by Robin Wells
“Amélie.” He breathed my name onto my lips as he lowered his mouth to mine.
And then . . . oh mon Dieu! I was swept away, sucked into a whirlpool, lost in a storm of Jack—his mouth, his taste, his hands in my hair—I could not tell where I stopped and he began. I did not want to know. He kissed me as if my lips contained his oxygen, and I was sure his contained mine.
And then . . . the porter rapped on the door.
We jumped apart, as if we’d been hosed by firemen.
“This can’t happen.” Jack rolled off me and sat on the edge of the bed.
I sat up beside him, chagrined at his chagrin. “No. No, you are right.”
“It’s because of this situation. It’s unnatural, having everyone think we’re married.”
“But we are married.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did. He looked at my mouth. I looked at his. Time hung like a still pendant, and the pull toward each other seemed stronger than gravity.
The knock sounded again.
Jack stood and straightened his shirt. “I’d better get that, or else he’ll think we’re . . .”
I grinned. “Doing what we were doing.”
His forehead creased, and his mouth was stern. “We cannot—we must not—do that again.”
But from that moment on, it was all I could think about.
53
AMÉLIE
1946
Nothing further happened that night. Shortly after the porter dropped off the pillows, extra sheets, and vinyl tablecloth, Jack put his tie and coat back on, took his doctor’s bag, and headed out the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I think I should sleep in the sitting room tonight.”
“There is no need. We have the pillows to keep us apart.”
“I fear it might take more than pillows.”
So he left.
The next morning, Mrs. Atkins took me aside on the way to breakfast. Her brow furrowed in a worried frown. “I understand that you and Jack had a lovers’ tiff last night.”
“What?”
“I heard that he slept in the lounge. Everyone in the car knows it. So I figured that you two must have had an argument.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that. He wasn’t sleepy, and he didn’t want to disturb me, so . . .”
She waved her hand impatiently. “There’s no need to pretend with me, dear. I know how it can be. But honey, it’s important that you patch things up right away. You shouldn’t go to bed angry. And you certainly shouldn’t sleep apart!”
“Jack is very stubborn.”
“Well, I’m sure he is. But you can’t let him walk out and sleep elsewhere. You have to nip this in the bud.”
“Nip in the bud? I do not understand.”
“It means you mustn’t let disagreements go too far. That’s the key to a long and successful marriage.”
She looped arms with me as we walked toward the dining car. “I can tell that you love each other very much.”
My head turned toward her in surprise. “You can?”
“Oh, yes. I see the way you look at each other.”
My pulse thrummed in my throat. I feared I was not good at hiding my attraction to Jack, but I didn’t know if it was reciprocated. “Does Jack—look at me that way?”
“Oh, my dear, it is plain that he adores you! Even Wilbur mentioned how smitten Jack seems with you.”
My heart soared at her words.
“And any fool can see that you feel the same about him.”
I numbly nodded. I hadn’t meant to, but I was falling in love with him. How could I not? He was exactly the kind of man I had dreamed of. He was smart, strong, protective, caring, kind, and handsome. He could even be funny when he let himself.
“You know, there’s a great deal of power in the physical side of marriage,” Rose told me. “It smooths over many hurt feelings and harsh words. It’s the best way to show that you forgive and are forgiven, that you accept and are accepted, just as you really are.”
Oh, how I longed to be accepted and forgiven! The closer the train chugged to Whitefish, the heavier guilt weighed on me. How could I perpetrate such a tremendous charade on Doug’s innocent parents? How could I spend my life pretending that I had loved someone I had never known?
How could I stay behind and watch Jack leave? The very thought plunged me into despair.
“That is wise advice, I am sure,” I said. “But Jack is determined to keep his distance from me. I suspect he will once again spend the night in the lounge.”
“Well, I can make sure that doesn’t happen,” she said. “I’ll get the porter to tell him it is against the rules—that each guest must retire to his own quarters after midnight.”
My heart quickened. “Thank you. That will help.”
“And why don’t you let Sue keep the baby tonight? After dinner, Sue can say that Elise was fussy and had trouble falling asleep, that it would be a shame to awaken her to carry her to another room. I know Sue would love it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience her.”
“Nonsense. She asked me if she might keep Elise all night. She adores babies.”
“Well, then . . . all right.”
“And one other thing. A little alcohol helps to boost along amorous impulses.”
“Yes, but Jack usually doesn’t drink.”
“He will if Wilbur toasts to things he cannot refuse to raise a glass to. This is our last night together, so there will be many things to toast. I will see to it.” She smiled at me. “All you need to do is look beautiful and act sweet. When you retire to your cabin after dinner, I daresay all differences and disagreements between you will melt away.”
“Thank you, Rose. You are such a wonderful friend.”
“So are you, dear. So are you.”
54
KAT
2016
I knew it! I knew that she’d deliberately set a trap for Jack. “And so you seduced him?”
Amélie lifts her shoulders. “Call it what you will. Perhaps yes, or perhaps it was mutual. Do you want to hear it, or not?”
“Oh, yes, I want to hear. I want to hear every single detail.”
“Very well. But if you interrupt during this next part, I will stop talking.”
“I will be quiet,” I say, and hold my tongue between my teeth.
55
AMÉLIE
1946
Jack was civil but distant all day. Rose told Jack that she wanted to help me dress for dinner—“I always wanted a daughter, and all I had were rowdy boys!”—so I went to her cabin in the late afternoon.
Rose pulled a dress out of a box filled with delicate tissue paper. It was apricot shantung silk, fitted, very beautiful, and, I’m sure, very expensive.
“Oh, how gorgeous!” I sighed.
“I bought it in New York when I was shopping for my daughters-in-law,” she said. “I’m bringing them both several dresses. I couldn’t decide which one to give this dress to—it isn’t really right for either one of them—but it was so exquisite, I couldn’t pass it up. The moment I saw you, I said to myself, ‘Amélie would look heavenly in that the dress!’ So I really, really want you to have it.”
“Are you sure? It’s divine!”
“I’m certain. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. And let’s have Sue help style your hair.”
When Jack saw me that evening, he froze in his tracks. I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “You, um . . . you look very nice.”
“Doesn’t she?” Rose said. “Dressing her up was more fun than I ever had playing dolls as a girl.”
“Looks like we’ve got a couple of living dolls, doesn’t it, son?” Wilbur winked and smacked Jack on the shoulder. “They smell nice, too.
”
Rose had loaned me her perfume, as well.
Dinner was a high-spirited event. As promised, Wilbur offered toast after toast, keeping my glass and Jack’s glass always topped off. He insisted on ordering after-dinner brandies. At length, Wilbur covered a yawn and said he was ready to turn in. When Jack and I went to Sue’s room to pick up Elise, she suggested that Elise stay the night with her—that she was teething and fussy, and it would be a shame to awaken her to move her. I agreed.
And so Jack and I returned to our room alone. The train was curving its way through the mountains, and I had to hold on to the seats to steady myself as I walked through the car.
“It was a wonderful evening, wasn’t it?” I said as Jack unlocked our little room.
We stepped in and he closed the door. The porter had left a nightlight on. The bed was turned down with extra pillows on the mattress.
“All of Wilbur’s toasts to wives and marriage and happiness made me very uncomfortable,” Jack said, pulling off his jacket and hanging it on the wall-mounted coatrack.
“They think we had a taff because you slept in the lounge last night.”
“A what?”
“A taff. That’s what Rose said.”
He laughed and loosened his tie. “It’s ‘tiff.’ So Rose talked to you about this, hmm? Now all the toasts make sense.” He pulled off his tie. “They are trying to get us to kiss and make up. Is that why she wanted to dress you up?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Well, it was all wasted effort.”
I couldn’t help it. My eyes welled with tears.
“Oh, hell—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You look beautiful. But then, you always do. You don’t need to get gussied up to look breathtaking.”
My tears fell harder.
He stepped closer and wiped my tears. The train jerked.
“Hey—did I hurt your feelings?”
“No. It’s just . . . I hate that the trip is ending.”
“It will all work out in Whitefish. Doug’s parents sounded swell on the phone.”
The train shifted, throwing us together. His hands gripped my arms. His eyes burned into mine in the dim light. The train lurched and the lights flickered. “That isn’t why I’m sad,” I whispered.
The train bumped us closer. The lights blinked again. My heart felt as if it were in my throat. “Is it a sin to desire someone you shouldn’t, even if you are legally married to the one you desire?”
“You shouldn’t ask such things.”
“I have to. If my thoughts will send me to hell, well, I would like to taste heaven first. And your kiss last night—it was like being there.”
“Amélie . . .”
“And we are married. How could it be so wrong?”
The train rounded a bend, and the lights went out. Our arms gripped each other’s, and we inched closer, and then, somehow, our lips met in the dark. It was a match striking flint over the driest kindling. Instant sparks, instant heat, instantly leaping to uproarious flames.
After a long, drugged kiss, he pulled away enough to whisper in my ear. “If we continue, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. My self-control is all worn down, I’ve had too much to drink, and I’m barred from staying in the lounge tonight. We’re playing with fire.”
“I am burning for you already, and I am not playing,” I whispered.
“Amélie . . .” His lips reclaimed my mouth. His fingers found the zipper on my dress. I unbuttoned his shirt, eager to feel his skin against mine.
His chest was hard and muscular, covered with soft springy hair. I had never felt a man’s naked chest before, and I thrilled at the difference between his body and mine. The dim light flickered back on. He edged my open dress off my shoulders. The silk pooled at my feet, along with my slip. I stepped out of the garments as we edged our way to the bed, still kissing. It was only a matter of inches to the mattress in that cramped room. Together we fell on it. He reached around and unhooked my bra, then slid it off.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, gazing at my breasts. “So beautiful.”
His hand cupped me, and his mouth followed. A bolt of pleasure shot straight south as he kissed and fondled each breast.
I moaned, and his hand moved to my thigh. He unfastened my garters, then pulled off my stockings, rolling them down gently. He kissed his way back up my leg, his five-o’clock shadow a thrilling scruff against my skin. When he reached my inner thighs and pulled off my panties, I thought I would die of pleasure.
And then he was over me, his lips on mine. I unfastened his belt buckle. He pulled away for a moment to shuck off his pants, as well as his underwear.
I had never seen a naked man, much less one who was aroused. I was fascinated and slightly terrified as I watched him cross the room and pull a packet of something from his doctor’s bag. However would he fit inside me?
The mattress dipped as he rejoined me on it, and his lips reclaimed mine. His kisses moved to my neck, my ears, then down to my breasts, spending equal time on each. And then he kissed his way down my belly, down to the part of me that was throbbing for him.
He kissed me there, his fingers working some kind of magic. I was at first embarrassed, but I was soon too enthralled by the sensations to remain self-conscious. I gave myself over to the delicious feelings, to the growing sense of tension and desire. He coaxed something from my body that I did not know it could do, something wild and full and beyond my control. It gave me an exquisite sense of release and joy. I lay there, panting and weak and sated.
He kissed his way back up my body to my mouth. I reached for his shaft. It was hard as steel, but so warm, with such warm, soft skin. It jerked as my hand enfolded it.
“Amélie—” His voice was a raw croak. “I can’t wait.”
“I don’t want you to,” I whispered.
He turned away for a moment. I heard a rip of foil, and then he was back over me, covering me, sliding into me.
The sensation—the opening, the filling, the gentle expansion—made me tremble with pleasure. I unfolded to him, giving him slow access to the softest, most vulnerable, most loving parts of me. I was riding on a cloud of delectable pleasure—until, suddenly, I was pierced by a sharp stab of pain.
Oh, mon Dieu! I felt as if I were being ripped in two. I tried not to cry out, but Jack sensed something was wrong.
He froze inside me. I feared he would pull out, that I wouldn’t be able to give him the pleasure he had given me—and I deeply, achingly wanted to give him that pleasure. Biting my inner lip, I gripped him tighter and remembered what Yvette had told me: Men love it if you move beneath them. I pushed my hips forward. Jack responded with an answering thrust, so I did it again and again, and his body seemed to completely take over. At length he tensed and gave a low moan.
He lay atop me, spent, for a long moment. In that moment, I felt a sense of completeness, of contentment, of all-encompassing love—a wholeness of body and soul that I had never known, not even before the war.
And then he rolled off me. His eyes glowed with a soft light I had never seen there before. “Jesus, Amélie,” he said. “It’s almost as if you were a virgin.”
My guard was down, and he must have read the truth on my face. He abruptly sat up and stared at the sheet between us. I followed his gaze to a spot of blood.
He jumped from the bed as if it were full of snakes. “Good God. You were a virgin!”
I was too stunned to think quickly enough come up with a cover story. I hadn’t thought of this.
I could see his scientific mind rolling through the ramifications. “Damn it all to damnation.” He pulled off the condom, then stared at it as he strode to the trash by the sink. “Oh, no. Oh, hell! Freaking bloody hell!” He hit the sink with his palm, so hard it made the wall jerk. “Bloody, bastard-soaked, rotting hellfire hell!”
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“You’re a friggin’ virgin, and I think the condom busted!”
“It . . . busted?”
“Broke. Ripped. Tore.” The train rocked around a bend, and the lights went out. “I hope it broke when I started to pull it off, but it sure as hell seemed like it was already busted.” The lights blinked off again while he did something at the sink. When they blinked back on, he was beside me with a damp washcloth. He handed it to me. His eyes were hot coals in a face drained of color.
“Good God, Amélie.” I could see the wheels turning in his brain. He stared at me as if I had suddenly sprouted horns, or another head. “If you’re a virgin, you’re not Elise’s mother.”
A lump the size of the Eiffel Tower formed in my throat.
“Which means you couldn’t have had Doug’s baby.” His voice was rising in volume, but getting lower and more guttural with every word. “You were never with Doug!”
“No,” I whisper.
“Holy fuck!”
It struck me that I had never before heard him use this word. But before tonight, I had never even heard him say damn.
He loomed in front of me, his face a terrifying thundercloud. “So tell me this, Amélie—and you better goddamned tell me the truth.”
I leaned back against the wall, clutching the covers.
“Who the hell are you, and who the hell’s baby do you have?”
56
AMÉLIE
1946
I had no other option, so I told him the truth.
We stayed awake most of the night. I explained that I was the daughter of a linguistics professor, that I had grown up in Paris with my brothers, and that I had known Yvette all my life. I told him all about the beginning of the war and meeting Joshua, then fleeing Paris. I told him about losing my parents and my home. I described life in occupied Paris, the fear, the hunger, the desperation. I told him about working for la Résistance, about Pierre. I told him about becoming une femme tondue, about Yvette’s pregnancy and death.
He seemed to be sympathetic. He seemed to be softening. “And how does Doug fit into all this?”
