The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “And there you were, a potential queen, and I suddenly knew that only a king could help you become a true queen one day. And, Ari . . .” His voice broke. “Ari, I didn’t know if I could be a king, but I knew you deserved one. I loved you so much that there was no way I was going to hold you back.”

  Tears streamed down both our faces now, and I sank to the sidewalk with him, pulling him back to sit on the cement steps that led to my building, pressing my cheek hard against his so that our tears flowed together. A few passersby who had braved the cold Christmas weather watched us curiously, but we paid them little heed, being so caught up in our emotions.

  I tried to speak, but Jean-Marc put a finger over my lips and continued. “So that’s what I’ve been doing these past two months. I’ve been trying to see if I had the potential within me, no matter how deeply hidden, to become your eternal partner. I wanted to know without a doubt that you and our children could rely on me, as I knew I could rely on you.” His face took on a pained expression as he remembered. “I was so afraid I would come up short. I studied, I prayed, talked to my bishop and my mother, prayed some more. And, Ari, I think that with your help, I can make myself the man you deserve—the man who will never let you down and who will love the Lord as much as you do!”

  “Oh, Jean-Marc,” I whispered, so afraid but knowing I was going to give him another chance, knowing I still loved him. “I could have told you that!”

  He smiled a little sheepishly through his tears. “I realize that now. You see, only yesterday my little sister, Lu-Lu, brought it to my attention that I should give you more credit for picking a potential husband. She said you probably knew me better than I knew myself and that I was a dummy not to have told you how I was feeling right after your mission!”

  “She was right.”

  Jean-Marc laughed and gazed into my eyes, wiping away my tears with his fingertips. “I promise never to try to solve the important things myself ever again, Ari. We’ll do it together—as long as you promise to be my queen!”

  “I will, Jean-Marc! I will!” I said exultantly, lifting my lips to his. After he kissed me, I added, “But let’s keep this queen thing to ourselves, okay? You know how we French feel about royalty . . . remember what they did to our last queen, Marie-Antoinette.” I made a neck-chopping motion to emphasize my point. We laughed helplessly until the cold from the cement seeped into our bones, making us so stiff we could hardly move.

  “Come, let’s go inside and tell my parents,” I urged, getting to my feet and pulling him with me.

  He kissed me once more on the lips, passionate yet tender, full of promise. “Okay, Ari.” He paused and added teasingly, “But remember, I’ll not have you smoking in front of our children!”

  “What?” I exclaimed, trying to figure out what he was talking about. Then I had it. “Aimee—she did write to you! I hope you didn’t—”

  “Of course I didn’t believe her! I realized there was probably more to the situation than she knew or was telling. I knew that whatever had happened that day, you came out on top! I figured she was just mad because I had written her to say I didn’t feel romantically about her. You see, she had called and written me repeatedly, asking to come down to visit, alluding to our future together. I had to tell her she and I had no future. She was the last thing I needed right then!”

  “She’s very beautiful,” I said, just to see what he would say.

  He shook his head. “No, she’s very pretty but never beautiful. You’re beautiful, Ari!” He still had one arm around me, and with his free hand he stroked my hair. “I love your hair, so soft and cut short so I can see the curve of your neck, and those dark eyes that see into my soul. But there’s more—the inside beauty that’s even more important, your heavenly aura. You’re everything to me, Ari!”

  “I was tempted that day Aimee saw me,” I admitted suddenly. I wanted only truth between us.

  Jean-Marc smiled. “But once more you proved yourself, and it’s over and done with. Now come, are we going to announce our engagement to your parents or not? I rang a few hours ago but didn’t go up since you weren’t there. Now I’m so cold from waiting here that your parents will probably think I’m shaking in fear of them.”

  “You’re not afraid of anything, Jean-Marc!” I turned to open the door with my key.

  “That’s not true,” he said suddenly, his voice full of emotion. “I was so afraid you’d tell me no.”

  I left the key in the lock and threw my arms around him. “Make no mistake about it, Jean-Marc. I love you, and I’m going to marry you!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  That Christmas was the best I’d had for some time. The weather was freezing, and we even saw a few flakes of snow in Paris; but Jean-Marc and I were warmed and comforted by the new light of our love. He didn’t return to Bordeaux, except to get his things, and I went with him to do that. He stayed temporarily with Marguerite and Jules until we could find an apartment for him. We were determined to not be separated too far ever again.

  In January, Jean-Marc began to work at my father’s bank and to attend college, studying—of all things—accounting, for he shared my fascination with numbers. I too was taking classes, though we didn’t share any since I was three semesters ahead of him. We rented a small apartment near my parents where he stayed, a place we would soon share. My bed and couch looked very good in the stylish apartment, and weekly we added new items to make it more comfortable. My mother especially went wild, buying things until, laughingly, we had to beg her to stop.

  Paulette and Pierre were married civilly in February. They had chosen not to wait for Paulette to be a member one year before marrying. Considering their ages and their growing closeness, it was the best decision for them. We drove with my parents to Bordeaux to attend the wedding. My parents, who had gone principally to meet Jean-Marc’s family, were amazed at the change in Paulette.

  Paulette herself seemed more amazed than anyone. “I can’t believe I’m actually marrying Pierre!” she whispered to me just before the ceremony. We were in one of the classrooms in the church, standing before a huge mirror that Elisabeth, now large with her pregnancy, had set up for the bride.

  I stared at Paulette in wonder. She had changed so much since that day I had found her sprawled on the sidewalk. Her light brown eyes were clear of drugs and shining with love. Her rich brown hair now gleamed lustrously and was arranged in artful waves. Her hands, once dirty with broken nails, were now clean and strong, the nails cut short and even. Her skin was clear, and the pain and sadness that had aged her were gone. But the biggest change was in her spirit—the confidence and vigor she had for life, the faith in her Savior, the love she had for Pierre and, at long last, for herself.

  Shortly after Paulette’s wedding, I received a letter from Jacques saying that he was to be paroled within the year. He had seen the missionaries a few times and was taking school courses in the prison as well. Maurice was also coming to church and listening to the missionaries—befriended by Aimee, of all people.

  The first week in April, Jean-Marc and I were married at our church house in Paris. A few weeks after our civil marriage, we went to the temple in Switzerland to be sealed for time and all eternity. I was grateful that years earlier, Church policy in Europe had been changed to allow those without access to a temple but who held recommends at the time of marriage to be sealed as soon as they could go to the temple instead of waiting an entire year. I was saddened that my parents were unable to attend my temple wedding, but Jean-Marc’s family was there in force, including aunts and uncles and many cousins. Even Pierre and Paulette were there, though Paulette could not yet go through the temple.

  Before our sealing, Jean-Marc was baptized and endowed in behalf of Antoine. Only then did we go to be sealed for time and all eternity. Having previously obtained Jacques’ consent, we also had Nette sealed to us. Feelings of absolute contentment radiated through my entire being. My baby at last had an eternal family!

  After the s
hort ceremony, we went hand in hand to the celestial room to sit together before leaving the temple. I glanced at the couch opposite us and noticed with surprise that the man sitting there had a baby in his arms. I looked over at Jean-Marc to see him staring at the same thing.

  “He looks like you . . . it’s . . . your brother!” he whispered, and I quickly looked again to see Antoine with little Antoinette in his arms. Both seemed happy and content.

  Jean-Marc and I turned to each other in amazement, but when we glanced back at the couch, they were gone. “Did you—?” I began, feeling a warm happiness spread through me.

  “Yes, I did, Ari! I did!”

  * * *

  Rain beat against the windows in a steady torrent, as it had done for the past few days. I sat by the window, looking out into the February night. Occasionally, lightning shot through the darkness, and thunder sounded like a giant screaming in agony, echoing the swelling pain in my body. I’m happy, I thought fiercely with joy, even through the terrible, crashing pain.

  Indeed, the last ten months had been the happiest of my entire life. There had been no real period of marriage adjustment for Jean-Marc and me; our missions had prepared us well for constant companionship and sharing. Our love had already learned patience and faith; and that, I knew, was half the battle.

  Thunder crashed again both outside and within, and with the glow from the lightning, I saw my parents’ car. “They’re here!” I yelled, gritting my teeth against the contraction that seemed to pulse throughout my entire body.

  Jean-Marc helped gather my things and carried them down to the waiting car. We had our own car now, but I wanted my husband beside me, holding my hand through the contractions instead of fighting the traffic. So I had called my parents the minute I realized that the false labor I’d been having for weeks had finally become real. Besides, this time I wanted my whole family with me.

  Four hours later, I gave birth to twins—a girl, whom we named Josette after my mother, and a boy, called Marc for his daddy. The love that swelled in my heart as I touched and kissed them seemed to equal the fervent emotion I had felt for my first baby, Nette. My happiness knew no bounds. Yet I knew that I felt the joy of my present life more intensely because of the pain I’d experienced in the past—and it was worth it.

  “Uh, I guess I won’t be working for you anymore, Father,” I said, looking up into his happy face as I lay on the bed with a warm baby cuddled in each arm. Jean-Marc sat beside me, stroking my hair and gazing down at our children with reverence and love and not just a little awe.

  “Well, under the circumstances, I won’t require a month’s notice,” my father said, smiling.

  My mother also looked happy. “It’s a lot of work, Ariana, having twins, but they’ll take care of each other later on.” She wiped a tear from her face, and I knew she was thinking about Antoine, but this time the memories were happy. “And I’ll be over every day to help, if you want me to.”

  “I do, Mother. Thank you.” There was silence as we stared at the babies, so recently come to earth from heaven.

  “Just so you don’t go on Wednesday at seven, Josephine,” my father said. “Remember, we have an appointment.”

  “What!” I said, pretending indignation. “What’s more important than these two precious babies?” To emphasize my words, I kissed each little forehead and looked up at my father.

  “Well, uh, we . . .” I had never known my father to fumble for words and wondered what could cause such a thing. I waited curiously while he got himself under control. “You see, the other day some young missionaries from your church knocked on our door, and we decided to hear what they have to say. Not,” he held up his hands quickly, “because we want to join but because we feel it’s time we understand our daughter and what she believes.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed with a silly smile on my face. I suddenly remembered seeing Antoine and Antoinette in the temple on my wedding day. We’ll see our whole family there yet, I promised them silently. We have time.

  My eyes moved to the window, where rain was still beating at the panes. But the sight of the falling drops no longer brought sadness and despair to my heart as they once had. They would always remind me of those I had lost, but the emptiness was completely gone. And now I had a new, happy memory to add to the good rainy-day recollections Jean-Marc and I had already made together.

  “It’s just as you promised, Jean-Marc,” I said softly, looking up into his sparkling green-brown eyes. “I think I’m really starting to love the rain.”

  Ariana A Gift Most Precious

  Four Years Later

  Chapter One

  The fluorescent lights hurt my eyes, already burning from the tears I had shed the night before and again today. Around me, people moved with purpose; only I sat slumped motionless against the wall, waiting to hear if she would be all right. I hadn’t been to the hospital except for the times I’d had a baby . . . and when Nette died. The memory made me suddenly afraid that Paulette, too, had come here to die. Please tell me she’s all right! The thought was a silent prayer.

  It was what Jean-Marc would term a perfect ending to a really rotten day. Of course he wasn’t here to say it, and even if he were, I’d be too angry to listen. It’s all his fault, I wanted to mutter, but I knew I had no one to blame except myself.

  The carpet in the waiting room was brown instead of the unsightly orange that had lined the floor in the hospital where I had lost my daughter; the observation offered meager comfort. A nurse at the nearby desk glanced up at me from the paperwork in front of her. She smiled kindly, but I felt it was more from habit than from any feeling of compassion. Her smile didn’t reach her tired eyes, and I knew she would much rather be home with her family than working the night shift.

  Even at this hour, the lights on the hospital phone winked furiously. I wondered who could be calling so late and what emergencies had driven them from their beds. The wild blinking echoed the raging emotions in my heart and contrasted sharply with the quiet intensity around me. Crossing my arms over my chest, I rubbed the flesh under my long-sleeved shirt for warmth, ignoring the chestnut-colored jacket thrown carelessly across my lap. I wondered if Paulette was dying—or perhaps the baby she carried inside. Even as the thought came, I prayed more fervently for it not to be so. Paulette had been through too much already. Besides—it was impossible to stop the selfish thought—I needed her, especially since Jean-Marc had walked out on me last night, suitcase in hand. I still didn’t understand how I had let that happen.

  Though my current troubles had begun months ago, they had come to a climax the morning before. I had been in the kitchen frying eggs, wishing I had earplugs to block out the clamor the twins and André made as they banged their spoons against their dishes in raucous discord. André’s rice cereal sloshed out of his bowl, making the high chair tray look like a war zone. I was sure he had put more cereal on his body than in it.

  “Good morning, Ari,” Jean-Marc had said from the kitchen doorway. My husband’s trim figure was smartly dressed in a dark gray suit, a wool and polyester blend. On his face was the familiar grin I adored. He crossed the room and gave me a kiss.

  Peering into the shiny metal surface of the toaster oven, I ran a quick hand through my dark brown hair that was cut short to fall in wisps about my neck. I noted with satisfaction that I hadn’t really changed all that much since Jean-Marc and I had met while he was serving his mission here in Paris. My laugh lines were deeper and I was more experienced, but that was all.

  I turned to see Jean-Marc trying to get the baby cereal out of André’s ears. Our son cried and tried to push the cloth away.

  I walked over. “There, there, André. Poor child.” I took the baby out of the high chair and away from Jean-Marc. “There’s no hope, honey. He needs a bath.”

  He threw the cloth at me, but I ducked, and it landed on the stove. We both laughed and hugged each other tightly. André objected loudly to the squeeze.

  “See you
tonight,” Jean-Marc said, releasing me.

  “But I’ve got breakfast nearly ready,” I protested. I usually didn’t bother with more than a few croissants and hot chocolate, but I had wanted to make this day different. Jean-Marc adored eggs in the morning—a habit acquired from one of his American missionary companions.

  He sniffed the air appreciatively. “It smells good, but I really have to go. Your father and I are visiting the new branch today, and we want to get an early start. He’s probably waiting outside. We’ll grab something at the corner bakery on the way.”

  I sighed. Sometimes I hated the fact that my father, Géralde Merson, was president and partial owner of the bank and that Jean-Marc was rising ever higher in the bank hierarchy. “But you’ll be home early, won’t you? Remember our date?” There was an adult dance at the church building, and we were going. We hadn’t been out alone together for months, and I had finally taken a stand and made plans to attend. My mother would baby-sit our four-year-old twins and one-year-old André.

  “Yeah, I remember.” He bent to kiss the children. “You guys are getting so big,” he cooed. Briefcase in hand, he was nearly at the door before our son stopped him.