Forever His (3 page)

She had promised herself she would tell her family the truth before they all flew home.

To top off the dress, she had chosen a favorite hat from her collection: a sixties pillbox in a particularly florid shade of pink, accented with a pair of antique brooches. She wore her blunt-cut red hair in a tight chignon, purposely revealing flawless makeup and her most cheerful smile. No one should be able to tell that anything was wrong.

Celine glanced at her watch again. Forty-three minutes until she could escape to her room.

Aunt Patrice and Uncle Edouard had laid out a lavish New Year’s Eve buffet on lace-draped tables. Party guests chatted between nibbles of escargots bathed in butter and garlic, savory
bricelet
crackers topped with caviar—beluga, of course—and tiny sea-urchin
soufflés d’oursins
served in the shells. Celine hadn’t eaten a bite.

Forty-two minutes.

Brilliant light from chandeliers and candelabra glowed along the dark Renaissance paneling. The festive room overflowed with thousands of tiny white rosebuds fashioned into swags and arches. Aunt Patrice had placed the decorations with typical Fontaine humor: one wreath hung over the marble fireplace, on the portrait of a dour ancestor who had been guillotined during the French Revolution. He did not look amused by his new hat of flowers.

Forty-one minutes.

“Marie, Dominique, I’m sorry,” Celine said suddenly, sitting forward and interrupting one cousin’s description of her polo-loving playboy. “I’m absolutely starved. Got to get something to eat. Please excuse me.” She set her glass on the low table beside her. The slender crystal clattered and wobbled dangerously between a nineteenth-century urn and a bronze statuette.

Celine pretended not to notice. She stood up. She had to move. The heart-pounding urge to run was overpowering. With a few quickly muttered
pardonez-mois
, she made her way through the crush of guests toward the buffet table.

She could feel concerned glances turning her way as she picked up a plate and tried desperately to keep from shaking.

She knew what everyone was thinking. That she was young. Rich. Pretty. That she had her whole life ahead of her. That it was time for her to put last year’s “unfortunate incident” behind her and get on with her future.

What they didn’t know—what no one knew—was that she might not have a future at all.

Holding that secret inside left her alone in her fear, but saying it aloud would be too terrifying to bear.

“There you are, Celine. I’ve been looking for you. Feeling all right?”

Celine tensed as her older sister, Jacqueline Fontaine O’Keefe, appeared at her side. “I’m fine, Jackie,” she replied with a smile.
Perfectly fine. I feel better physically than I ever have in my life. That’s the irony of it.

She kept her thoughts to herself and moved down the table.

“Glad to hear it. Love the hat. Is that a new one?” Jacqueline’s voice burbled with laughter and too much Dom Perignon. She kept right on talking without waiting for an answer. “I’m not here to hover, promise. Just the opposite, in fact. I’m appointing myself your personal social director for the evening.”

Celine groaned inwardly and tried to look like she was intently deciding between the lobster and the frogs’ legs.

“I’ve found you the dream date of all time,” Jacqueline continued. “Six feet of pure gorgeous. Blond hair, blue eyes, killer bod. I told him about that
Elle
cover from last summer and he’s dying to meet you.”

Celine frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t go around reminding people of that. It’s bad enough when they bring it up on their own.” She put a spoonful of marinated salmon on her plate, wishing for the umpteenth time that she had never agreed to pose in nothing but a few strategically placed baobab leaves.

“It’s okay, Celinie-Beanie,” Jackie said in the same tipsy tone. “I told him you gave up modeling last year for a career as a finer artist.”

“
Fiber
artist.”

“Right. Anyway, I’m not taking any ifs, ands, or buts this time. This guy’s got ‘wild romantic fling’ written all over him. God knows you deserve one.”

Celine sighed. “That’s true,” she agreed, chastising herself even as she said it. She knew she should correct the “flighty, footloose” image everyone had of her. She preferred to think of herself as
free-spirited
and
independent
. Maybe she didn’t have the scholarly bent and the get-to-the-top drive of the rest of the Fontaine clan, but she wasn’t flighty.

And definitely not footloose. She was not the wild-romantic-fling type. On the contrary, she was perhaps the last twenty-three-year-old virgin left on the planet. She had never found Mr. Right, or even Mr. Right Now.

But she didn’t like being teased about her old-fashioned streak, any more than she had liked being teased about her grades as a kid. Or her height. The nickname “Celinie-Beanie”—short for Celine-the-beanpole—had always stung.

“He sounds great, Jackie.” Keeping her smile in place, Celine moved down the table, taking a wafer-thin slice of her favorite Port Saint cheese, two crackers, and a dozen fat
fraises des bois
, wild strawberries covered in chocolate. She decided to try a little humor, which usually managed to deflect her determined sister. “I’m afraid I’m just not in the mood for a blond. Now, if he had dark hair and brown eyes and a movie-star smile—”

“Oh, please. This guy’s perfect for you. He’s not a cop, a lawyer, a reporter, or a surgeon. I asked.”

Celine tried to laugh at Jackie’s attempted joke. Her sister knew those were her four least-favorite professions, after the past year. “Then how about ‘I’ve got a headache’?” Celine deadpanned.

“I’m not taking no for an answer.” Jackie stole one of the strawberries from Celine’s plate and took a bite. “Honestly, Celine, you’re going to hurt my feelings if you keep turning down every man I try to set you up with. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Celine followed her sister’s gaze across the room to where Jackie’s tall, handsome husband, Harry O’Keefe, stood talking to some of their British cousins. He balanced a Perrier in one hand and their three-year-old son, Nicholas, on his shoulders.

Celine’s eyes suddenly misted and she turned aside before Jackie could notice.
Yes, I do know what I’m missing
, she thought, a wave of sadness choking her.
I might never have what you have. A husband. Children. I might not have enough time left.

She started to shake uncontrollably.

Oh, God, not here! Not now!

It was the moment she had been dreading. She was going to burst into hysterical tears in front of everyone. Embarrassment urged her to flee, but the roar of her heartbeat left her paralyzed with panic.

She felt rather than saw Jackie take the plate from her hands and set it aside. “God, Celine, I’m being about as sensitive as a runaway train. It’s Lee, isn’t it? You still haven’t gotten over Lee.” She steered Celine toward a nearby Louis XIV settee and shooed a pair of partygoers out of the way so her sister could sit down.

Trembling, Celine forced a smile, blinked, and blessed whoever had invented waterproof mascara. “No, I wasn’t ... I wasn’t thinking about him.”

Jackie put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. “Oh, sweetie, don’t try to be brave. Go ahead and cry. When I think of the way that schmuck demanded his ring back while you were still in the
hospital
, for God’s sake—”

“Darling, darling, are you all right?”

Celine winced as her mother appeared from behind her in a cloud of Chanel No. 19. Francine Fontaine started patting Celine’s cheeks as if her daughter had fainted.

“Y-y-yes, M-M-Mother,” Celine managed between pats.

“It’s Lee,” Jackie supplied. “She can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Oh, my poor darling, darling girl.” Francine stopped patting, came around the settee, and sat down. Snatching up Celine’s hand, she squeezed it in both of hers. “Don’t waste one more tear on that horrid man. He wasn’t worthy of you!”

If Celine’s stomach hadn’t been churning with anxiety, she might have laughed. A little more than a year ago, her mother had used that same tone to
insist
that she accept Leland Dawber III’s marriage proposal. Her entire family had agreed he was perfect for her: a no-nonsense, take-charge type who would give her the direction she needed. Lee had a villa in Rome, a chalet in Switzerland, a successful chain of hotels, and an answer for everything.

And she had always wanted a husband and children. Much more than she wanted a career, though she could hardly admit such an old-fashioned idea to her family of Nobel Prize nominees, business moguls, and assorted overachievers.

Lee had swept her off her feet so completely, she had started to believe she was in love with him, that he might finally be the one. Especially when he had surprised her by slipping an engagement ring on her finger, that night last December, after they had run through Chicago’s Lincoln Park like a couple of kids and made angels in the snow.

But that evening hadn’t ended the way either one of them had expected.

Leland Dawber’s abrupt departure from her life a few weeks later had come as a surprise to everyone. Especially to her. She had really believed he cared for her—until he abandoned her when she needed him most.

“It’s ... it’s not Lee,” Celine said, trying to catch her breath and calm down.

“Then what is it?” Jackie prodded.

“It’s ... I’m ... “ Celine barely managed to stop herself before it all came tumbling out.

Everything her doctors had told her before she left the States.

Unexpected complication, Ms. Fontaine ... one more surgery ... important that we don’t delay
. They had couched it all in their best bedside manner, but she had gotten the point: the surgery would be risky, but if she didn’t have it, she would die.

The bullet fragment embedded deep in her back, the one they had thought best to leave in place, the one so tiny she couldn’t feel it, was shifting, slowly. Dangerously close to a major artery. Before long, it would kill her. Perhaps not this month or next month, they said, but within a year. Surgery was her only hope.

She was scheduled to enter the hospital in two weeks.

“I’m ... I’m tired,” Celine said quietly, glancing from her sister to her mother. “That’s all. Just tired. Still having a bit of jet lag, I guess.”

She couldn’t tell them. Not tonight. Her family had just recovered from the unpleasantness she had brought into their lives last year. She could at least let them enjoy their holidays. Another day or two would be soon enough to break the news.

“Oh, darling, darling, are you sure that’s all it is?”

“Yes, Mother. I think I’ll call it a night and go up to bed. Give my apologies to Uncle Edouard and Aunt Patrice, will you?” Celine kissed the air on either side of her mother’s cheeks before turning to Jacqueline. “And kiss little Nicholas good night for me?”

“Of course. But are you sure you don’t want to stay even a few minutes longer? At least until the eclipse begins?”

“No, I’ll let you scientific types tell me all about it tomorrow. I’m not into eclipses—I’m a
finer
artist, remember?”

“
Fiber
artist,” Jackie corrected softly, hugging her. “I’ll make sure Harry gets some pictures for you. You get some rest.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “And if I run into a great guy with dark hair and brown eyes and a movie-star smile, I’m sending him up.”

“Absolutely.” Celine flashed what she hoped would pass for a tired-but-happy smile before she all but bolted from the settee. “Good night, Mother. Good night, Jackie.”

“You think I’m kidding?”

Already making her way into the noisy crowd, Celine barely heard her sister’s parting comment.

***

She dashed past startled guests and caterers and servants until she reached the oldest part of the chateau. Away from the crush, she started to feel a little better.
Come on, Celine
, she admonished herself, slowing to a more dignified walk.
Where’s that famous Fontaine fortitude?
She stopped in the middle of a deserted hallway to catch her breath.

Sometimes it seemed God had given so much fortitude, determination, genius, and all the other Fontaine characteristics to her many relatives, He had run out by the time she came along. All she got was the famous Fontaine flaming-red hair.

No, no, no.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shake off the familiar feelings of inadequacy. Maybe she didn’t fit in, but that didn’t make her a failure. Maybe she hadn’t found her place in the world just yet, but she would someday. And she wasn’t going to get there by giving in to self-pity. Or panic.

Opening her eyes, she slipped off her Italian leather pumps, squared her shoulders, and padded down the slate-floored passageway that led to her room. The halls seemed eerily quiet tonight, the silence punctuated only occasionally by the distant echo of the New Year’s Eve celebration.

She had asked to stay in the oldest part of the mansion because it was quiet here. And this wing had long been her favorite. Some of her earliest childhood memories were of these rooms, the Gothic architecture, the faded tapestries.

She paused to look at one of the hangings highlighted by a museum-style lamp. Her family’s tapestry collection had been one inspiration for her becoming a fiber artist. The pieces were unique: medieval in materials and techniques, but almost modern in their colors and designs. She loved the idea of creating something so special and lasting.

Sighing, she turned and continued down the hallway. She could hardly blame her family for not taking her new career seriously; she had claimed to be equally committed to opening her own restaurant, modeling, and becoming a personal fitness trainer. Each had lasted less than a year.

In time, they would realize this was different.

And she would have time. Plenty of time. In two weeks she would have the surgery, and she’d be okay. There was nothing to be afraid of. Really.

Holding tight to that thought, Celine glanced up as she passed under an arch, at another of the chateau’s decorations, her personal favorite: the entwined letters G and R, carved over every doorway.