre La Rue Saint-Sauveur

  Et L’Ancienne Rue Beaurepaire

  Furent Arretés

  BRUNO LENOIR et JEAN DIOT

  Condamnés Pour Homosexualité

  Ils Furent Brulés En Place De Grève

  Le 6 Juillet 1750

  Ce Fut La Dernière Exécution

  Pour Homosexualité En France

  Shaking his head in surprise and disgust, the movement ignited a wave of dizziness, as if brought on by a lack of oxygenated air. Accompanying the vertigo-like sensation was a burning in his eyes, causing them to tear up and blurring his vision, momentarily disorienting the rocker. Jesse loosened his already untied scarf even more, and opened his jacket. Taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm down after the physical onslaught that assaulted his body, he didn’t need a perfect understanding of the French language to understand the plaque’s meaning–Bruno Lenoir and Jean Diot were executed right here in Paris, burned at the stake, just for being gay.

  ••••••

  Reaching the Opéra de Paris Garnier, they had a defined perimeter roped off, not permitting anyone in who wasn’t directly involved in the shoot. Approaching the guard, Jesse removed his baseball cap, shaking his spiky hair into messy perfection. The guard didn’t need to ask for ID.

  “Monsieur Winslow, comment-allez vous?” the elder man greeted.

  “Ça va, merci. Et vous?”

  “Trés bien, merci. Madamoiselle Claudine est en la caravane.” He pointed to a trailer on the right.

  Thanking him again, Jesse took off in the direction of Claudine’s trailer.

  Knocking, an unfamiliar voice told him to enter. Stepping up, he could see she was undergoing a hair and make-up change.

  Their eyes met in the mirror.

  “Surprise.” Jesse smiled at her and held up the tulips.

  She spoke without any actual movement in her face, a beautiful ventriloquist, “You’re here.” There was surprise in her tone. “Get those out of here,” her eyes had settled on the purple flowers in the mirror. “I don’t need anything to make me sneeze.”

  Jesse was laying them down on a table at the far end of the trailer, feeling overwhelmingly like the ventriloquist’s dummy, when he spied an ornate floral arrangement across the way. Sauntering over, he pulled the card, it had a single word ~Nick.

  He slowly turned back. She was watching him intently in the mirror, clearly waiting for his reaction. The stylist stood there, hairbrush and spray in hand, frozen mid-air.

  Meeting the reflection of her eyes, his lopsided grin appeared slowly and like the masterful showman he was, he let the silence of the moment gain power before he spoke. “I need to find out who Nick uses as a florist. Hypo-allergenic flowers. Now that was really thoughtful.”

  Sitting down on the couch, he pulled out his laptop and opened his Sibelius First program to get back to not only his composition, but also to a place he actually wanted to be.

  The stylist turned from the mirror to view him on the couch, shocked by Jesse’s lack of reaction. But Jesse had escaped the confines of his current physical reality and never saw the hairdresser’s surprised expression, or Claudine’s.

  Chapter 5

  “Where are you, Kylie?”

  “Je suis à Paris.” Her diction was perfect and authentic, no trace of a New Jersey accent in her now sweet, child-like voice.

  “Please speak in English, Kylie.”

  “I’m in Paris.” Her accent was distinctly French.

  “Are you in the same place in France as in your previous session?”

  “Non,” she shook her head. Even her monosyllabic response was heavily accented.

  “What year is it?” Claire probed.

  “It is the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and forty-nine.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “Geneviève.”

  “Geneviève what?” Claire wanted specifics. It would be hard to validate a Parisian citizen from 1749.

  “Geneviève Lenoir,” she said matter-of-factly, as if the doctor should know.

  “How old are you?”

  “Je suis douze ans.”

>   “In English, please,” Claire reminded her patient.

  “I am twelve.”

  “Who is currently sitting on the throne? Who is your king?”

  “King Louis Quinze.” There was not a moment’s hesitation in her response.

  Louis the Fifteenth. Claire immediately began to Google for information without so much as a momentary lapse in her rapid-fire questioning of the girl.

  “Do you go to school?”

  “Oui, à l’eglise Saint-Eustache,” she lapsed back into French.

  “In English, please,” Claire reminded her. 1749. According to Google, Louis XV would have been on the throne, validating the information. The hairs on the back of Claire’s next stood at attention.

  “Je me regrette,” she began. “I am sorry. I go to the church school at Saint-Eustache.”

  “What do you learn there?”

  “Sewing. Embroidery,” she trailed off.

  “Have you been taught to read?”

  “No. I am a girl and a commoner.”

  “Do you also work?”

  “Yes, I am a chambermaid for Mme. Michaud.”

  “Does she treat you well?” Claire noticed that Kylie/Geneviève was twirling her hair. It was not a habit she’d ever noted Kylie to do before. She made a note of the physical manifestation on her iPad.

  “Oui.” Again, she lapsed into French, but immediately caught herself. “I think she is nice to me because she wants to find out more about my older brother. I see the way she looks at him. She makes wolf eyes at him.”

  “How old is your brother?”

  “He is twenty-one.”

  “Is he married?”

  She laughed. More of a giggle than a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. “Non, mon frère est un bon vivant.” She caught herself and self-corrected to English, without prompting. “My brother likes to have a very good time. I tell him to watch out or a husband will come after him with a hatchet.”