A small plate, over-filled with macarons, appeared in her line of vision. She offered what she could of a smile to the first, and best friend she’d made in Paris. “Jacques. Are you trying to cheer me up?”
“Do you need cheering, mon chairie?”
“Ma chérie,” Willa corrected. “You’re even worse at French than I am. And with a French name, no less.”
The slender man settled onto the chair across from her, plucked a pale pink macaron from the plate and took a dainty bite. After he swallowed, he grinned and spoke with his usual deep cockney accent. “Mother always did love the French men. Can’t say I blame her there. Name got me into many fights when I was little.”
“You’re liable to get in more fights if you don’t start pronouncing words correctly.” Unable to resist one of her favorite pastries, Willa chose a macaron.
“Like this?” Jacques asked and motioned for the waiter. When the somber man moved to their table, Jacques spoke rapidly, hands gesturing with fluid motions. The waiter nodded turned toward the kitchen.
Willa dropped her macaron back on the plate. “That sounded perfect. And so fast I couldn’t follow.”
Jacques leaned back and grinned.
She swatted at his arm. “You faker. You speak French just fine.”
“Oui, mon ami. Mother insisted. But I’ve discovered there are benefits to pretending. It’s gotten me many things I may never have experienced otherwise.”
“Men you mean.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps.”
“Don’t play sly with me, my friend.”
“I won’t, Willa. If you tell me what’s got you so upset.”
Now it was her turn to shrug as she retrieved her macaron and bit into the crispy treat to keep from having to answer. She’d tell Jacques eventually; he was her only confidant at the school. She just didn’t know if now was the time.
Pointing to the letter before her, Jacques arched one eyebrow. “A letter from Colorado. From your lover.”
She nodded.
“And he has told you something upsetting?”
Another nod. Maybe her friend would have insight on the situation. If nothing else, he always was a good sounding board. “You remember that just before I left Colorado, his wife announced she was pregnant?”
At Jacques’ silent encouragement, she continued. “Turns out, she’d made up the pregnancy, probably hoping to chase me away. Not that I believe she wants Jakob. He’s a challenge because she can’t control every aspect of his life. No matter how devious her plans are. Now, he wants to come to Europe to see me.”
“And that is a bad thing because...?”
She lifted one finger. “First, that would play right into her hands. I can’t imagine what she might do, but she’d be sure to ruin him and his business. As long as she wasn’t caught in the fallout.” She held up a second finger. “Even without the Margeurite drama, Jakob’s lodge is nearly complete. He needs to be there to handle any last-minute issues, and to welcome the first guests personally. Now is not the time to leave any part of the process up to her control.”
Drawing a deep breath, Willa stared at her hand. After a moment, Jacques curled his fingers around hers and rested their joined hands on the table. “And there is a third reason. More important than the others. Tell me. You know it will go no further than this table.”
“I know.” Who better to keep her secret than someone who already withheld a major portion of his life from the world? While she didn’t want anyone to have to carry her burden, sharing the circumstances might help her make the right decisions for her future. And Jacques already knew more about her past than most.
“I’m pregnant.”
Jacques’ eyes widened and he froze, macaron lifted half way to his mouth. Then he nodded and took a bite. “Makes perfect sense,” he said around the cookie.
“This makes sense?”
“Well, in a weird, crazy sort of way. His wifey pretended to be pregnant while his lover ran away to Europe.”
“I did not run away.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Didn’t you? Oh, that’s right. You suddenly were accepted to the school that has been holding a space for you for a year.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Like what, Willa? Oh, I dig your reasons. Can’t say that I might not have done the same. If you can’t be honest with me, at least be honest with yourself. You ran away.”
Willa ducked her head. “You’re right. Being with Jakob had gotten too hard. I don’t know when it happened, but I started feeling like a mistress rather than his lover. I know, there’s not much difference. Maybe I’m just weird.”
“Subtle, but there are differences, mon choupette. Perhaps not anything we can put into words, but the feeling is there. Am I right?”
(willa’s feelings, jakob can’t come here, M would ruin him, what to do, what to do? Fill in later)
Jacques slapped his palm against the table. Willa gasped and dropped the papers she’d gathered then glared at him when he chuckled. “I know what you need.”
“Really? And what’s that?” Hopefully he did have an idea to help get her out of her funk. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t make the decisions needed to protect her future. And that of her baby. Jakob’s baby. She retrieved the letter, stuck it into her pocket and sighed. “Isn’t moving to Paris enough of a change? Starting a new life without Jakob a change?”
“Mon Dieu, Willa. I’m suggesting nothing so drastic. Although, it could be life altering. One never knows. No, a small change. Something that... I know. Cut your hair.”
Willa lifted her hand to her hair and fingered the braid flopped over her shoulder. But Jakob loved it long.
“I know what you’re thinking. That man of yours likes long hair, doesn’t he? What better way to make a new start than to rid yourself of that memory? No, forgive me. Not the memory. The... ah, the association to what was. Besides, once the summer humidity sets in, you’ll thank me.”
“Cut my hair? But I haven’t done that in years. What style should I choose? I don’t know, Jacques.”
He tapped his finger against his cheek and stared across the parkway toward the river Seine. “Hmm. Oh, I know. Remember you liked that actress in A Study in Terror? You even commented on her short-bobbed hair.”
“Judi Dench?”
“That’s her. You have much the same facial structure. You would look smashing in that Mod cut, love.”
She hesitated and studied the people passing the café. Cutting her hair would be a change. Something easy. A bit of pampering she wouldn’t be able to afford or take time for when raising a child on her own. It was a start. Besides, there was no life for her back in Colorado—she was an expat now. Time to start living toward the future instead of peering back into a past she’d created with her choices. (needs to be a bit different)
She turned back to Jacques and gave a slow nod. “But only if you come with me.”
Later that evening she donned her shortest skirt to go with her new short, bouncy haircut and met Jacques for a walk along the river. In the hours since she’d told him about the baby, he’d been silent when she needed space to think and chatty when she needed to escape her own thoughts. She’d been lucky when Jacques chose her to (be his friend—or something painting school worthy)
Only Jakob knew her so well.
Her friend had insisted they spend the evening before supper walking along the Seine, to show off her new look. He was gracious and kind, knowing instinctually she should be alone with her thoughts. Jacques was the kind of man who would be easy to fall in love with. She grinned and added a mod blush pink to her lips. Too bad she wasn’t his type.
She met him in the lobby of their apartment building and did a twirl and pose for his benefit. Then he tucked her hand in his and after a few compliments, strolled in silence until they reached the river walk. The comfort of having a friend washed over her and she relaxed the tightness that had b
ecome a constant companion in her shoulders.
“Thank you for today.”
Jacques took a step back and bowed. “My pleasure, love. Shall we make our way to the tower?”
“At least to the Pont des Arts. Let’s pick up bread and cheese for a picnic.”
“And wine?”
Willa chuckled. “For you. My stomach is a little queasy. I’ll stick with sparkling water.”
“You know drinking water in Paris is almost a sacrilege.”
“At least it’s French water. Jacques?”
“Yes?”
She took a deep breath to voice the concern that had been growing in her mind the past few hours. “What if Jakob finds out and comes here?”
“Would be a total bummer. How would he find out?”
They descended the stone steps to the river walk. “I might let something slip in a letter. He's excellent at reading between the lines, knowing what others aren’t saying. That’s part of what makes him an excellent businessman.”
“And would that slip be accidental or on purpose?” He chuckled then a serious expression smoothed his face. “If he was suspicious, he’d show up on your doorstep without warning. Not a good thing. For so many reasons.”
“I don’t know how I’d handle that. If I could deal with seeing him. What should I do? Help me figure this out. Please.” She hated the needy tone to her words and feared her desperation might chase away her friend.
He stared at her thoughtfully for a few moments. “I’m not giving up on you, Willa. We will figure this out. Together, if you will let me. Now, love, I’m parched. Let’s grab our picnic and find a bit of shade.”
Following Jacques, Willa sent a silent thank you skyward. Her fear and apprehension faded. Oh, those emotions would be back with a vengeance later, when she was alone, along with the questions and possibilities. For this evening she’d do her best to set them aside to enjoy and experience the flow of the city from day to the bright lights of the night.
They nibbled on bread and cheese near the Pont des Arts, making up stories about the multitude of padlocks placed along the footbridge by lovers. Each lock held a story and the lovers’ dreams and if Jakob were hers, she’d fasten a thick padlock to the bridge and throw the key into the Seine. But he wasn’t hers, not completely. With more than just herself to be concerned with, it was time to really and finally move on.
“Can we go?” she asked.
Jacques canted his head to peer at her then emptied his glass and silently packed away the last of their picnic. Hand in hand, they continued their silent walk until they reached the ornate Pont Alexandre III where he pulled them to a stop and turned her to face him.
“I have a solution. I’m going to marry you.”
Twenty minutes later, feeling as raw emotionally as her throat was from arguing, Willa offered up her last defense against the idea. “You’ll be giving up a life of your own.”
Jacques snorted delicately. “Even if I were to fall in love, we could never marry. I will make this promise to you, love. Should the right man come along, our arrangement will be up for discussion. But until then...”
“Do you really think if we got married Jakob would stay away. Wouldn’t be suspicious?”
“I may be a different sort of man than your Jakob, yet we both have a sense of honor. If he believes you’ve chosen to move on, he will grant you that possibility. He’ll be bummed out, angry and hurt. You don’t want him to feel that way, but he has to in order for this to work. We have to make him believe we’re in love.”
“I do love you, Jacques.”
“And I you, my lovely Willa. Just not in the way we need him to believe.”
“I’m still not sure about this, but how would we go about making our marriage believable?”
He held up one finger. “Do you have your little camera?”
“Of course, it’s always in my bag.” She dug the instamatic from her bag and held it out to him.
“Put on a big smile, love. You and me together starts now.” Widening his grin, he walked a few steps to where a middle-aged couple watched the setting sun. “Excuse me?”
The man turned with a question in his expression.
“Do you speak English?” Jacques asked.
“Sure do. Can I help y’all with somethin’?”
Jacques angled back toward Willa and blew her a kiss. “My girlfriend—no, my fiancee—she just said yes. Would you take our picture? We want to capture our moment here in Paris.”
Smiling, the woman tugged on her husband’s arm. He nodded and took the camera. “Be glad to, son. With the tower in the background?”
“Yes, please. Thank you. Thank you.”
When Jacques practically skipped back to her, Willa frowned. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
“Au contraire, my sweet. Paris is for lovers, is it not? We must play the part to make the photo believable because your Jakob won’t want to believe it. Come now, Willa. Be my joy-filled bride to be.”
She allowed him to tug her against his side and sought to make her smile natural. He tickled her side, and she laughed. Maybe she could do this. Maybe their ruse would work.
“Aren’t they the cutest?” the woman said as the man took a photo.
At Jacques’ nod, he took a couple more. “Just to be sure. We want this day recorded properly. Congratulations, you two.”
“We hope your lives together will be as happy as ours have been,” the woman added. She tugged again on her husband’s sleeve, drawing him away. “Let’s leave the lovebirds alone, shall we. I’d like a closer look at the tower.”
Keeping Willa’s hand securely in his, Jacques walked to the bridge railing and leaned over to peer down into the dark, late evening waters of the Seine. “Well, we’ve done it now.”
“You don’t need to go through with this. We could pretend. Say we got married but don’t.”
He arched his expressive eyebrows. “And you think your Jakob will believe that without proof. A photo isn’t proof—unless it’s a picture of the wedding certificate. No, love, we’re going to do this. And soon. You know how people love to count months. We’ll have to have begun our relationship shortly after you arrived.”
“You’ve got this all figured out.” Though her doubts rose higher than the Eiffel tower, she was glad he’d taken the lead in his plan. She wanted to drag her feet hoping some less drastic solution would present itself. “Are you sure? Completely sure? I can’t begin to imagine how this would change your life.”
He covered a deep sigh with a cocky grin. “Neither do I. We both know what we want—and don’t want in our lives. We can work this out. Tomorrow we’ll see if there is a two-bedroom apartment available. If anyone questions why newlyweds need two bedrooms, we’ll claim the need for studio space for two. No need to bring up the baby unless we have to. Then we’ll find out how one actually does get married in Paris.”
Willa threw her arms around him and when he returned her tight hug, spoke against his chest. “I can’t ask you to sacrifice your life just to help me.”
He stroked her back before tangling his fingers through her new haircut and tilting her head back. He kissed the tip of her nose. “I volunteered.”
January
1965
Willa woke to a soft voice repeating her name. Her stomach roiled and she swallowed against the need to vomit. Finally feeling in control, she opened her eyes and blinked repeatedly to focus. An older female face filled her vision, growing clearer with each blink. Was it over?
The woman smiled and held up a blanket wrapped bundle. “Madame, votre bébé.”
Nausea under control, Willa stared at the newborn. Her baby. Jakob’s baby,
“Un garçon” The midwife lay the child in Willa’s arms and stepped back, allowing Jacques to take her place at the side of the bed.
Willa returned his wide grin, then together they pulled back the blanket to examine the tiny toes and perf
ect little fingers. The baby moved restlessly, opening and closing his rosebud mouth.
Jacques stroked the dark hair. “So soft.”
“How are you here? I didn’t think they’d allow you to visit so soon.”
He waggled his brows. “I have my ways. Too much of a bummer not to see this little guy right away.” Then he leaned closer and kissed Willa’s forehead. “You did good, love.”
She returned to examining her son. Yes, she had. She searched for Jakob in the tiny features, both hoping and dreading concrete evidence of her baby’s father. Now that the baby was here, her life would change yet again.
The midwife had drawn Jacques to the desk at the far side of the small room. He and Willa had had many discussions, and even a few arguments over what would happen when the baby was born. He’d done so much to legitimize her son, and help her deal with the fallout from Jakob’s anger over their marriage. When Jakob had accused her of betraying him—fine words from a married man to his lover—Jacques had written a scathing letter in return. In many ways, her two men were very similar. Yet so very different.
The midwife was filling out the birth record and the low rumble of Jacques’ voice saying the name they’d chosen comforted her. They’d considered many names, making sure that there were no possible connections to any of their families. Sean Samuels. A good name. A strong name. Her son would grow to fulfill the promise of that name. She grinned as tiny fingers wrapped around one of hers. Whatever that promise might turn out to be.
“Le nom du père?”
Without pause, Jacques spoke the name clearly. “Jakob Thomas Spencer.”
The midwife lifted her questioning gaze to Jacques. Willa drew a breath. His name was to go on the certificate. They’d decided that months ago. She didn’t need a slip of paper to tell her who fathered her son. That man wouldn’t be father to Sean. Jacques would. His name belonged on the record.
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