Miracle (19 page)

She stood in his bedroom helping him pack, smoothing her fingers over each shirt, stroking each book, studying the family photographs in their simple sterling silver frames because each was a lifeline to his world. His sister and brother looked a great deal like him, though both were younger and his brother had a cocky, almost insulting smile.

His mother, standing in front of a flower garden in an old, faded picture, gazed out at the world with a shy smile, dark eyes peeking from under arched brows. She was such a delicate, whimsical-looking person that she could have been an elf who’d just popped out of the marigolds for a second to have her picture made. Amy felt immediate empathy with her. Here was someone who seemed out of place. Must have been a trick of the camera.

She turned the picture frame in her hands, reluctant to put it down. On the back was written,
La comtesse de Savin. 1957
.

“What do you find so fascinating?” Sebastien asked gruffly, moving over to her from his dresser.

She pointed to the name. “What does
La comtesse
mean?”

“It’s one of the old titles. No one pays any attention to them now. My mother never used it.”

“But … you mean, this is like a royal title?”

“Something of that nature, yes. But it’s worthless.”

“You—you’re
royalty
?”

“Only in the most pretentious circles,” he said with a sardonic smile. He placed shoe boxes in a trunk.

“Do
you
have a title?”

He clicked his heels together and bowed. “Viscomte de Savin, at your service.”

“Should I curtsy, or just get in my pumpkin and ride away?” At his puzzled scrutiny she explained, “Like Cinderella. You know, when the party’s over, the coach turns back into a pumpkin?” She wrapped his mother’s photograph in a sheet of bubble plastic and placed it into a box, her hands trembling.

Sebastien put his arms around her. “Come with me. The party isn’t quite over.”

He guided her to the courtyard, and they shared a lounge chair, holding each other and watching the sun set in a balmy, purple-streaked sky. A little while later they undressed and she made love to him there, sitting astride his thighs with her knees buried in the chair’s thick cushions.

He gripped her hands tightly and held them against his chest as she rocked over him, her eyes half-shut. Amy felt him moving inside her like an ache of sadness. She wasn’t interested in pleasure tonight; closeness would do, being as close to him as she could get. She bent over and put her arms under him, held him to her as his hands went to her hips and stopped her.

“Be still,” he told her gently. “Put your head on my shoulder. Yes. Like that. The other need is unimportant.”

Later she lay beside him and he cupped her breasts in his hands. He watched his fingers move over skin still imprinted with the fine pattern of his chest hair. He lifted her right hand and kissed the lopsided heart tattooed on her wrist.

“I’m gonna have that tattoo taken off someday,” she assured him.

“No. It’s not shameful.” He kissed the line of stitches under her chin. “Not shameful.”

She touched her forefinger to the more prominent scar on his chin. “Will you tell me how you got this?”

He nodded. He related a very brief story about the accident that had killed his family and injured his face—how their van had slid off an icy mountain road when he was ten years old—and Amy listened with sad fascination. He spoke of the deaths unemotionally, and she decided that he hardly remembered them, it had all happened so long ago.

She helped him finish his packing. He stacked the suitcases, boxes, and trunks in the hall foyer. The town house seemed unchanged. He’d taken a clock here, a few special books there.

He cooked dinner for her, but neither of them ate much. Amy cleaned the kitchen, wearing only his white undershirt. He sat at the counter, checking notes he’d made about his travel plans, but sometimes when she glanced his way she found him watching her. Amy finished at the sink and stood, gazing blankly at the line of ceramic pots filled with herbs on the window ledge.

“These’ll die,” she said wretchedly. She realized that she was clenching her hands together until her knuckles ached.

Sebastien came to her and stroked her hair. He wore nothing but snug blue jogging pants, and when she rested her head against him she smelled the scent of her inexpensive perfume on the bare skin of his chest.

“Why don’t you take the plants?” he said.

“Thank you.” She put her arms around his waist and held him tightly.

“Put on some clothes. Let’s go for a walk. It will help.”

They walked in silence through the summer night. Amy’s senses were dull with misery; she could barely stand the poignant sweetness of the air, filled with the scent of flowers and newly mown grass from manicured lawns. The lights of the town houses shone through expensive draperies,
happy and bright, and so much in contrast to the dread inside her that she couldn’t look at them.

“Jeff Atwater will come by in the morning at nine,” Sebastien told her. His hand tightened around hers, but he looked straight ahead. “Before I leave for the airport.”

“Okay.”

“My flight leaves at eleven. I’ll only be taking two of the suitcases. Pio Beaucaire will send someone for the rest tomorrow afternoon.”

She halted him with an urgent little motion of her hand and looked up at him wearily. “Please, don’t talk about this anymore—”

“You should stay busy. Jeff and one of his
many
ladies will be taking you places … to dinner, to concerts. And you’ll be getting ready to attend school in less than a month.”

“Okay, Doc, okay. And what will
you
be doing?”

“Working. I report to the hospital as soon as I arrive in Abidjan.”

She met his gaze somberly. “And in a couple of years you’ll be going back to France?”

“Yes.”

Amy nodded but said nothing. She was learning when to speak up and when to keep quite. A small plan began to burn inside her, making tomorrow seem less terrible: In a couple of years, when she was older, better educated, and respectable enough, she was going after him.

Morning came too soon, bleak and unrelenting. Sebastien showered slowly, hating to lose the scent of her body. What would Amy bring to his life, if he gave her the chance? Was he foolish to turn his back on the one person who made him feel capable of love?

But how could you bear to condemn her to your lifestyle
? She should be in college; she should be developing her own independence and self-worth, now that she was away from that bastard of a father who’d cowed her.

As he dressed he stared into the mirror over the bathroom vanity, seeing his haunted eyes clearly.
In two years
,
when I leave Africa, perhaps I should come back and see her
.

He’d leave her alone until then. He’d let her decide if playful, light-hearted boys her own age were more appealing. He’d let her get a taste of what her newly expanded world could offer, how many choices. And then, if she still thought that she loved him, and was seasoned enough to understand the pitfalls, perhaps.…

He went into the bedroom. She sat on the side of the bed hugging a pillow to her chest, her head down. She was dressed in her jeans and a new light, pink blouse and new jogging shoes, unspoiled white. She looked like a college student, and that helped him keep his resolve. He crossed the room and sat down beside her.

Suddenly there was a lump in his throat. He was glad when he didn’t have to speak right away because she dropped the pillow and put both arms around him, pressing her tear-streaked face against his neck. “The last time was wonderful,” she murmured. “I wanted to say so before you went to take a shower, but I was afraid I’d cry again. I look like I’ve got frog eyes, as it is.”

“But they’re beautiful frog eyes. And you have lovely green skin.”

She laughed shakily. “There’s hope for your sense of humor. Keep working on it.” When he hugged her fiercely she made a tragic sound. “Dr. Atwater’s here,” she whispered. “He’s hanging around in the kitchen. He said he’d take me to breakfast after … after, you know.”

“I’ll speak to him on my way out.”

A convulsive little shiver ran through her at those words. “I don’t want breakfast. But I’ll go. I’ll be all right. I’m as strong as you are, okay? And I’m gonna make you proud.”

Sebastien laid his face against the top of her head and shut his eyes. He never prayed; he wasn’t certain that he was praying to anyone or anything in particular now, but he found himself asking silently,
Please let my decision be the right one
.

“You can make anything you want of your life,” he told her. “Do that for me. You’re very special. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise again.”

“I’ll try not to. And you … Doc … Sebastien … please don’t look at the dark side of things so much. I’m afraid for you.” She wiped her eyes roughly. “I sound like a kid who’s seen
Star Wars
too many times. But you’ve gotta fight the dark side of the force, okay?”

“Yes. I’ll try.” He kissed her, trying to savor the last, vivid contact as long as he could. Then she raised her lips to his eyes and forehead, kissed his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and finally the scar on his chin. “A matched pair,” she told him, drawing one fingertip from his old scar to her new one. “I’m glad.”

He struggled for a moment. “I’m glad, also.” Sebastien took a deep breath and tried to let it wash the regrets out of his chest. “It’s time, Amy.”

She caught a sob in her throat and kissed him again. He bent her back on the bed, his hands shaking a little as he stroked her face. When he gently pulled her arms from around him she turned over quickly, her head bowed against a pillow, her hands knotting in the silk casing. “I can’t look. Good-bye. Good-bye. I love you so much. I always will—”

“Amy, don’t,” he said gruffly, then bent forward and pressed a hard kiss to the crown of her head. “You give so much happiness to others. Now go and find some for yourself.”

He left the room, closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment with his eyes shut. Walking away from her was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Compared to that, admitting that he loved her was easy.

S
eated on the floor of her tiny dorm room, Amy bent over a book and gnawed the end of her pencil, trying to concentrate. For Sebastien’s sake she would even suffer through algebra.

She had learned a lot about survival during the past seventeen months, a different kind of survival from the cringing, don’t-notice-me-please behavior of the past. She had become more confident. She had amazed herself by her ability to make good grades, to talk to strangers, to manage her life without anyone’s supervision. She had learned that a person could get up every morning and carry through every day despite grief.

She called Jeff Atwater anytime she needed the advice of an experienced person, and he was always eager to help. He phoned often just to chat with her, and she loved their easy camaraderie. He regularly drove up from Atlanta to visit, and they held long discussions about her past, and Pop.