The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Paulette, we are much more than we seem. We are eternal creatures, and we have to see things with an eternal perspective. Nette’s not gone forever. Haven’t you heard any of what we’ve talked about each time I’ve visited you this week? The plan of our Father in Heaven allows families to be together forever, despite death. One day we will both see little Nette, clothed in all the robes of a queen in heaven.”

  “You really believe that?” Paulette asked hesitantly, afraid to hope. “Nette’s still alive somewhere, waiting for you?”

  “I do. And you can know for yourself that it’s true. God loves you every bit as much as He loves me!”

  “But I’ve done so much wrong since Nette died,” she said earnestly. The regret in her voice cut deep into my heart. “Things to earn money for drugs. I’ve about done it all.”

  Her words were exactly what I had been waiting for. We began to teach Paulette about repentance, my companion and I, slipping easily into our role as missionaries. Finally, Paulette was open to our teachings, and I knew that she was hearing them for the first time, though we’d already talked about them earlier in the week. It was as if her hearing my forgiveness and seeing my face without pain reached the place deep inside her that still wanted to try.

  After a long time we got up to leave, already late for our morning street meeting with the other missionaries in our zone, planned for the flea market nearby. Paulette agreed to go with us. We met Elisabeth at the door, her eyes red and tearful.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right, Sister Merson. Paulette, can you ever forgive me?”

  Paulette was genuinely puzzled. “For what?”

  “Never mind,” Elisabeth smiled, knowing instinctively that to tell her would only reopen her barely closing wounds. “But René and I were talking yesterday, and we want to know if you would like to stay with us until you’re completely back on your feet and maybe longer. Louise doesn’t have as much room as we do, and it’s not proper for you to stay in their house with Pierre feeling the way he does about you.” At her words Paulette reddened, and I laughed. I was not the only one, it seemed, who had noticed Pierre’s unusual devotion to Paulette. “Anyway, Louise and Pierre always need a hand at the store, so they’ll give you a job—they’ve asked already, haven’t they? I thought so. Well, what do you think?”

  We all knew Elisabeth was really asking if Paulette was going to stay and kick the drug habit that had imprisoned her for so long. If she was going to let us love her.

  Paulette was quiet for a long time and then she nodded, meeting Elisabeth’s eyes. “Yes. I want to stay with you, if you really mean it.”

  Elisabeth hugged her. “Oh, I do.”

  Even though Elisabeth had forgiven Paulette and everything was happy again, they both ended up going with us to the street meeting. Paulette had never seen one before and was curious. We even got them to sing with some of the missionaries and hold up signs while we contacted people in the streets. When I glanced at Paulette a short time later, I could see the happiness on her face and knew she was going to make it.

  * * *

  Two months later I was transferred, just a week after Paulette’s baptism and engagement to Pierre. Sister Osborne and I had only baptized two-thirds of Jean-Marc’s list, though we had contacted all of them. I left the list for her to finish. As I took it out to give her, I noticed my own list with the last number still blank. Should I fill in Paulette’s name? I asked myself. But something stopped me. Somehow I didn’t feel that last name would be so easy.

  Once I was settled in my new area, Elisabeth wrote to tell me she was expecting another baby. “I’m almost scared to love it when I remember what happened to my first child,” she wrote. “But knowing I will have my little boy again someday gives me the courage to love again. Indeed, I already love this baby with an intensity I didn’t believe I’d ever feel again. Thank you so much for everything. And one more thing: if the baby is a girl, I’m going to name her after you.”

  Paulette also wrote to me, though her letters were rare and very short. But she was drug-free, in love, and happy again—and that’s all that mattered.

  I served the last two months of my mission in Nantes. As the end of my service approached, I felt excited and scared all at once. Jean-Marc was also nearing the end of his army service, but as he had recently been stationed not far from Paris, he had promised to come see me at our stake baptisms after I returned from my mission. Our meeting would be brief because he would need to get back to his base and then to his family in Bordeaux, but it would be enough.

  In my mind I imagined the conversations we might have, the feelings our hearts would feel, the expressions our faces would show. But nothing, I knew, would equal the real thing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fog, deep and dark like a heavy blanket in winter, covered Paris in the early mornings of late October. I didn’t mind. It was a lot better than the rain and the fading memories it still brought to mind.

  I had settled happily into my parents’ apartment and was savoring their pampering. Father insisted I take a week off before returning to the bank, and Mother enjoyed herself thoroughly by giving away my worn missionary clothing and buying new things. I spent the foggy mornings sleeping in and dreaming of my promising future with Jean-Marc. The days I spent visiting friends, reading, or writing letters. I also organized my mission mementos, putting pictures in albums and throwing away papers that no longer had meaning. In the cleaning out I came across my list of ten people, already yellowing and torn in several spots. The last name was still blank. I felt the urge to throw the list away—hadn’t I already done my share? But I knew that though my mission was over, my life’s mission had just begun. And I would start that service by filling in that last name—when I could think of someone. Smiling, I slipped the sheet into the extra Book of Mormon I always carried in my purse or briefcase.

  The first friends I visited were Marguerite and Jules. They were doing so well at the café that they had opened a second one which Colette and her husband, who had both been baptized long ago, were managing. The missionaries still lived in Marguerite’s building, and the café had become a great contact place for them as well as a hangout for ward youth.

  I looked up other friends—even Monique, who had since married and moved to another city and ward. She was now expecting her first baby. I was happy for her, happy for all my friends whose lives had gone on while I had served a mission. I missed the way things had been, but I was too excited about my own love for Jean-Marc to begrudge them their new lives and loves.

  Sunday morning, I went to church and spoke in sacrament meeting. To my surprise, my parents attended. I was grateful for their support, because there were many new members in the ward I did not recognize. As people congratulated me on my successful mission, my parents beamed with pride. After the meeting, the missionaries asked to give them the discussions. “No, thank you,” my father quickly declined in his firm way that brooked no argument.

  “Maybe some other time.” My mother smiled at the elders to soften my father’s terse reply. The missionaries smiled back and shrugged. They turned to talk to others nearby while my parents and I started for the chapel doors.

  “Well, welcome home, Ariana,” said a sweet, drawling voice behind me.

  “Aimee?” I said in surprise, turning to exchange the customary cheek-kisses with the blonde girl who had once been on Jean-Marc’s missionary team with me.

  She lifted her head slightly, the better to show me her long, curly locks. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s very pretty.” And it was. She had grown out her hair and had lightened it slightly so that with her expertly applied makeup, she looked like an American movie star. I felt suddenly dowdy, with my dark brown hair cropped short and little makeup on my face.

  “Are you coming to the baptisms?” she asked. I nodded, and she continued. “It will be the last time we can see Jean-Marc, since he’s going home.” She smiled at me prettily, revealing her
perfect white teeth. “Of course, I’m going to go visit him soon. I don’t want him to forget me.”

  It took a while for me to realize that she was talking about my Jean-Marc. But, of course, no one knew about how close we’d become. I hadn’t told anyone but my parents and Monique, and Jean-Marc certainly wasn’t discussing me with Aimee. I almost laughed.

  “I’ll see you there, Aimee,” I said lightly. “I want to see Elder Perrault, too.” She must have seen something she didn’t like in my smile, because she frowned.

  “Until later, then.” She walked off, mincing as she went. My eyes followed her—as did those of every unattached man in the ward over the age of twelve.

  Maybe it was because of Aimee that I took such great pains in getting myself ready that afternoon, but I didn’t think that was my only reason. I wanted to look good for Jean-Marc, so I wore a flattering new dress. My thick hair was brushed to a shine and makeup applied carefully but not heavily. I surveyed myself in the bathroom mirror and felt pleased with what I saw—eyes dancing with excitement, smooth, white skin flushed in anticipation, love beckoning in my expression.

  “You look beautiful, Ariana.” My mother glanced up from the couch as I came to say good-bye.

  “Thanks,” I said breathlessly. “But I’m a little nervous.”

  “Would you like us to go with you?” my father asked.

  I smiled. At any other time, I would have jumped for joy that my parents were volunteering to go see the baptisms, but today I wanted to be alone. “No, thanks. I think this is something I want to do myself.”

  My mother returned my smile. “We understand. Good luck.”

  By the time I arrived, the church was already teeming with missionaries, members, investigators, and those to be baptized. People stood laughing and talking quietly in the halls and foyer. Almost immediately I saw Jean-Marc. He was near a group of missionaries, and Aimee was with them, talking animatedly and fawning over Jean-Marc as much as she could without being too obvious. He looked up and our eyes met. The intensity of his expression and my echoing feelings surprised even me. I could actually feel the magnetism between us. Suddenly, it was as if we were alone in the foyer, the many people disappearing as if by magic. No one else existed for either of us. It was all I could do not to run across the room and throw myself into his arms.

  As if from a long distance away, I heard a pouting voice saying, “Are you listening to me, Jean-Marc?” I knew it was Aimee, and I also knew that he wasn’t hearing a word she said. His eyes were still locked with mine, as were his emotions and thoughts. I crossed the few feet between us in an instant.

  “Ari!” he reached for my hand and grasped it tightly. “You’re really here!”

  “Of course I am! You think I’d give up a chance to see you before you left? Just wait until—”

  “Excuse me,” a loud male voice said, cutting me off. I turned to see one of the missionaries watching us. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Elder? Not that I can’t tell who she is by all the photographs you have of her.” He laughed, and to my delight, a slight blush crept over Jean-Marc’s features.

  “Sure. Elder, this is Ari—Ariana to you, however. I reserve Ari for myself. Ari, this is an elder, and that’s all you have to know about him!”

  The elder laughed. “He’s afraid I’ll charm you away from him. I’m Elder Madsen.” The tall elder stuck out his hand, and Jean-Marc reluctantly let mine go so that I could shake hands with him. As I did so, I saw Aimee behind them, red with anger. She flipped her hair at me and stalked off. The others didn’t notice her leaving.

  The garrulous Elder Madsen was still talking. “Now, Jean-Marc here keeps telling me—and everyone else he meets—about you and showing a picture he keeps in a cardboard envelope in his notebook. He keeps telling us how many people you are baptizing, what a great example you are, and how much more beautiful you are than anyone else’s girlfriend.” He leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Now, of course, I didn’t believe him until now. But he was right. And now I want to know one thing.” He turned to Jean-Marc. “What makes you think you deserve this woman? I mean, besides being the top-baptizing elder during your mission, what else have you done to prove yourself to her?” We all laughed at that, and the conversation went on. But through it all I felt Jean-Marc’s eyes on me, drinking in my presence as I was his. I felt happy and content.

  Before long the baptisms were over, and it was time to go. “Good-bye,” I told Jean-Marc softly. “For now.”

  I expected him to smile and tell me when he was going to call so we could begin carrying out the future we’d been planning for months in our letters. But instead, he frowned and looked at me seriously. “Ari, I need to do some thinking about things. I’ll call or write you soon.”

  A chill swept through me, and I looked at him sharply. But he stared at me with such longing and love in his eyes that I dropped my suspicions immediately.

  The next few weeks passed by, agonizingly slow and painful as I waited for Jean-Marc to call or write. Countless times I picked up the phone myself, only to put it down again before I dialed. I knew it was my pride that was stopping me, but I wouldn’t force myself on a man who didn’t love me.

  My depression deepened, and through it all I kept questioning myself. Had I imagined that he loved me? Imagined the look in his eyes? Was it only me who had fallen in love? I brought out the letters he had written during my mission, and there was no mistaking the words. He had loved me, had been planning a future with me, but something had happened. What? Try as I might, I couldn’t find the answers.

  Another side of me reasoned that Jean-Marc was busy at home after being away for so long. Even now, he was probably thinking up a creative way to propose. I remembered his engaging grin and the laughing, green-brown eyes so full of love, the way his voice had caressed my name, the long letters that had promised so much more.

  What had happened?

  “He’s probably having problems,” Monique said to me one Sunday at the end of November, exactly a month since I had seen Jean-Marc. We had arrived a little early for sacrament meeting and were talking quietly in the chapel. I enjoyed having Monique with me again. She and her husband were visiting our ward to show off their new baby, a little girl with light brown hair and dark eyes. Envy of Monique and her life swept through me as I remembered what I had lost, but I forced the feelings down. Monique, too, had been through a great deal with the death of her parents before finding the Church and eventually a good, worthy man to take her to the temple. I didn’t begrudge her that life; I just wanted it for myself.

  “You know,” she continued, “when my husband got out of the army, he acted really strange at first, like he was in shock or something. Then suddenly he came around, and everything fell into place.”

  “Yes, but why wouldn’t he at least write?” I glanced around the chapel with its beautiful organ music sounding softly through the room, cushioned wooden benches, many chandeliers, and the smiling congregation gathering. But it seemed that no matter where I looked, I saw Jean-Marc. “Paulette has written once, but she didn’t say a word about Jean-Marc, even though I asked her about him. Oh, why doesn’t he call?”

  “Well, did you write to him?” Monique asked quietly as she cuddled her baby close to her. Seeing her, I felt my arms ache with emptiness.

  I shook my head. “He as much as told me not to that last day I saw him—to wait until he called me. I didn’t understand how he could say that while looking at me like he did. I still don’t.”

  Monique nodded in agreement. “He always did stare at you like that—his eyes filled with love and longing. After you left, he carried that picture I took of you everywhere.” She frowned sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Ariana. What he’s doing now doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t figure out why he hasn’t called or written.”

  At that moment, a sweetly malicious voice came from the bench behind us: Aimee. I stiffened immediately. How much of our conversation had
she heard? Monique and I both turned our heads to see the blonde beauty sitting forward on the bench behind us, elbows coming to rest on the back of the bench we were sitting on.

  “I thought I heard you mention Jean-Marc,” she said with fake innocence. She flipped her long hair over her shoulder with a practiced hand and threw a teasing glance at a young man a few rows over who was staring at her. “Have you received a letter from him?”

  I wanted to lie or tell her it wasn’t any of her business, but I couldn’t find words. I didn’t need to. She already knew I hadn’t heard from Jean-Marc, if not by my desolate expression, then by her eavesdropping. I simply shook my head.

  “Well, I received a letter from him only this week, and I’ve talked to him many times on the phone.” Her beautiful green eyes glittered, but beneath the beauty I saw the hardness of her white face. “I’ll be going to see him soon.”

  I stared at her, not wanting to believe my ears, though I could hear the truth in her voice. She actually had received a letter from Jean-Marc.

  I didn’t cry or hit her smug face as I wanted to but carefully masked my feelings. There was no way I would let her see how deeply her words cut into my heart. I’d had much practice with pain, and I could hide it well.

  Yet I couldn’t help the thoughts of Jacques that came fleetingly to my mind and how terribly he had let me down. Were all men that way? I asked myself bitterly. Even those who are members of the Church?

  Now Aimee turned to Monique and began to gush over the baby. “What a beautiful baby, Monique! She looks just like you. I can’t wait until my future husband”—she shot a meaningful glance at me—“and I have one. May I please hold her?”

  “I’m sorry,” Monique said pleasantly enough. But I, who knew her well, could feel the chill in her voice. “I promised Ariana that she could hold her next.” As she spoke, she was handing me the baby.

  Aimee frowned. “Another time, maybe. The meeting will begin soon, and I’ve just got to talk to Henri over there before it starts.” She motioned with a careless hand to the young man who had been staring at her. “Good-bye now.” She stood and walked away, leaving us in a cloud of her expensive perfume.