“I ask that in return for my confession to the police, you continue our liaison at my command…and for free.”
He wanted me keep sleeping with him after this? And for free?
I shook my head. Of course that’s what he wanted. What did I expect? That just because he’d agreed to tell the detective the truth about us, he’d suddenly become a decent man? These were exactly the kind of politicians my father had hated when he’d been in office.
“Bien sûr.” Of course, I said, telling myself this promise was only a means to an end.
And that it was a promise I most certainly would break.
Just before we hung up, I remembered one last thing.
“François, did you see a woman with dangly diamond earrings exiting the club that night? When the photo was taken?”
“No.” He sighed, the sound of fatigue lining his once-powerful voice. “I only saw you.”
Later that night, I curled up in bed with my journal, flipping through the worn, faded pages once more in the hope that this object I’d carried back with me through time would somehow send me forward again. Take me the hell out of here.
The entries were fading even more now, some of them completely gone. It was as if someone had taken an eraser to my most important memories and carelessly wiped them away.
With another turn of the page, I discovered one entry that was still intact…and it was one that I hadn’t read in ages.
There was a reason for that. But as I sat alone in this cold Parisian apartment with these foreign hands clutching my journal, I longed to be carried back to my life…even to the darkest moments of it.
July 22, 1996
I arrived in California today, and I’ve never been so happy to see the beach and the sunshine. But more than the gorgeous scenery, I needed to get away from her. I’ve felt her hatred coating me like a toxic virus ever since that day. The day we lost Dad.
And no matter how hard I’ve tried to make it up to her, no matter how many times I’ve apologized, I know now, my mother will never forgive me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for hesitating that night, my finger hovering over the trigger, too afraid to pull it.
How many times I’ve replayed that moment over and over in my head, wishing I could’ve shot that evil man who took my father away from us. I could’ve stopped it all from happening. But I hesitated. And that one second of hesitation will haunt me forever.
Dad, if you’re listening, I’m so very sorry.
Unwilling to relive the grief I’d worked so hard to overcome, or to allow myself to think about the loss of my handsome, loving, larger-than-life father, I turned to the back of the journal, where a blank page awaited me. I decided to write down every last detail of what had happened to me at the dance studio the night I’d been transported back in time to Paris, and hopefully, I’d remember something that would help me to find a way back, to stop my life from disappearing altogether.
And so, with a shoddy red pen I found stuffed in Ruby’s desk drawer, I began composing a new journal entry.
December 5, 1959
This morning I woke up in Paris in the body of a woman named Ruby Kerrigan. But my name isn’t Ruby. My name is Claudia Marie Davis. I’m eighteen weeks pregnant with a little girl, and I have to find a way back to her…
THIRTEEN
I rolled over in bed and squinted at the harsh morning light piercing through the window. The clock on the nightstand read eight thirty. I hadn’t slept this late since I was in my twenties.
But when I ran my hand over my flat stomach—the ever-constant reminder of the fact that I was not pregnant—I remembered. I was in my twenties.
My red journal and my future copy of People lay next to me on the red satin sheets of Ruby’s bed, the magazine’s edges crumpled and slightly torn. The night before, after I’d convinced François to speak to the police, and after I’d finished my journal entry, I’d held on to the faintest of hopes that maybe I’d already accomplished what I’d been sent to this life to do. And so I’d gone to sleep with my journal, my magazine, and my sonogram photo, hoping against all hope that I would wake up in Claudia’s body, still pregnant, as if none of this had ever happened.
But it hadn’t worked. I was still here. And although I was hopeful that with François’s confession today, I could potentially clear my name from the murder investigation, there were still many major issues to be dealt with.
Before I’d gone to bed the night before, I’d cross-checked the eerie note from under my pillow with Thomas Riley’s handwriting on the back of the torn photo. The handwriting didn’t quite match up, but those initials did appear to be T. R., so I had to believe the threatening note had come from him.
Which meant that he was here, in Paris, stalking me in some jealous rage. He could’ve taken the photograph of Ruby and François outside the club that night and turned it over to the police. And there was always a chance that he had something to do with Gisèle’s murder.
Whether my theories about Thomas Riley were accurate or not, I knew one thing for sure. Ruby’s life—or my life—wasn’t going to last much longer. And, if the silver-haired woman was telling the truth, I only had four more days to figure out this impossible mess and find a way back home.
My stomach growled, reminding me that there were other, more basic needs that also had to be met.
Wrapped in Ruby’s silky lavender robe, I ransacked the kitchen but only found a half-empty bottle of liquor and a stale baguette. In my ravenous state, I actually considered eating the rock-hard bread, but then I remembered Ruby’s stash of French francs under the bed.
I wasn’t sure if she’d been saving the money for something else—like to move out of this apartment and out of Jean-Pierre’s control—but first things first. Whether or not Ruby was a bona fide murderer, a girl’s gotta eat.
After showering in the coldest water I’d ever put my head under, I threw on a soft, snow-white sweater, smooth gray pants, and a pair of closed-toe red heels. Ruby’s only shoes were heels. Thank God her young feet were accustomed to wearing them.
I bundled up in Ruby’s red peacoat and white scarf, tucked a wad of francs into her cute black purse, then headed out to find food.
The minute I exited the building, a blast of cold air slapped me in the face, but I quickly forgot about the bitter winter temperatures as the scent of warm, buttery croissants floated past. I turned to the right, toward that heavenly aroma, and headed up rue de l’Ancienne Comédie. With my eyes focused on the red awning of the boulangerie a few storefronts down, I barely heard the voice calling Ruby’s name.
“Ruby! Hey, Ruby, wait!”
It was Titine, her red hair swooped into a bun, a few curly auburn tendrils cascading down her cheeks. I had to stop myself from gasping. This was exactly how my grandmother always wore her hair.
I still couldn’t believe Titine was my young grandma. This was insane.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look surprised to see me or something.”
I cleared my throat and smiled. “Yes, I’m fine. Just really hungry, that’s all.”
“Let’s get some breakfast, then. I was on my way to your apartment anyway…just in case you forgot about rehearsal this morning.” She winked at me as she led the way toward the boulangerie. “Are you feeling better after yesterday? Is the good ol’ memory back in business?”
I eyed her up and down, still reeling at her sassy little attitude, the way her emerald eyes danced back and forth when she was hyper, the way her smile could warm me up no matter what the circumstances. “Not quite. I went through my apartment last night to see if I could find anything that would help me jog my memory, and I have a few questions to ask you.”
Inside the quaint boulangerie, my eyes melted at the sight of baskets filled to the brim with freshly baked baguettes, fluffy croissants, buttery pains au chocolat, and swirly pains aux raisins.
“Sure,” Titine said, completely unfazed by the gourmet spread of pastries be
fore us. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s get food first. I’m so hungry, I can hardly see straight.”
Titine shot me a strange glance then ordered for us both. “Deux pains au chocolat, s’il vous plaît,” she told the petite French woman behind the counter.
A flash of déjà-vu hit me as Titine and I settled into a tiny table in the corner of the boulangerie, gooey chocolate croissants in hand. I closed my eyes and could see Titine and myself sitting at this exact table, only it must’ve been springtime, because we were wearing knee-length skirts, fitted white blouses, and tall, classic pumps.
“Ruby? Hello?”
I snapped my eyes open and tried to ignore the memories swimming around in my head. But as I took a bite of the most buttery, fattening, and delicious chocolate croissant I’d ever tasted, I remembered this taste. I’d been to this boulangerie and had eaten many a pain au chocolat here before. If anything, in my second day as Ruby, the memories felt stronger.
“Ruby, what are you thinking about? I know things have been crazy lately, but you’re acting really strange.” Titine searched my face, as if she could almost see the difference that had taken hold in me, but she just as quickly dismissed her questioning gaze with a dainty bite of flaky pastry.
I finished the bite I was devouring and forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Titine. I know I’m not really myself right now…but like I told you, after the fall, I don’t have my full memory. Only bits and pieces. And with this whole murder investigation going on, it’s not exactly great timing, you know?” I stared deep into my young grandmother’s eyes, wishing I could tell her the truth about what I really remembered. About my life as Claudia and my relationship with her as she would grow older. But she would think I’d lost my mind.
“Tell me about it.” She peeked down at her watch. “We have half an hour until we need to get to rehearsal, so ask me your questions and let’s see if we can’t get your head straightened out a bit. And then maybe we can talk about what the detective said to you yesterday and why you ran off in a tizzy.”
I nodded, taking another bite of my scrumptious croissant, then wiped the corners of my mouth and launched in with my first question. “What’s the story with Véronique? What’s her problem and why does she hate me so much?”
The eagerness in Titine’s eyes waned. “You sure you really want to go into all of this? I mean, some things are better left in the past.”
“I need to know as much as I can about what was going on in Ru…I mean, in my life before I fell yesterday morning.” Note to self, stop referring to Ruby in the third person.
Titine shot me a questioning glance but kept going. “Véronique didn’t like us from the start…especially you. She saw how Gisèle took to us immediately and how much Jean-Pierre favored you over the other girls. Then she turned most of the other dancers against you by spreading rumors…and even though some of them may have been true, she still had no right to do that.”
“What kind of rumors?”
Titine sighed. “Are you really sure you want to dig all of this up? I don’t see how it’s going to help anything.”
“Titine, you said you would answer my questions.”
“Okay, fine. She told the other dancers that you were sleeping with Jean-Pierre just so you could bump Gisèle out of her starring role. And she told them that you were sleeping with the club’s investors to keep Jean-Pierre happy.”
Ah. François Lefevre wasn’t only paying Ruby for sex, he was also investing money into Jean-Pierre’s club. That explained why Jean-Pierre had been so insistent about keeping François’s name out of the murder investigation. Jean-Pierre didn’t give a damn about ruining François’s reputation; he was only scared he might lose one of his investors.
It was all about the money.
“Did you believe the rumors?” I asked.
Titine shifted uncomfortably, her gaze drifting out the window. “Well, you’ve always been motivated…to say the least. And of course I know you’re sleeping with Jean-Pierre, but I never believed that you were doing it to push Gisèle out of her role. I mean, we all would’ve loved to be the star of the show. But we became really close friends with Gisèle. She was different from the other girls. She was actually nice to us when we first arrived, and she was the only one who wasn’t afraid of Véronique. I know that you never would’ve intentionally hurt her career. Unfortunately, though, that’s not how the other girls, especially Véronique, see things.”
“What about the other rumor—the one about me sleeping with the club’s investors to keep Jean-Pierre happy?” I already knew the answer to this one, but wanted to find out how much Titine knew.
“You always denied it, but…”
“You didn’t believe me?”
“If you really want to know, the truth is that no, I didn’t believe you. I saw one of the richest businessmen who frequent the club leaving your apartment one morning when I was on my way over, but I never said anything to you. I figured you would’ve told me if it was something you wanted me to know.”
“So it makes sense that the other girls would believe I’d want to get rid of Gisèle. I mean, look at everything else I was willing to do to make it to the top.”
Titine reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “It’s not like that, Ruby. In this business, we’ve all had to do some questionable things to get where we want to be. It doesn’t make you a murderer, for heaven’s sake. All of those girls are just terrified of having Véronique turn against them. They saw how livid she was when Jean-Pierre announced that he’d given you Gisèle’s role.”
“Well, I’m not going to keep this charade up. I don’t want the lead role anymore. I’ll figure out another way to earn my living.”
“Ruby, don’t talk like that. You’ve dreamed of this your whole life. And if there’s anyone who deserves this opportunity, it’s you. Tonight is your big chance. Robert Maxwell is coming to see us perform. You can’t quit now. I won’t let you.”
“Who is Robert Maxwell? Is he the film director Jean-Pierre keeps talking about? And why is it such a big deal that he’s coming to see me perform?”
Titine shook her head. “Jeez, Ruby. I can’t believe you don’t remember any of this. I think you really do need to see a doctor, but if you can get through tonight’s show you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” She took another bite then began talking again, her eyes lighting up. “Robert Maxwell is a famous film director from Hollywood, Ruby. He was here about a month ago, on a night you filled in for Gisèle, and I took your usual spot. He saw the show and was so impressed with us, he asked Jean-Pierre to schedule this special performance just for him. And based on how we do tonight, he’s considering casting us in one of his films.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Yes! That’s why Jean-Pierre chose that new Peggy Lee song, ‘Fever,’ for you to sing. He figured it would be better to sing a popular American song as the main act. And if all goes well, Robert will make us stars, Ruby. Real movie stars.”
A twinge of excitement rose up in my chest, but it was quickly squashed when I remembered what I was supposed to do with Robert after the performance. He would make Ruby a star if she complied with his demands, and even then, once he had Ruby, would he keep his end of the bargain? And would Ruby then be expected to continue sleeping with Robert in addition to Jean-Pierre? And François? If she—or I—lived long enough to do so?
I buried my forehead in my hands. “I can’t do this, Titine.”
“Did you not hear me correctly? He’s going to make you a star! That means you can be finished with nightclubs and with sleazy Jean-Pierre. This could be it for both of us, Ruby. You can’t let what happened to Gisèle stop you from—”
“Titine,” I cut her off. “Do you know what I’m supposed to do with Robert, in order to become a star?”
“What are you talking about? He’s coming to see you perform in the show tonight. That’s it.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s
not it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think Robert might be one of Jean-Pierre’s investors.”
Titine’s cheeks paled. “You’re supposed to sleep with him? With Robert?”
I rubbed my forehead in my hands. “Jean-Pierre told me they’ve made an agreement. And he says if I break it, I’ll lose my job. My apartment. Everything.”
I thought of the picture I’d found, and of my grandmother’s words. Gisèle and Ruby would die soon after the photo was taken. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Titine. I’m afraid something bad—”
But I didn’t have time to get the words past my lips before Titine gripped her stomach, shot up from her chair, and dashed out of the boulangerie. She left no explanation, just an empty seat and a whiff of her lavender-scented perfume.
Outside, I spotted Titine doubled over next to a newsstand, getting sick on the cobblestone sidewalk.
I rushed to her side and laid my hand on her back. “Titine, are you okay?”
She clutched her stomach as she stood abruptly, shrugging my hand off. “I’m fine. I must have a stomach bug or something.”
“Do you think you need to see a doctor?”
“No, there’s no time for that. Rehearsal starts soon.” Her tone was suddenly as chilly as the wind that whipped against our faces. She refused to meet my gaze as she wiped the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.
I laid my hand on her arm. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay to rehearse? I mean, you just got sick and you don’t look too good.”
She puffed out an annoyed breath and once again shrugged my hand off of her. “You’re not the only one with things going on, you know. I have to go get ready.” And with that, she turned and left me alone on the sidewalk, wondering what in the hell had just happened.
A strange car horn beeped behind me, and as I turned and took in the shiny teal Citroën DS weaving down the crowded side street, I remembered again. I was in Paris. In the fifties. But before I lost myself in the next déjà-vu flash, I bumped smack into the newsstand behind me. Flipping around to see if I’d caused any damage, a familiar image on the front page of today’s France-Soir newspaper caught my eye.
Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 11
