Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance)

by Juliette Sobanet

  She leaned forward and picked up a small mug of steaming coffee, then tipped it past her thin lips and took a sip.

  But there hadn’t been anything except the purple journal on the coffee table when we’d first sat down. Had there?

  I shook my head, the confusion setting in deeper as she curled her fingers around the mug, then lifted her eyes to mine once more, her penetrating gaze soaking right through me.

  “Much of this experience will remain a mystery to you forever, Claudia. After all, the mere fact that you have traveled back in time to a past life is clearly not something that one can do in the physical, rational world we live in. Yet, here you are.

  “My advice to you is to let the mysteries be mysteries. Trust that they have their place in this extraordinary experience, and focus on the events that you can control, which is the reason you’ve been brought here in the end. It is important to remember, though, that things may get worse before they get better. But even so, you mustn’t give up. The fates of countless people will be changed for the better if you simply make one different choice this time around.”

  I circled my fingers over my throbbing temples, and while I was grateful for the clarification she was giving me, I needed to know more. “I think I understand. But I still have another question. You mentioned the last page of the journal earlier. Do you know who wrote that? Is there someone else after me, someone besides Thomas? Someone who has traveled to Paris, and possibly back in time, to find me?”

  The old woman’s expression became grave, the encouragement and motivation she’d been offering me just moments before disappearing.

  “There is something else you must know about your particular situation,” she said, her tone somber.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t normally visit with people a second time during their past-life journey. Usually the first visit coupled with the journal suffices in letting you know that this experience is real and that you have a job to do. But, your case is different…you see, something went wrong when you were sent back to this life. Something that, unfortunately, has never happened before.”

  Hairs prickled the back of my neck. How could this situation get any worse?

  Madame Bouchard leaned forward in her chair, the seriousness in her gaze letting me know that all of the worries I’d had since I arrived here had been more than legitimate.

  She continued, “Let me explain further. Your soul, Claudia, is pure. While in both of your lives you have made mistakes and you have, at times, acted in such a way that has been harmful to others, that is only human. At the core, you’re a good soul with pure, honest intentions. Up until now, only pure souls have been given this chance to correct fate, to turn things around for the better. But when you were sent back, an impure soul, or an evil soul, was sucked into the time warp and sent along with you.”

  “So the last journal entry, it’s from this person? This evil soul?”

  She nodded. “Yes, and unfortunately, this makes your actions—and your purpose here—all the more urgent. All the more critical.”

  “Do you know who it is? Was it someone I knew in my life as Claudia? Someone who didn’t like me for some reason and has come back here to harm me?”

  “I do not know the identity of this person in your life as Claudia or in this life as Ruby. But what I can tell you that may be of use to you here is that when an impure soul is reincarnated, they do not change much. There is little to no growth; usually, there is negative growth. Their appearance may be similar, and they will repeat the same ill-motivated actions in each subsequent life, thereby interfering with and ruining the pure intentions and actions of a good soul, like you. Every soul has a purpose, an overall, grand purpose. Even impure souls have a purpose, wicked though it may be. And it appears that the soul who has been accidentally sent back to this life carries a grudge. And regrettably, you, my dear, are on the receiving end.”

  “So what am I supposed to do if you can’t tell me who it is? I know that Ruby has a ton of enemies in this life, but as Claudia, I didn’t really have enemies. I mean, not real enemies, anyway. God, this is insane. How am I supposed to figure this out? How am I supposed to stop this person?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer those questions for you. I am only here to make you aware of the fact that you are in grave danger, and that you will have to summon up the courage to take whatever action necessary to stop this evil from occurring again, from hindering your life purpose, before it’s too late. And above all, you must act organically in each situation you encounter. Call up the strength you have stored from these two lifetimes, and know that when the time comes, you will make the right choice.”

  My hands shook in my lap, my voice a mere squeak as I asked her, “How do you know? How are you so certain I’ll make the right choice?”

  “The choice Ruby needed to make the first time around, she wasn’t able to. She didn’t have enough strength. But you, Claudia, you have different values, different strengths than Ruby, and you have been chosen to come back for a reason. You wouldn’t have been sent back if you weren’t strong enough. Trust in your strength. Trust in the inherent knowledge within. But take caution and know that you are up against a mighty force, for an evil soul who has come back to relive their past life possesses not one but two lives’ worth of evil, of resentment, of vengeance. And it is up to you to stop it.”

  Just as she finished speaking, a clock began ticking on the wall behind me, each tick louder than the one before, making me wince at the noise.

  Madame Bouchard’s gaze landed just above my head before she folded her hands in her lap and nodded at me. “I’m afraid our time is up.”

  “But you have to know who wrote the last page of the journal. Was it Thomas? Was it Véronique? Was it François’s wife? And how will I know what choice to make?” I fired my questions at her without taking a breath, not wanting to leave her presence until I had as much information as I could possibly squeeze out of her. But as I heard my own words echoing through the space between us, I realized I already knew her answer.

  You’ll just know.

  She leaned forward once more, her hands resting on mine, and again I caught of whiff of her rose-scented perfume.

  I closed my eyes and breathed it in, letting her scent soak into me, allowing it to penetrate my pores.

  I recalled that first night in the dance studio, when she’d placed Grandma Martine’s necklace on me.

  The necklace.

  Just as I was about to ask her what significance the necklace had in bringing me here, and if she knew if Ruby had actually been involved in Gisèle’s murder, a brush of wind whipped past me, taking with it the strong scent of roses.

  When my gaze searched the candlelit apartment, all I found were eerie shadows dancing around the walls.

  Madame Bouchard had vanished, once again.

  Before I could process what was happening, the wind whipped in circles around my head and the room began to spin. I closed my eyes once more, and there I saw the old woman’s pretty face; her violet eyes transfusing confidence into my bones; her strong, weathered hands reaching out for me. But as I spun faster and faster, her comforting face disappeared, and in its place came bursts of intense light. And when the light became so bright I couldn’t bear it, I finally stopped fighting and allowed its warmth to consume me.

  And there, in my release, I found darkness.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Ruby? Are you okay?”

  I rolled my head to the side, feeling a cool surface press against my burning cheek. Where was I?

  “Ruby, what are you doing on the floor? Did you pass out again?”

  I fluttered my eyes open until they focused on the face in front of me. Large brown doe eyes lined with long, curvy eyelashes batted at me. It was the young, beautiful Delphine, who’d handed me the flowers the night before at the show…who’d been the first to find Gisèle’s murdered body.

  “I…I’m not sure. Where are we?” I asked.
<
br />   “You’re in the dressing room. How long have you been in here? You missed morning rehearsal, and Jean-Pierre’s been looking for you.”

  The burning lightbulbs shining above the mirrors blinded me. How did I get here?

  Pushing myself up to a sitting position, I gazed into the young dancer’s fearful eyes, memories of everything that had just happened flashing through my brain. The bookstore. The journal. The others. Madame Bouchard. Then the spinning.

  I couldn’t remember anything after that. But somehow, I’d woken up here.

  Before I could overanalyze my latest voyage, the old woman’s deep, soothing voice came soaring through my memory.

  Let the mysteries be mysteries. Trust that they have their place in this extraordinary experience, and focus on the events that you can control, which is the reason you’ve been brought here in the end.

  Whatever had happened in between me sitting on her couch and then landing back in the dressing room was definitely a mystery, but I needed to let it go. Plus, if everything she’d said was true, I didn’t have much time, and I surely couldn’t waste another second of it wallowing around in confusion.

  Long green stems stuck out of the wastebasket at my feet, making me remember the bloodred roses and the haunting note that had accompanied them. Delphine crouched closer to me, her dainty hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

  “The roses last night. Who were they from?” I asked her.

  Her eyes darted toward the door. “I…I’m not sure, Ruby. I found them lying on the floor close to the dressing room. Are you okay? Should I call the doctor?”

  I barely heard her questions. All I could think about was the envelope addressed to Claudia.

  I searched Delphine’s face for answers, for the truth. “How did you know those flowers were for me?”

  “What do you mean, how did I know? Your name was on the card, of course.”

  “My name was on the card?”

  “I think we should get you upstairs and call the doctor. I’ll tell Jean-Pierre you’re sick.” Delphine’s gaze darted around the room once more. There was something she wasn’t telling me.

  “I’m not sick,” I snapped, shrugging her hand off of me then lunging toward the trash can. I peered down through the mass of long, prickly stems that stuck out of the bin, searching for the note. It had clearly read Claudia on the front, and I suspected the note had been written in the same slanted handwriting as that last journal entry I’d found.

  When I didn’t see the little white square, I ripped the roses out of the bin one by one and tossed them onto the floor, not caring that the thorns were pricking my fingers, not caring that drops of my own blood were spotting my clothes. I had to find it.

  “Ruby, mais qu’est-ce que tu fais?” What are you doing?

  Finally, at the bottom of the small trash bin, I found what I was looking for.

  Before I looked at it myself, I thrust the envelope in the young girl’s confused face. “Now tell me the truth. Tell me how you knew these flowers were for me. Who gave them to you?”

  Delphine furrowed her eyebrows, causing little lines to stretch across her forehead. “What are you talking about, Ruby? It says your name right here on the envelope.”

  She flipped the envelope around, and there, plain as day, was the name Ruby.

  But that couldn’t be possible. I blinked my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. No matter how many times I blinked, though, the name didn’t change.

  Ruby.

  I turned back to the trash can to look for the note that had been meant for me—for Claudia.

  But when I’d pulled out the square white piece of paper where just the night before I’d clearly read the words I know who you are, all I found this time were two completely blank sides. The writing was gone.

  Just like when the bookstore clerk had looked through the journal and all of the entries were suddenly missing.

  Apparently I could only see the writing when I was alone. Either that or I was heading deeper into the loony bin.

  I gazed back up to Delphine, and the look in her flashing brown eyes made me remember the vision I’d had of the night we’d found Gisèle.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Delphine? Do you know who sent me these roses? Do you know who killed Gisèle?”

  She shot up from the ground, suddenly not so concerned with my well-being. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed her skinny arm before she could flee the scene.

  “I can see it in your eyes. You’re afraid, and you know something. Tell me who is doing this, Delphine.”

  Tears grazed the tips of her long eyelashes as she bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ruby. I found Gisèle right before you did. I have no idea who killed her, and I don’t know who gave you these roses.” She yanked her arm from my grasp. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  Something about her tone, her eyes, her full lips, made me remember her—but again, not from this life. She looked familiar, like someone I knew from my life as Claudia. But how was that possible?

  “Ruby, why are you looking at me like that? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” What’s the matter?

  “Delphine, what’s your last name?”

  She started toward the door without giving me a response.

  “Please, just tell me your last name,” I called after her.

  She stopped at the door, wiping a lone tear from her eye. “You know my last name, Ruby. It’s Marceau.”

  I had to steady myself on the wall to keep from falling over, Édouard’s words from my last night at the dance studio flashing through my confused head.

  When I was growing up in Paris, it was my mother who taught me how to dance. You see, in the fifties, she was a dancer near the famous Latin Quarter of Paris.

  Marceau. Édouard Marceau.

  Her high cheekbones, her charming smile, her full lips.

  Delphine was Édouard’s mother.

  Not sure what to do with this latest revelation, I let out a shaky breath, bent down, and picked up the envelope and the note.

  And even though I’d been half expecting it, the hairs on my arms still stood on end when I found the name Claudia printed where just moments ago I’d seen Ruby. And on the square white piece of paper was the same red, slanted handwriting I’d clearly seen the night before, from someone telling me they knew who I was.

  How? How was all of this happening? How could the words be there when I looked at the note, the envelope, the journal, but when someone else looked—Édouard’s young mother, no less—they were gone? How in the hell was any of this happening?

  Let the mysteries be mysteries.

  Ignoring the fear that threatened to paralyze me, I located my purse lying just a few feet away, underneath a chair. After ransacking its contents, I found that the gun was still in its place, and more important, Madame Bouchard had let me keep the purple past-life journal.

  Flipping to the very last page, I compared the threatening journal entry with the creepy roses note. The deep-red pen color was identical, and the writing was so thick the words seemed to elevate off the page. Besides the color and the thickness, the slants in the penmanship were exactly the same.

  There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that whoever had sent me these roses had also written this journal entry. Which meant that someone had come to Paris specifically to hunt me down and that they knew my real identity. And while I feared it could be Thomas, I wondered how he would know that I’m Claudia, and how his journal entry would be in this book when the only stories found within the tattered journal were from people just like me—people who’d jumped back in time to a past life.

  Did I know Thomas, or a version of him, in my future life?

  And what did Delphine know about all of this? She’d clearly been hiding something.

  Or could it be Véronique? Or François Lefevre’s jealous wife?

  I read over the journal entry once more, stopping on the part that frightened me the most.

&nbs
p; 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.

  Whoever had written this had carried a grievance for me in both of my lives, if that was even possible. But then again, what was possible or impossible at this point? I was reading a journal with words that disappeared when anyone else looked at them. I’d had three encounters with a mysterious old woman who knew about me and the journal, who drank coffee that had magically appeared, and who had somehow sent me to this dressing room where Édouard’s young mother had found me. And I had no clue how I’d even arrived here.

  So, really, who was I to decide what was possible or not?

  The problem—among many others—was that I was now beyond confused trying to piece all of these clues together, trying to stay one step ahead of this person who had traveled here to find me. This person who, if I was reading their message correctly, wanted me dead.

  And whether that person was Thomas or one of the other many suspects, none of it was adding up, and I wouldn’t discover any new information sitting alone in this dressing room. Plus, Antoine would be coming back to my apartment soon, and I couldn’t miss him. There was absolutely nothing in this life I was sure about—except my feelings for Antoine. Just thinking about him released a vat of butterflies in my stomach and made my cheeks and hands and toes tingle. I was madly in love. And while I couldn’t tell him about all of this insane past-life business, I knew that seeing his face would give me hope.

  I tucked the note and the envelope into the journal, noticing how my fingers still tingled just from touching the purple book. Then I squeezed the journal into my bag next to the gun and opened the dressing room door, hoping to slip through the backstage area unnoticed so I wouldn’t have to deal with Jean-Pierre. I didn’t have time for his games.

  But as soon as I emerged, I noticed groups of long-legged dancers huddled around each other, hushed whispers passing back and forth between them. An ominous feeling rose up through my chest as I made my way around the girls and finally spotted Jean-Pierre at the other end of the room, shaking his head and mumbling something under his breath. I took a few steps to the left so I could see who he was speaking with, and there, facing Jean-Pierre, was Detective Duval.