Yesterday's Promise

by Cheryl St. John

  But Jacques lifted one finger and shook his head at her. Then he used his finger to point at the certificate. “Jakob, avec un k, Thomas Spencer.” He kept his finger and his gaze on the page while the midwife filled in the information. Then he smiled widely at her. “Merci.”

  Willa felt the weight of his smile along with the possibilities as he returned to her bedside.

  “We talked about that,” she whispered. “Agreed that you would be listed as the father.”

  “You agreed. I did not. Be real, love. There may come a time when Sean’s father will need to know the truth. Or Sean needs to know. This simply makes it easier.”

  “But what if someone discovers the certificate and uses it to blackmail Jakob? Or us?”

  “You’re thinking of the wife, aren’t you?”

  With Margaurite anything was possible. Willa tightened her arm around her newborn and nodded.

  With a sigh, Jacques dragged a stool next to the bed and sat. He leaned on the mattress and stroked the baby’s cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to this little one. Or you. I take this part of our agreement, of our family very seriously. Let’s not borrow trouble, shall we? I dare say we’ll be in enough hot water learning how to care for this tiny boy. Ah, yes, love. You did good.”

  At the sound of a clearing throat, he glanced over his shoulder to where the midwife hovered in the doorway. The woman made a sharp motion and Jacques waved away her command. “Looks like I’m being chased from your side. I suppose I should follow the rules occasionally.”

  Willa took his hand and pressed his palm against her cheek. “I can never thank you enough for everything you’ve done, the sacrifices you’ve made for me. For a child you had no part in.”

  “That bit will change. I plan to be a proud and doting papa. Know that I’m serious when I say this, Willa. We—the three of us—are a family. I will do everything in my power to honor, protect and provide for this family. Now, I may run a bit wild and chase after my own desires on occasion, but I will always come home. I will always be there for you. You do believe me, don’t you, love?”

  It was that honor and dedication to purpose, along with a deep friendship that had convinced her to agree to his wild plan all those months ago. She nodded and snuggled the baby closer as the midwife moved to the other side of the bed.

  The woman worked her mouth a moment as if tasting her words then spoke slow, heavily accented English. “Time for baby to sleep. Come back later. Father go now. You rest.”

  Lifting his hands in defeat, Jacques laughed. “You win, madame.” He kissed the top of the baby’s head then brushed his lips across Willa’s. “I’ll be back later, too. Call if there is anything I can bring you.”

  “My sketchpad?”

  He laughed and gave a jaunty salute. “Ever the artist. And a new set of charcoals to celebrate, love.”

  Reluctant to let Sean go, Willa allowed the midwife to take him then closed her eyes, settling onto the uncomfortable bed. Imagining how Jakob would react to his son took her down many pathways, and sleep came slowly. With a ruthless shake of her head, she dismissed those possibilities, replacing them with the contentment of life with Sean and Jacques.

  Her new future began today.

  Late Summer

  1971

  Willa swirled the last tiny bit of color onto a small canvas then stepped back and squinted at her latest creation. For the past two years she’d been struggling to perfect a form of the photorealism technique, making her paintings appear as high-quality photographs. She was close. So close.

  After washing out her brushes, she rolled her shoulders and grimaced at the pull of tight muscles. She’d been at the easel for longer than usual. Perhaps she could cajole Jacques into giving her a shoulder rub when he got home. She passed two additional easels as she left the cramped studio space. Although an excellent representation of the style, Jacques’ latest minimalistic canvas failed to capture her interest. The much smaller easel that held their son’s latest scribbles made her grin. As the boy’s artistic attempts always did.

  She glanced at the clock and gave a soft chuckle. Jacques was rarely out this late. Hopefully he was having a pleasurable enough time to not be concerned about the clock. Good for him.

  As she turned toward the bedroom she shared with her son, a firm knock sounded on the door. A frown tightened her forehead. Even in Paris it was late for visitors. Perhaps Jacques forgot his key. The frown remained when she cracked open the door.

  One of the two officiers de police took a step back and cleared his throat. The other focused on a spot above the doorway.

  Willa’s heart stopped for a moment then returned with a fierce, hard beat. “Puis-je vous aider?”

  “You are madame Samuels?”

  Thank God he spoke english. Even after nearly seven years in France, Willa still had some difficulties with the language. She opened the door wider and indicated for the men to enter. “Yes.”

  The first officer drew a small photograph from his pocket. “I apologize. This is not a sight I would wish you to see, but we need to know. Is this your husband?”

  Dreading what she might see, she took the photo. Her hand shook. The instamatic picture showed the face of a man, bruised and bloody. Jacques’ face. Willa bit her lip in an effort to control the pain rising from her chest. Legs no long supporting her, she reached back to brace her free hand against the back of a chair. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Oui, madame. My condolences.”

  After a long look at the face that appeared so peaceful even with the evidence of a beating, she returned the photo. “What happened?”

  The officer stared at his feet and rolled his shoulders. Even with the numbness of shock creeping over her, a moment of compassion for the officers made her touch the man’s arm. How horrible it must be to have the duty of bringing this kind of news to a family.

  The man’s face remained stoic, but his eyes offered her his understanding and appreciation. “A gang has been targeting men along Rue Sainte Anne. Your husband attempted to stop one such attack.”

  So like Jacques. “Is the other man...” She couldn’t say the words.

  “He is in the hospital with minor injuries. We suspect the gang’s anger focused on monsieur Samuels when he intervened.” He paused, uncomfortable again with his duty, but offered her the hint of a satisfied smile. “The attackers have been arrested and will face full charges. Such attacks are not tolerated.”

  “Merci. I appreciate knowing that.”

  “Is there someone we can call for you, to come be with you? Officier (name) will remain here with you until then.”

  Willa drew a deep breath. She couldn’t think of any of their friends who she’d want hovering over her now. Perhaps in the morning when reality set in. Now, she just needed to be alone. She slumped onto the chair. Dear lord, how was she going to tell Sean his papa was gone?

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. My son is asleep in the next room. I don’t want to disturb him. No, I’m fine. Thank you again.”

  He gave her a doubting look. “If you are sure?”

  In that moment, she wasn’t sure of anything. Jacques had been her strength, given her encouragement and the courage to carry on when life threw shit at her. But never this much. And not like this.

  Finally convincing the officers to leave, she closed the door and moved to the center of the room. Her legs gave way and she collapsed to the floor. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. Tears flooded her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. She could be strong when there were others around, but when alone the magnitude of (everything ) was too much. What do I do now? Without you?

  A soft touch, like Jacques’ kiss, brushed across her forehead. A warm blanket of calm surrounded her. She felt him. He was with her, would always watch over her and their son.

  She allowed her tears to flow, accepting the etheric comfort for a long time before sniffing back her emotions and rising
. No sleep for her tonight. There were plans to make and a new future to face.

  Ten days later, Jacques was laid to rest next to his mother in England.

  An hour before she and Sean were scheduled to board a plane for the United States, Willa stood alone at the gravesite.

  “Your son is very brave, Jacques. So very strong and like you. And he is like Jakob, as well. Stubborn and hot tempered. I hope I can raise him to be a good man, a combination of the best of both of you. I don’t know how. But I’ll try.

  “You were, you are what keeps me grounded. Now I face a future filled with possibilities that I can’t even imagine. Is it wrong for me to go back to Colorado? What will happen when I do? I can’t stay in Paris without you. Even these past few days have dulled my joy, my memories of our time there. It’s not just the fresh pain of your absence. And I refuse to mar Sean’s memories of you, of us with my own doubts.”

  Biting her lip to contain a fresh flow of tears, Willa stared into the overcast sky. She waited for something. A sign she was doing the right thing. Another of the precious few moments when she felt Jacques’ essence surrounding her. Anything.

  A cool breeze tousled her hair. “Whether I feel you or not, I know you’ll be watching over us. You always have, love. I love you.”

  She lifted the flowers she carried to her nose and inhaled the sweet fragrance. Jacques had taken to wearing a white carnation at his collar, an odd affectation that had become his trademark look.

  A white rose. He’d brought a fresh rose to her every day in the hospital after Sean was born, and once a week ever since. A smile tugged at her sadness. Despite his protestations, he was a true romantic.

  And a bright daisy. Their son.

  After taking a careful step forward, she lay the three white flowers on the disturbed earth, sighed and turned toward the future.

  Early Fall 1988

  Spencer, Colorado

  Willa stood in the midst of piles of packing boxes and crated art work. A dream was finally coming true. After returning to the states, she’d set up a small studio in Denver. From there she’d perfected her style and sold hundreds of paintings, enabling her to save enough money to buy this old building in downtown Spencer.

  A gallery and studio filled the ground level and the upstairs apartment was far roomier than any she’d lived in previously. The pride of success filled her. She’d done this on her own. This was hers.

  She ducked her head and grinned at the wooden plank floor. That needed refinishing. There was a mountain of work to do before she’d open the doors to the public. And if the workload brought her down, mountains waited for her not far outside town. Granted, getting into the mountains from Denver was easy enough. Here in her home town, she was surrounded by the grandeur and comfort.

  It didn’t hurt that Jakob was much closer here, too.

  She sighed. The closeness would make it more difficult for them. No one cared about Jakob’s coming or going in Denver. Here, the whole town watched his every move. Everyone’s moves. Spencer was a small town after all. She would be circumspect and expect the same from Jakob.

  The creak of the storefront door made her turn and smile at her son. “So what do you think?”

  “It’s great, Mom.” He entered and shut the door. “I hate to leave you with this mess. But Marie’s not feeling the best and I want to get her home before it gets too late.”

  Willa remembered the discomfort of being eight months pregnant. Sympathy for her daughter-in-law made her cross the room to kiss Sean’s cheek. “Get going. And take good care of Marie and my grandbaby.”

  “Uh, Mom, we wanted to see if something was okay.”

  Concern replaced the sympathy. “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh no. Everything’s fine. Great in fact. We just wanted to ask if it was okay—if the baby is a boy—to name him after Dad.”

  The magnitude of the request kept Willa silent. Jacques would be so proud, so honored. But... “Jacques isn’t a common name in Colorado. Your dad was teased about it when he was little.”

  “Yeah, Marie thought of that, too. And has a great solution. We’ll use a more common, American form of the name. Jackson. What do you think?”

  She rolled the name around in her mind. It was a good choice. A soft, cool touch like a passing breeze caressed her forehead. Sending a silent thank you heavenward, she smiled. “I think that’s lovely. A perfect way to honor Jacques. He would be so proud. So very proud of you.”

  Sean’s expression relaxed. “Good. Thanks, Mom. I’ll call when we get home, okay?” He hugged her and spoke softly. “I wish you would have stayed in Denver at least until after the baby is born.”

  “I know, dear. There’s a part of me wishing that, too. I’m not so far away here. Call when she goes into labor and I’ll be there as fast as I can drive.”

  He shook his finger at her. “Not over the speed limit. You be careful. Remember, I’ve ridden with you my whole life. I know.”

  So, she enjoyed a little speed on the highway. Everyone needed a little recklessness in their lives. “Get going. Love you both.”

  With a final wave, Sean left her alone in her new world. If she’d have taken the brown paper down from the window, she could have watched them drive away. The final bits of energy she had saved from the move faded. Tomorrow was soon enough to tackle the cleaning. Maybe tonight she’d draw up a few floorplans for the gallery. That way she’d at least be a little productive.

  A soft knock on the building’s rear door stopped her from crossing the room. A rush of anticipation made her heart beat faster. He wouldn’t be here already, would he?

  She pulled back the paper on the door’s window and peeked into the shadows of a small overhang. Jakob’s smile greeted her. He pointed up then mounted the exterior stairs to the apartment. Racing up the interior stairs, Willa rushed to fling open the door and draw him inside.

  “Are you an idiot? It’s the middle of the day. Someone could have seen you.”

  “A lodge employee dropped me off a couple blocks away. He’ll be back later. Much later.” He handed her a long, white floral box.

  “What’s this?”

  “Welcome back to Spencer, Willa. We’re glad you’ve come home.”

  “We?”

  “Spencer’s trying to build up our tourist trade and your gallery is a great addition to the town. And...” He pulled her close for a kiss that stole her breath.

  Aching to be closer still, but not wanting to crush the flowers, Willa took a short step back. “I’d better put these in water.”

  A bemused grin and twinkling emerald green eyes nearly drew her back to him. These short moments, all they’d had for years, were precious to her. The dark thought continually chasing her happiness grew stronger. Now that she had returned to Spencer, they needed to be even more cautious and not provide fuel for any gossip fires. She could do this. They would do this.

  “This won’t take long,” she whispered.

  “Good.”

  She tore her gaze from his and turned toward the kitchen. With no idea what box her few vases were in she set the box on the counter and retrieved a tall canning jar the previous owner had left under the sink. She’d get the flowers in water then arrange them properly once Jakob had gone. She opened the box and gasped at the huge assortment of roses in many colors.

  “They’re beautiful.”

  Jakob came to stand beside her. “They pale in comparison when next to you, sweetheart.”

  She glanced sideways at him. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Nope, Ethel. Only you.”

  Ethel? What was he... oh. Willa laughed. Years ago they’d been watching old Lucy reruns and had stared called each other by the neighbor’s names. “If you say so, Fred.”

  Jakob joined in her laughter. “I’m glad you remember.”

  They chatted about the past as she pulled the roses from the box one by one and handed them to Jakob to place in
the water-filled jar. After handing off the last of the fragrant roses, she started to crumple the damp tissue paper. A soft lump hidden in one corner of the box made her pause.

  “What’s this?” Willa removed the light bundle and held it up to Jakob.

  He shrugged. “A wad of paper?”

  Narrowing her eyes at him, Willa set the (package) on the counter. He had better not have done something stupid. She pulled back the tissue to discover a white carnation, the stem cut short as though waiting to be made in to a boutonniere. “Oh, my.”

  Jakob leaned over her shoulder. “A carnation? How did that get in there?”

  Willa didn’t know how, but she understood the message. White carnations had shown up in odd places whenever she faced tough decisions or seemingly unscalable mountains of problems. Jakob was too pragmatic to believe in messages from the dead. But she wouldn’t hide the truth of Jacques’ signs of approval, no matter how foolish Jakob might think her.

  “I know you’ll think this is silly.”

  “Try me.”

  “It probably fell into the box from the florist’s workbench. Because Jacques liked to wear a white carnation. Even on a tee shirt. Since his death, whenever I’ve been troubled by something and have made a difficult decision, somehow, somewhere a white carnation shows up. It’s him telling me I’ve made the right choice.”

  Crossing his arms, Jakob leaned a hip against the counter. A hint of sadness dulled his bright eyes. “Yeah. Right. Okay. What does this one mean?”

  The decision to move to Spencer was the correct one to make at this point in her life. She didn’t need confirmation, but appreciated the loving gesture. “That coming back here is the next step in my life.”

  “You still love him, don’t you?”

  “Of course. But that has nothing to do with—"

  “Do you wish he was still alive? Uh, warming your bed?”

  She bit back a chuckle at Jakob’s pout. Dear lord, he was jealous of a dead man. Maybe it was time to finally set the record straight. Perhaps that was the message Jacques was conveying through his gift. Willa stood in front of Jakob and rested her palms against his chest. His heart beat strong and fast under her fingers.