And I’m starting to think I am because everything and everyone I’ve met here so far is familiar. It’s like having déjà-vu every single second of the day, but I have no idea what any of it means. And it’s driving me insane. Oh yeah, and I speak Italian now. Kinda cool, but really fucking freaky at the same time.
I need to find a way back. I can’t leave Tracy like this. Not with a little one at home and a second one on the way. I done found myself in some pickles before, but I’ll be damned if I know my way out of this one.
Goose bumps prickled the skin on my arms as I flipped to the next page, thinking I would find another journal entry from Jackson, the cowboy who’d apparently lived through the same type of experience as me. But when my eyes combed over the frilly handwriting, I realized this entry wasn’t Jackson’s. It belonged to someone else.
July 14, 1789
Mother of God. What in the hell is going on? I must be going insane. Really, I must be clinically insane. I’m in Paris and it’s 17 fucking 89. There are like people on horses trotting around outside, everyone’s going crazy and revolting, and people are getting their heads chopped off by that guillotine thing I kinda sorta remember my French teacher spouting off about in French class one day.
But I don’t live here. I live in L.A. in the year 2010! And my name is Reese! How many times do I have to tell these people I’m not Marie-Claire or whoever the fuck they think I am. The main problem, though, is that, somehow, I woke up in this chick’s body wearing a corset and everything. And she’s like really old. Like 35 or something. And she has kids! Those little brats think they’re mine. I’m not your mom! I’m only 18!! And my name is Reese Carrington! WTF?!
I need to get home before one of these men galloping around on horses storms in here and takes me to the head-chopper thingy. This is freaking insane. I miss my mom. I miss L.A. I miss my life. How do I get home?
Sitting on the musty bookstore floor, I poured through the pages that followed, each one a journal entry of someone else who had jumped back in time to a past life, their confusion and desperation as strong as mine, their reasons for making the jump unknown.
The voracious hunger I had to learn everything I could about their experiences, and ultimately to find out what would happen to me, brought me all the way to the end of the journal, where, on the second to last page, I stopped.
There, in front of me, was my very own handwriting.
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…
It was the journal entry I’d written when I’d first arrived. When I was trying to figure out how in the hell I got here.
But how did my journal entry—the one I’d only written two nights ago—land in this book? And how were all of these other people’s entries recorded in what I assumed was their own original handwriting?
And most important, why was any of this happening in the first place? Where was Madame Bouchard when I needed her?
Just as I was about to close the book and leave the store feeling more frustrated and crazy than when I had first come in, the handwriting on the very last page made me stop.
In bold red ink and slanted print that looked all too familiar, there was one final journal entry.
December 5, 1959
I made it back to Paris. And I won’t be leaving until I’ve finished what I came here to do. That little bitch won’t steal what’s mine this time around, and she won’t steal it from me in the future either.
I’ll be sure of it.
My stomach turned sour when I realized that whoever had written this entry was here in Paris, right now.
And if my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, the slanted red handwriting on this page looked exactly like the handwriting from the note I’d found under my pillow on my first night here.
Whether it was Thomas who had written this or one of my other potential enemies, I was certain this note was for me.
I was that little bitch.
I had to get out of here.
I slammed the book shut, stood up, and charged toward the front of the store, knocking a crooked stack of books over on my way out.
“Excuse me, miss! You have to pay for that.”
“Sorry, I…I’m in a hurry. I didn’t mean to…here,” I mumbled, handing the store clerk the ratty purple journal.
He turned the worn cover over in his hands, a puzzled expression washing over his face. Just as he was about to open the book, I lunged forward and grabbed hold of his arm to stop him.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, yanking his arm away.
“I…I’m sorry. Can I just pay for the book, please? I’m in a hurry.”
Without responding, he opened the book before I could stop him. And inside, staring back at us, were completely blank pages. Each one was a shade whiter than the next—the handwriting, the notes, the stories I’d just read, all erased. I braced myself against the counter, suddenly feeling faint and sick to my stomach. Where had the words gone? How could they have been there one minute and gone the next?
Was I simply imagining this whole crazy escapade?
“Miss, this book isn’t part of our inventory. I don’t know how it got here, but there isn’t anything printed inside. It’s completely blank. See?” He flipped all the way through the book, again revealing the empty pages.
“You are welcome to take it with you at no charge, though, if you like. I don’t see why you would want a book with no words, but…oh wait, here’s something written on the inside back cover.” He narrowed his eyes and lifted the book about an inch from his glasses.
“What is it?” I asked.
He shook his head before flipping the book toward me and revealing a tiny block of text printed on the bottom of the book flap.
Claudia,
When you find this, meet me at 46 rue de Passy in the 16th arrondissement. You are in grave danger. Come straightaway, as there is no time to waste.
Madame Bouchard
I snatched the book from the clerk’s hands, ignored his startled expression, and fled from the bookstore.
As soon as I’d emerged onto the sidewalk, I opened the book back up.
And sure enough, every page was filled to the brim with the past-life stories I’d just devoured in the bookstore, the same ones that had somehow disappeared when the store clerk had looked inside.
Ignoring the little voice inside my head telling me I was officially losing it, I did a quick scan of my surroundings, then jogged up to the bustling Quai Saint-Michel to hail a cab.
TWENTY-FOUR
I bumped along in the back of the black Parisian taxi as the driver raced across the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, and the bridge where Antoine and I had been just one day earlier, right after I’d found François.
I didn’t have time to process all of the déjà-vu flashes that popped into my brain as we sped over the tip of the Île de la Cité, then headed west up the right bank of the river, running through a red light and making three dangerous passes along the way. I searched around the stuffy cab for my seat belt, realizing that if Ruby’s time was coming soon, I didn’t want to die from something as stupid as not wearing a seat belt while this crazy taxi driver flew through Paris with me as his captive.
The Palais du Louvre flew by us as my heart rate sped up and my mind spun out of control. I gripped the purple book in my hands, my fingertips still tingling as they wrapped around the cover.
I was desperate to find out if the others had accomplished whatever monumental tasks they’d been sent back to their past lives to do, and I needed to know the exact reason I’d been brought back to my own dangerous, drama-filled past life. I was only hoping Madame Bouchard would have a more concrete answer for me this time. And preferably with instructions on how I could bring Antoine back with me.
After all, the clock wa
s ticking.
Resting my throbbing temple against the cool window of the cab, I hugged my weapon-concealing purse tighter to my chest as we zoomed down the Seine, the Eiffel Tower shooting up toward the wispy gray clouds to my left. I felt a stab of guilt for having promised Antoine I wouldn’t run around the city alone, that I would be there waiting for him when he returned.
But if I really didn’t have much time left in this life, I had no choice but to follow Madame Bouchard’s instructions to meet her. I would demand that she tell me everything she knew, then I would head straight back to my apartment. I didn’t want to miss Antoine when he came back for me. Just the thought of his deep-gray eyes, his strong hands on me, the way he’d made love to me, made me quiver in the backseat of the cab.
Before I had a chance to replay my entire night of passion over in my head again, the cab screeched to a stop in front of an ocean-blue door with the number forty-six overhead.
I thrust a wad of francs into the man’s outstretched hand and climbed out of the old cab, its muffler huffing and puffing at me as I emerged onto the sidewalk and dodged three older women walking their miniature dogs through the posh neighborhood.
Scanning the list of tenants, I pushed the button next to the name Bouchard, the tips of my fingers still tingling and shaking.
But I didn’t have time to be scared.
I had to find out what the heck I was doing here.
The tall blue door buzzed and I hoisted it open. A damp, chilly hallway awaited me on the other side. Madame Bouchard’s shadow beckoned at the end of the hallway, her tall, elegant frame filling up the doorway, a dim glow of light flickering behind her. As my feet glided forward, toward the knowledge I hoped she could provide me with, I realized that for the second time since I’d been in Ruby’s body, I wasn’t experiencing any trace of déjà-vu.
I hadn’t been here before.
Silky shadows danced around the old woman’s silhouette, pulling me to her, making me feel connected to her, entranced by her.
When we came face-to-face, the light was so dim that it allowed me to see only the silvery-gray hair that wrapped around her head and her deep-violet eyes that silently told me what I already knew.
I was in danger. And we didn’t have a moment to waste.
“Claudia,” she said, her voice deep and steady. “Follow me.”
I didn’t say a word as I trailed behind her, walking through a series of dark rooms and hallways, the only light coming from the flickering of candles that lined our path. Tall shadows flashed around us on the bare walls, their presence making me feel as if we were being watched.
The elegant Madame Bouchard led me into a scarcely decorated living room, the drapes drawn completely shut, blocking all light except for that of four lit candles, one in each corner of the room. She turned and placed her hand on my shoulder, then showed me to the couch and motioned for me to sit down. I breathed in deeply, taking in her rosy scent as she floated past and took a seat in the chair across from me.
Before I could begin pummeling her with questions, a lone object on the marble coffee table in front of me caught my eye.
The violet cover. The frayed spine.
The journal.
It was the same journal I’d been holding in my hands for the entire cab ride here. The one I’d stashed in my bag before I’d rung the doorbell.
I rummaged around in my purse, but the magic purple book was nowhere to be found.
“I see you’ve found the journal.” She leaned back in her seat and focused her intense gaze on me.
I reached for the book on the coffee table, the one I was certain had just been in my purse, and jumped as that same shock of electricity coursed through me. But the shock neutralized and the tingling came to an abrupt halt as the woman leaned forward and placed her wrinkled hands on mine. She took the book from me and laid it gingerly back on the coffee table.
I gazed into her violet eyes, searching for answers, my mouth unable to form any words or spit out the thousands of questions I had swimming around in my head.
“I know you must be confused,” she began as she crossed one long, thin leg over the other and placed a delicate hand on her knee. “But there is a reason for all of this. For every seemingly inexplicable thing you’ve experienced since you arrived here. There is a reason for all of it.”
Suddenly, I found my voice again. “What is the reason, then? Why exactly am I here? What is this monumental task I’m supposed to accomplish in fewer than three days? Do you know why all of these other people have been sent back to their past lives? Did they make it back home? And do you know how in the hell this book even exists? And how it found me in the bookstore today? And how did it jump from my bag to the coffee table without me noticing? And how did you find me? Am I going crazy?”
“No, Claudia, you’re not going crazy. I understand how you would feel like that, though. All of the others have felt the same. Like I told you in the café, these past-life revisits are never easy. Especially in your situation.”
“Okay. We’ll just pretend that’s normal for a minute. And the journal?”
“The journal finds its way to those who’ve made the trip back so that you don’t waste precious time wondering if you’ve gone mad. You haven’t, and like you’ve read in these pages, there are others who’ve been in your shoes. But, like I’ve already warned you, you don’t have much time, and if you read the last journal entry, I suspect you are aware that your position here in this life is not secure. I am meeting with you today to give you some information that may help you along this journey, but after that, the rest will be up to you.”
“So why did I come back? What is the event I’m here to change, the one that will ultimately change the course of fate, as you said? And why did all the others travel back as well?”
“Traveling back in time to a past life is an extremely rare occurrence—so rare, in fact, that the only documentation of this ever happening is in the journal you found today, which I’m sure you noticed, only you can read. Most people wouldn’t be able to understand this sort of occurrence, as it doesn’t fit in with their two-dimensional view of the world, and that is why the journal is only visible to those who are experiencing this exact situation.”
“But please just tell me why. Why am I here? I mean, so much has happened since I arrived, how do you expect me to figure this out on my own? Between the murder accusations, finding François Lefevre’s dead body, a crazy ex-boyfriend stalker chasing me around the city, the threatening notes, Véronique’s hatred for me, my sudden and overwhelming feelings for Antoine, and my young grandmother, who is my best friend and who is now pregnant with my mom…how in the hell do you expect me to decipher the one event I’m supposed to change? This is ludicrous!”
“As I explained to you in the café, the reason that you and the others you read about have been brought back is to correct fate.”
I dug my nails into the smooth fabric on the sofa, gritting my teeth in frustration. “What do you even mean by that?”
“You see, sometimes a single event throws off the course of fate, and as a result, fate plays itself out in the wrong way for generations and generations thereafter. Usually, this inciting event is the result of great evil, and when it throws fate off its projected course for so many years, thereby negatively affecting so many lives, there are rare cases—such as yours—where the soul in question is given a second chance to go back and correct the mistake.”
“So I’m one of the lucky ones who get to relive some awful event from the past. Fabulous.”
“In the other cases you’ve seen in this journal, just like you, each person was brought back to their past life only a few days before the fate-changing event took place. And if you don’t figure out a way to change that one event, it will happen again, and potentially have even greater repercussions than it did the first time around.”
“Why do we only get a few days?”
“Because, while you and Ruby share a soul, as you’ve p
robably noticed, you are quite a different person than she. Faced with the same situations, you have already made drastically different decisions than she would have, and you have already begun to change things from the original way they happened. If you are given too many days here, with your free will, your knowledge, and your modern ideas acting out in Ruby’s body, you may change things too much. Certain events are supposed to happen, no matter how negative they may seem to you, but there is one event that you are here to change. And that is your ultimate purpose for coming back.”
“Does it have to do with my grandma? Or with Antoine? Or Ruby’s death?”
“I do not know, my dear. Only you hold the answer to that question.”
“So, all of these other people in the journal, were they able to figure it out in time and accomplish what they came here to do?”
“Not everyone, no.”
“And what happens then?”
“Like I said before, the consequences of not correcting this error in fate can be catastrophic. Worse than the original time around.”
“Suppose I am able to fix whatever went wrong last time, what happens to me then? Do I stay here or do I go back to my life as Claudia and pick up where things left off?”
“There is a portal by which you arrived here, and it is only through this exact portal that you will find your way back.”
I rested my head in my hands, feeling so thoroughly confused that even the backs of my eyeballs were throbbing. “A portal? Like a hole in time and space or something like that?”
She smiled, but only for a second before she continued. “Yes, something like that. Don’t worry about that right now, though. What you have to remember is that you are here now. You have to focus on the task at hand and not allow yourself to worry about the future. There is something you have been brought here to do, and if you follow your instincts, you will know the time and the place. You will know what actions to take. Don’t let your intellect get in the way. Trust your gut, and you will succeed.”
I noticed then that Madame Bouchard had been speaking English the entire time with no hint of a French accent. I wondered if that was even her real name. “Where are you from?” I asked her. “And how do you know so much about all of this?”
Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 19
