The Ariana Trilogy
Page 1
© 2008 Nunes Entertainment, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Janice Kapp Perry, “A Child’s Prayer,” Children’s Songbook (Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1989), 12. Used by permission.
Ariana: The Making of a Queen first published November 1996
Ariana: A Gift Most Precious first published August 1997
Ariana: A New Beginning first published January 1998
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nunes, Rachel Ann, 1966- Ariana : the trilogy / Rachel Ann Nunes. p. cm. ISBN 978-1-59038-907-2 (pbk.) 1. Mormon women—Fiction. 2. Mormons—Fiction. 3. Religious fiction, American. I. Title. PS3564.U468A6 2008 813'.54—dc22 2008006615
Printed in the United States of America
Worzalla Publishing Co., Stevens Point, WI
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my mother, who taught me to read when I was four, instilling in my heart a lifetime passion for words.
To my father, who tried to teach me proper grammar and who gave me a love of foreign places and people.
To my husband, TJ, my best friend and biggest fan.
Thank you for giving me Jewels (my computer) and for never giving up faith in my abilities.
To Jordan, Cassi, Cátia, Kaiden, Jared, and Liana, my wonderful children. Thanks for your patience and support.
And special thanks to Jean Hanvey, for sharing touching experiences with her premature son, Wyatt.
Table of Contents
Ariana The Making of a Queen
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Ariana A Gift Most Precious
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Ariana A New Beginning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Ariana The Making of a Queen
Chapter One
Warm rain fell softly in the dark Parisian night, yet strongly enough to mingle with the tears that fell down my face, masking them completely as I stood against the balcony railing in the cheap hotel. Not that there was anyone around to see that I was crying, or to care about my pain. It should have been one of the happiest days in any woman’s life—full of wonder, discovery, and love. But on this night, my first since becoming a wife earlier that day, I was alone and crying.
My new husband, Jacques, was out drinking with his friends, celebrating our marriage in the way he knew best, and shattering my dreams—dreams that had already been thin enough to begin with. Still, I guessed I was lucky he had gone through with the wedding in the first place. One thing I did know was that I loved him with a first love’s passion, even though he had left me alone on this of all nights.
Noise blared from the next-door window—another American song idolized for its irreverence and suggestiveness, a typical theme of the nineties. Ordinarily, I would appreciate the music; but tonight it only intensified my loneliness.
The rain came down faster now, and I could see figures scurrying to the subway where it was dry. The hole seemed to swallow the people as they ran down its stairs, their heads bowed and bodies huddled against the rain. It was summer; the tourist season was upon Paris, and the weekend crowds seemed undiminished even by the late hour and the rain. Along the road I could see the bars, lighted and beckoning. I wondered idly which of them held my new husband, and a fresh batch of not-so-quiet sobs erupted at the thought.
If only Antoine were alive! The thought came suddenly but not so unexpectedly. The rain would always remind me of Antoine and how he had been ripped from my life, my world changed forever. I would never forget how, up until nine months ago, Antoine had been my world. He had always taken care of me.
“Come on, let’s go do something!” Antoine would shout at me whenever I was depressed. “There’s no use in hanging around feeling sorry for ourselves!” Then he’d grin at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. I’d put my hand trustingly in his, willing to go anywhere with the brother I adored, knowing that with him my problems would disappear.
My brother had been loved by everybody who knew him. He had the sort of face even strangers felt attracted to and trusted. He always kept their trust and mine—except when he died and left me all alone. But I really couldn’t fault him for that; he would never have left me on purpose.
“Where are you children off to today?” Father beamed down on us that last day we spent together. He laid a proud hand on Antoine’s shoulder. “You will take care of Ariana, won’t you?”
Antoine, seeing my frustration at his words, replied, “She’s hardly a baby, Father. But I will look after her, and she after me, as we always have.” That made me feel better, since we were the same age—the only difference being that he had been born a boy and I a girl. Of course, with my father’s double standard, that alone was enough. Though we would soon be entering the twenty-first century, my old-fashioned father believed boys were somehow more competent in all areas of life than their helpless female counterparts.
“What time will you be home?” my mother asked.
“I don’t know,” Antoine said offhandedly. “Sometime before dark, I assume.” He flashed her his smile before she could object, melting her instantly as usual.
Oh, I didn’t mind that my parents loved Antoine so. I did, too. In my eyes, as in theirs, he could do no wrong. He always included me in everything he chose to do, giving me the freedom I would never have known otherwise. He never made me feel I was just something extra that had happened when my parents had tried to have the baby b
oy they had longed for, though that was the truth.
Together we spent many days roaming Paris where we lived, using the subway to take our explorations further, until I felt I knew Paris and the surrounding area better than I knew my own bedroom. Yes, I had many good memories of Antoine. I had especially loved walking along the Seine River, where numerous artists and others set up to sell their talents and various pieces of junk they called “souvenirs” to the many tourists. It was fun being near people who were so different from me, yet somehow the same. I adored watching and studying them, particularly when they weren’t aware of me.
“It’s getting late,” Antoine had said to me that last day in September, now nine months past. He glanced at his watch. We had been walking near the river at the end of our adventure-filled day of roaming the catacombs in several of the nearby cathedrals. “We just have time to get home before dinner. Mother will be expecting us.” I wanted to protest, but he was right. She would be expecting us, and Antoine was a good son to remember that. He was always good to everyone. Seeing my understanding, he smiled, making me glad I had not objected.
We took the subway home that night, and for some reason the train stopped between stations. The lights went off, and we were alone in the dark. Worry crept up inside of me; I had never felt comfortable in dark, closed-in spaces. “Don’t worry,” Antoine said, ever aware of my feelings in the way that close twins were. “They’ll come back on soon.”
As if to obey him, the lights flickered on. But still the train did not move. I tried to peer out into the dark tunnel but could see only my worried expression reflected in the glass.
“Look at this!” Antoine shouted. He had hold of two of the bars that were meant to steady standing passengers at rush hour, and he was hanging upside down on them like a monkey.
“Are you crazy, Antoine?” I exclaimed. We were alone in the car, but people from the next car could see him if they glanced though windows in the connecting doors.
“Come on!” he cried, doing a flip and swinging further down the bars.
“We’re not ten anymore, Antoine!” I protested, remembering the time when we had perfected our antics on similar bars at the playground. But that had been more than seven years ago—we were nearly adults now. In six months we would be eighteen.
“Oh, Ari!” Antoine tossed his dark head around to gaze at me, his deep brown eyes dancing. Then he uttered the prophetic words that would echo in my mind forever: “We’re only seventeen; we’re not dead and buried yet!” At that I had to join him, my fear of the stopped train vanishing completely. Of course, looking back, I know that to comfort me was the only reason he had hung on the bars that night. He had always taken care of me.
Pain ripped through my soul as it always did at this point in the memories, for the train incident had happened the night before he died.
Now I clutched tightly at the balcony railing until my hands turned white and began to ache. The light from the hotel room came through the tiny glass door, its feeble rays barely reaching me in the dark. Dressed in my thin, dark blue nightgown, I felt suddenly cold. But still I lingered at the railing where the rain could reach me, almost wishing it could wash me away—or at least wash away the feelings that tortured my heart.
“Oh, Antoine,” I whispered into the night. “If only you hadn’t left, then things would not be so mixed up.” But he was gone forever, and anything I said to him wouldn’t make any difference. Antoine existed no more, except in my memories.
I continued to stare out into the night, but I didn’t see the streets or the cobblestone sidewalks—only the frozen expression on my father’s face the day Antoine died. It had been raining all morning long, turning from a soft pitter-patter to an earnest downpour. Antoine had already left for his early class at the private school we attended. Unlike me, he never passed up a chance for the early classes. He rode the bus and trains, as we all did; it was the fastest way to get anywhere in crowded Paris, where parking spaces were few and far between.
My parents and I were finishing up our croissants and coffee at the table when the phone rang shrilly into the silence; there was always a lot of silence when Antoine was absent. My father stood and reached for the phone. “Hello?” he said in his decisive voice. “This is Géralde Merson.”
As the person on the other end of the phone continued, my father’s face grew stark white, contrasting sharply with his dark hair and moustache. “No! No! It can’t be true!” he exclaimed suddenly and painfully, but his voice sounded defeated. He listened further before asking shakily, “When did it happen?” And then, “What time should I come down? Okay. Thanks for calling.”
When he turned to us, he was no longer the man I thought I knew. “Antoine is dead,” he said. “A car hit him on his way to school.”
“Oh, no!” my mother gasped and began to cry. “What happened?”
“He’s dead, Josephine!” My father’s voice was harsh. The pain in his eyes was too terrible for me to bear. “What does it matter how?”
The reality that Antoine was never coming back hit me like the weight of an anchor, and my anguished words exploded into the air. “Oh, please, not Antoine! Why did it have to be Antoine?”
My parents turned slowly to face me, seeming almost surprised at my presence. I thought for a minute they would reach out to me, that we could turn to each other in our shared grief. But they didn’t. My father turned on his heel and went into his office, shutting the door firmly behind him. My mother stared after him for a long moment, the hurt evident on her face, and then she also turned and ran down the hall to her room, her loud sobs filling the sudden silence.
“Oh, Antoine,” I whispered. “We’re lost without you!”
I stood in the dining room alone, not knowing what to do. I lifted my eyes to the large mirror on the wall opposite me. There I could see my face, still tan from summer, with my short, dark hair and large brown eyes—each feature a feminine version of Antoine’s. No wonder my parents couldn’t bear to look at me!
For a very brief instant, I saw my brother’s face instead of mine in the mirror. I could almost hear him speak the words he’d said on the train the night before: “Oh, Ari! We’re only seventeen; we’re not dead and buried yet!” I gasped and ran to the mirror, but he was gone, and I was truly alone. My face was now white beneath my tan, but I didn’t cry. I bit my lip until the blood came, but I still didn’t cry. Not then.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my parents’ reactions that day were to develop into a more permanent reality. My father spent more time at work, and I often went days without catching so much as a glimpse of him. When I did see him, he was cold and withdrawn, the light gone from his eyes. Mother was worse, sinking into a shell of her own making. She talked to me but seemed to see right through me, her face a bitter mask of pain and loss. I spent less and less time at home, but my absence went unnoticed. I knew they would never love me as they had Antoine, that I could never replace him in their hearts. And I began to hate them for it.
The day of Antoine’s funeral, the rain finally stopped. The sun shone brightly down on the mourners, but its warmth did not reach our hearts. I stood dutifully by my parents during the short graveside service and while they lowered the coffin into the hole that seemed to ravage the earth. But I fled from the cemetery as they began to throw the dirt on the coffin. I couldn’t bear to see them do that to Antoine; it was too final. At that moment I knew my life was over; how could I possibly live without my other half?
I ended up at my favorite section of the Seine where we had spent so much time, Antoine and I. Breathless and sweating when I arrived, I lifted my face to gaze out over the water, hoping for a breeze and maybe some kind of comfort. There was neither—only boats, faceless people, and squawking seagulls.
I walked blindly and aimlessly for a while. Suddenly I stopped and stared, surprised to see a group of young men with short hair and suits, singing in the street. Several young women were among them, holding up a big sign proclaiming
“Families Are Forever!”
What a bunch of idiots! I thought. Nothing is forever. I had learned that lesson only too well.
Other young men and women with the singers were stopping people passing nearby and talking with them. One of the men—a tall boy, really—with a shock of bright red hair approached me with a pamphlet. His accent betrayed that he was a foreigner, probably from America by the sound. “Here,” he said, thrusting the little booklet into my hand. “Did you know that families can be together forever?” His voice was sincere, his blue eyes clear; I knew he believed what he was saying, but in my grief-induced haze, I didn’t care.
I stopped in my tracks and whirled on him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I sneered. “Has anyone you loved more than life itself ever died? Someone who was so much a part of you that you’d rather die than live without him?” The red-headed boy shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but I continued quickly, “Well, I know how it feels, and anything you can make up won’t change the fact that my brother is dead and gone from me forever!”
I crumpled the thin pamphlet in front of his face and threw it to the ground. Then I added cruelly, “Now get out of my way and leave me alone!” The young man stepped back, and I glanced up at him. I expected to find hurt and anger in those clear blue eyes, but all I saw was pity and, strangely, love. It made me even more furious that the only one who seemed to show me what I so desperately needed was a red-haired stranger from another country.