Miracle (11 page)

“My payment, mademoiselle, for stitching that stubborn chin of yours, is to see what is tattooed on your wrist.”

She halted, frowning, then jerked her wristwatch up an inch and stuck her arm out. “It’s a heart with the letters of my last name around it in a circle. A friend of my dad’s put it there when I was about five years old. She said it was a charm against evil. She was a fortune teller in a carnival. I didn’t ask for it, okay? I’m not a biker or anything. It’s the only tattoo I’ve got, okay? I try to keep it hidden.”

“No need to be so defensive.” He grasped her hand and studied the crudely etched heart, which looked deflated. It bothered him to think of a child being permanently marked by superstition; then he considered the fact that his mother’s prayers to the saints and her astrology had marked him in a less visible but equally potent way. “You need a transplant.”

She shivered under his touch but didn’t pull away. Her fingertips pressed into his palm with disarming warmth. “I’ll trade you,” she said softly. “Heart for heart. Scar for scar.”

Shaken by such unexpected power, he watched her silently as she withdrew into the plush confines of his guest room.

He was seated at the island in the center of his kitchen at five the next morning, groggily drinking a cup of thick black coffee, when Amy tiptoed in. She was dressed in denim shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. She carried her straw hat and sunglasses. He was dressed in a short robe of blue silk. She halted abruptly at the sight of him lounging on a tall black bar stool with his long, naked legs idly crossed and the robe gaping open to reveal most of his chest.

“I’m sorry—I mean, excuse me,” she managed to say, blushing.

“Come in. I thought you’d sleep late.”

Sebastien rearranged himself into a more formal posture and pulled the robe closed. Underneath the cool silk he grew so hard that he ached, not an unusual condition for him in the presence of a desirable female, but dangerous in combination with his emotions for this one. Contentment gathered in his chest—for no other reason than she was looking at him with shy fascination. Even battered and sad her face had a piquant charm; she was certainly not beautiful, but he could hardly take his eyes off her.

She sat down across the counter from him and put her things on the cool stove top nearby. “I can’t sleep late. I have to leave in thirty minutes if I’m gonna make it to work on time from all the way down here.” She slapped a hand
to her forehead and winced. “I forgot! My bike’s over at the hospital! When will you be leavin’ for work?”

“You didn’t go to bed until after two, and your face is very swollen. How can you possibly make an hour’s drive on a motorcycle, in your condition?”

“Hey,” she said sharply. “The world doesn’t hold out its hand to lazy people. I’m on my own now, and I’m not gonna blow it.”

“I admire your courage. But I’m putting you on sick leave for today. I say so, and I’m your doctor. I’m also your employer, remember? Sick leave with pay. Now go back to bed.” He gestured toward a waffle iron beside the stove. “Or have breakfast, and then go back to bed.”

She clasped her hands and stared at them stubbornly while blinking back tears. Considering her swollen right eye, the effort was painful to watch. Her chin was pink where he could see the beginnings of his stitches. She hadn’t complained at all during the course of his work.

“This is a sink-or-swim thing,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “My bein’ on my own, I mean. I can’t take your help.” She laughed. “Ol’ Beaucaire will think the worst about me if I call and say I’m with you.”

“He’ll think what I tell him to think. That’s the privilege I enjoy for being his employer, not his employee.”

“I can’t—”

“No work today, Amy. Now answer correctly: ‘All right, Sebastien.’ ”

“Sebastien?” she whispered, her eyes lighting a little. “You don’t mind if I call you by your first name?”

“It would be terribly formal for you to call me otherwise now that you’ve seen me in nothing but my robe.”

“Nothing but—” She covered her eyes gingerly and chuckled. “One of us is embarrassed, and buddy, it
ain’t
you.”

“Now, about breakfast—”

“All right,
Sebastien
, I’ll stay put for now. I better go get some sleep.” Relieved of her courage, she looked as if she might suddenly droop over the table. “I’ll call … a taxi later on. Get my bike from the hospital. Go up to Athens and find a good motel.”

Sebastien reached over and took her hands. A knot lodged in his throat. Courage. This morning she was forging ahead on courage alone, more of it than he had ever expected. “You’re a very strong, very determined person,” he told her gruffly. “Very ancient for your age.
Bravo
! But you must also be wise. Listen!” He shook her hands for attention, because her eyes were shutting even as he spoke. “Be wise. Accept help when you need it.” Sebastien sighed at the irony of his giving advice that he never took. “Stay here again tonight.”

He sat back, wondering what he meant to do with this incredible young woman, and whether he could keep from hurting her. “I’ll be gone until after midnight. You won’t be bothered. Stay here,” he said again, sealing her fate.

“I’m so scared. So tired. Confused. Such a baby!”

“No. Anyone would be afraid. We’ll talk about your future later. Now go and rest.”

He went around the counter to her, guided her off the stool, then picked her up and carried her to the guest room. From the unrumpled state of the bed’s pearl-white sheets, he doubted that she had slept much. No surprise in that, her father had thrown her to the wolves and she was terrified. Holding her close, Sebastien kissed her hair.

“Everything will be fine, Miracle,” he whispered.

She nodded against his chest. “Trust … you.”

Not too much
, he cautioned silently, and putting her to bed, tucked the covers around her, then quickly left the room.

S
ebastien had finally gone too far. This flagrant attention to a girl who was no more than a field worker was unforgivable.

Pio Beaucaire swung his heavy office chair to face the wall of photographs. The images of elite old-world culture were his shrine. The de Savin vineyards. The fifteenth-century château. Le comte de Savin stood in front of it proudly, as a man who knew the value of duty and tradition should. He ruled with a iron fist because he understood that honor, discipline, and obedience were the hallmarks of nobility.

Pio gripped the arms of his chair. His family had served the de Savin’s for generations. It was a proud service, a loyal service. He and the comte de Savin respected each other’s positions in the world. They shared a very French love for order and continuity.

The time had long since passed for Sebastien to recognize his place in the order of society. The eldest son of the de Savin family had always headed the family businesses. That Sebastien had denied his duty for so long was a tribute to his willpower. He was headstrong, but that was a good trait. Pio loved him and was proud in a way. When his spirit matured—was tamed—Sebastien would be a credit to his father’s name. Why
le comte
had not crushed the rebellion when Sebastien was a boy had always bewildered Pio. He had certainly allowed no rebellion from the
younger ones, Annette and Jacques. Jacques, unfortunately, had been worthless from birth.

Pio supposed that
le comte
had made concessions because of the tragedy. A man who had lost one son was inclined by sentiment and necessity to tolerate faults in the only valuable one who remained.

But not much longer. While nothing could alter Sebastien’s commitment to spend the next two years in Africa, after that he must not be allowed to ignore his responsibilities at home. No one—and particularly not some unsuitable young woman—must encourage him to return to America.

Sebastien was unpredictable. This timid young
poule
might mean nothing to him. But then again, she was not his typical kind of woman. That might be ominous. The
comte
must be informed of this situation immediately. He would know what to do, Pio felt certain. He always did.

Two days later Amy was still living in Sebastien’s home, and he was leaving the hospital each night at nine so that he’d have a few hours to enjoy her company before bedtime. Little by little she became more open about herself, and he learned about her father’s drinking, his moods, his past as a circus performer, his tyranny. She was much more than the sum of her timid parts. She loved to read, had keen intuition about people, was a loner like himself, and above all, was a sharp observer of the world around her.

She was also an anxious daydreamer with a whimsical way of recreating that world. At breakfast one morning she placed a croissant to her ear as if it were a seashell and said solemnly, “I hear Paris.” He laughed until tears came to his eyes. One evening she wandered around his living room stroking the steamlined fixtures and sleek lines, then observed, “Everything in this place looks like it’s headed somewhere in a hurry.”

Most disconcerting was the way she viewed him. When he spoke to her she listened avidly, but with her head
cocked to one side as if she were trying to make him fit the rest of her world, which was slightly atilt.

Three nights after leaving home she called her father. She received a vague apology but no invitation to return. Afterward she went to a lounge chair in the little courtyard and sat there silently, surrounded by hot summer darkness, until Sebastien coaxed her to talk. It was not that she had wanted to go home, she explained, but she would have appreciated being asked.

Sebastien sat on the edge of the chair and put his arms around her. She made a sad, satisfied sound and carefully rested the unhurt side of her face on his shoulder. When he began to stroke her hair she cried out and, with the quick, deadly adoration of the inexperienced, kissed him on one corner of the lips. He shivered as if he’d never been kissed before and knew that he had to move away from her immediately or forget common sense.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she said in a small voice, when he was standing across the courtyard staring into the stars above its whitewashed brick walls.

He twisted around and straightened formally. It was time to stop their charade of togetherness. “This Friday is my last day at the hospital. I could have left a month ago; my fellowship ended officially in June. But I stayed because I had no interest in taking a month’s holiday before I left the United States.” He paused, watching her eyes widen with understanding. “A week from this Friday I’m leaving for Africa, to work in a hospital there. And I won’t be back.”

After a stunned moment she bent her head. Her hands knotted against the cool gray material of the lounge cushion. “You think I was expectin’ you to keep takin’ care of me? Is that why you’re telling me this?”

“Yes.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. Tears slid down her cheeks, but her eyes were angry. “I’m not stupid. I know how to love somebody without thinkin’ that they’re gonna love me back.”

Sebastien studied her. She would have made a fine surgeon; she knew how to cut to the heart of the matter. His brilliant logic deserted him; her scalpel had excised
rational thought. “You’re very wise, then,” he told her finally. “That’s the best way to love.”