When I'm With You: Part Eight: When We Are One (3 page)

“No . . . I couldn’t eat . . . I’m too . . .”

Elise stood when she saw Francesca so flustered. “Perhaps I could come with you and bring a little something for Francesca to eat now. I’m sure she could use the food, but she’s waiting for a call.”

“Of course—the beef is done enough. I’ll slice some off for you,” Mrs. Hanson assured her, looking politely puzzled and concerned for Francesca. Knowing Francesca was in no state to answer questions, Elise escorted Mrs. Hanson back to the kitchen and helped her make a tray.

Francesca barely swallowed two mouthfuls of the aromatic beef before she pushed her tray back and picked up her phone, checking for messages.

“Do you know Ian’s mother well?” Elise asked when Francesca gave up and set down her phone. Francesca shook her head.

“I’ve only visited her a few times. Other than the first time I met her, she’s usually fairly sedated.”

“I can’t imagine how hard it would be for Ian to see her that way.”

Francesca nodded. “Sometimes I want to tell him not to go, although I know that’s awful to think. I’d never say that about his mother. Still . . . it seems to take away a bit of his soul every time, to see the mere shell of someone he loves.” There was a pause. “What Ian said there at the end . . . that’s true,” Francesca said in a bereft tone. “Helen does shrink away from him sometimes, when she’s least in contact with reality. Perhaps Ian was right. Maybe she is reminded of . . . that man.”

Elise understood Francesca’s hesitance to say Trevor Gaines’s name. No wonder Lucien looked like he’d just eaten something foul every time the topic of Gaines was broached.

Several minutes later, Elise’s phone rang. She checked the caller identification and quickly hit receive.

“Lucien?”

“Yes. Ian’s fine. I’m with him.”

“Ian’s fine,” Elise immediately conveyed to a wide-eyed Francesca. “Where are you?” she asked Lucien.

“We’re on our way to London.”

“What?”

“I took a guess and followed Ian to the airport in Indiana where he keeps his jet. I thought if I couldn’t find him, I could charter a plane there. I figured he’d want to get to his mother’s side as soon as possible,” Lucien added under his breath, something about the hushed quality to his voice making her think Ian wasn’t far away.

“Are you . . . are you going to try and see Helen, too?” Elise asked shakily, suddenly wondering where she stood with him. She couldn’t read his mood. Was he furious? Worried? Preoccupied? Elise sensed mostly the last, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.

“It depends upon her state. I assured Ian I wouldn’t push the issue.” Guilt washed through her at his words. She recalled how he’d insisted that day in his office that he wouldn’t force things with Ian when Ian was dealing with his own private anguish. But Elise just had to be the one to push . . .

“Please tell Francesca that Ian said he would call her later,” Lucien was saying. “He’s . . . tired at the moment.”

“Lucien . . .” she began, glancing anxiously at Francesca. She desperately wanted a private word with him. She longed to apologize for her faux pas.

“Can you tell Sharon that I’ll be out of town indefinitely as well?”

“But Lucien, can’t—”

“I’ll be in touch when my plans are settled.”

“Lucien,” she blurted out, desperate lest he hang up before she got the opportunity to apologize. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Of course you didn’t. You never do.”

Shame swept through her at his words. He’d said something similar to her before, when she’d offered up a lame excuse for her impulsiveness.

“It’s done now. Try not to worry,” he said.

The line went dead. Elise pulled the phone from her ear, feeling numb all over again.

“What is it?” Francesca asked sharply.

“Ian is with Lucien. They’re on Ian’s plane, flying to London.”

“Ian left without me?” Francesca asked, her voice ringing with shock.

“He says to tell you he’ll call later. Lucien said he was tired,” Elise said soothingly, even though she was quite sure that Lucien was using
tired
as a euphemism. She sincerely doubted Ian Noble was sleepy at that moment.

Francesca stood and picked up her phone, paging for a number.

“What are you doing?” Elise asked.

“Booking a flight to London,” Francesca replied grimly.

Helplessness gripped at Elise. She envied Francesca’s position as Ian’s fiancée that she could make such a decision. She—Elise—felt like a powerless outsider. She couldn’t go storming into the private hospital, demanding to see Lucien. Not after what she’d done.

No, she was worse than an outsider. It’d been her impetuousness that had created all this anguish tonight.

* * *

Twelve days later, Elise rode the elevator up to Ian Noble’s penthouse, her heart feeling as heavy as a lead weight in her chest. Francesca was waiting for her in the foyer when the elevator slid silently open. Francesca had lost weight in the past week, with the result that her dark eyes looked larger than usual . . . haunted. Without saying a word, Elise walked over to her and they hugged.

“The funeral was
today,
” Francesca said while they still embraced. “Anne, Ian’s grandmother, just called to tell me right before I called you at Fusion. I can’t believe it,” she said shakily. “I’m still in shock. Ian
promised
me he’d give me time to get there.”

“I’m so sorry,” Elise said. She and Francesca had been in contact since that night the truth had come out. Francesca had immediately flown to London while Elise stayed in Chicago, ritualistically going through her routine to keep herself distracted from what she couldn’t control. Lucien had called Elise the day after he’d left, but after that he had resorted to text messages with updates on Helen’s status. He’d corresponded with Francesca ever since she’d been forced to return to Chicago because of her graduate program demands. Lucien’s regular contact with Francesca reaffirmed Elise’s anxiety that he was too angry to speak with her.

Elise had been so guilt-ridden on the phone with Lucien on the one occasion he’d called that she’d stumbled over what to say. He seemed distant as well . . . perhaps cold? Clearly, he hadn’t come to terms with what had happened. True, he’d told Ian that night that he’d suspected his mother was alive, further prying open the door to the secret, but it’d been Elise’s impulsive statement that opened the lock in the first place.

“Thank you for coming over so quickly,” Francesca said, releasing her.

“It wasn’t a problem. Denise is covering things at Fusion,” Elise assured. Elise took Francesca’s hands in her own when they broke apart. “I can’t believe there’s already been a funeral.”

“It was a memorial service more than a funeral. Apparently, Helen had made a request during one of her more lucid periods to be cremated. I had just heard from Lucien early in the morning that Helen had passed away, and before I had a chance to make some last-minute plans at school and pack, Anne was calling to say they’d already held a service and not to come.”

Elise’s heart leapt at the mention of Lucien’s name. Elise repressed an urge to ask a slew of questions about Lucien. She knew from those messages he’d visited Helen Noble in the hospital with Ian, but she had no idea about the outcome of those meetings. Once again, she experienced that terrible feeling of being an outsider.

Alone.

“Don’t you see, Elise?” Francesca asked her miserably. “Ian didn’t give me a chance to even get to the service because he doesn’t
want
me there. Why is he avoiding me this way?”

Elise shook her head, determined not to show her worry about Ian’s actions regarding Francesca. Although Francesca had immediately flown to London when she’d heard Ian was there, she’d only stayed for three days. After learning that a professor refused to extend a deadline for a project, Ian had insisted she return to Chicago, assuring her he’d contact her when things got worse with his mother. Apparently, Ian hadn’t done that, however, and that’s what Francesca was so upset about.

“He’s confused and grieving. Give him time,” Elise assured, taking Francesca’s hand and leading her to a salon that led off the main gallery hall. “Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink,” she said, spying a pitcher of water and some decanters on a sideboard.

“But I’m his fiancée, aren’t I? I’m supposed to be with him while he’s going through something so terrible. When Anne called and said I shouldn’t come, she said Ian had to leave for an important business crisis in Germany. She was being elusive on purpose. I know it,” Francesca said shakily as Elise handed her a glass of water.

“Ian doesn’t strike me as the type of man who would want you to see him while he’s vulnerable.”

“Well too bad!” Francesca blurted out. “You can’t have a relationship with someone and avoid that person just because you feel vulnerable. Of course he feels bowled over after his mother’s death . . . after what Lucien told him. Who wouldn’t? All the more reason I should be by his side right now. But he’s barely said two words to me since he stormed out of here that night, even while I was in London. He kept insisting I shouldn’t come until Helen had passed. But when Helen did go, he never told me! I’m furious at him,” she said, her voice breaking in anguish. “And I’m sick with worry. What in the world is he thinking?”

“I wasn’t defending him, Francesca. I just meant, it’s not too shocking that he’s throwing up some walls at this point.”

“I have this awful feeling he’s going to leave me.”

Elise’s mouth fell open in surprise at Francesca’s stark declaration. Francesca had never struck her as being prone to hysterics. “Ian leave you? No . . . never. He adores you. He worships the ground you walk on.”

Francesca shook her head as if she couldn’t adequately convey her fear. She set down the water on the coffee table untouched.

“You don’t know Ian. You don’t know what a nightmare this all has been for him. It’s bound to send him into a crisis,” she said hoarsely. She blinked and brought Elise into focus. “It’s been awful for you, too. You knew more about Lucien and Helen than Ian and me on that night, but the rest of it—the part about Trevor Gaines—was a shock to you as well.”

Elise nodded grimly. “And Lucien has been just about as uncommunicative with me as Ian has been with you. Lucien has a good excuse, though. He’s got to be furious at me for forcing the issue that night. He’s always considered me impulsive . . . a loose cannon. I had to go and prove him right, didn’t I?”

Francesca patted her hand where it lay on her knee. “Lucien made a conscious decision that night to tell Ian. You didn’t force him to it, Elise. You acted from the heart. That’s not a bad thing. You were worried Lucien would never get a chance to find out about his biological mother with Helen so ill.” Her expression lightened slightly. “Oh . . . and Lucien told me good news about that when I spoke to him early this morning. Has he told you, by chance?” Francesca asked delicately.

“No. What is it?” Elise asked, the back of her neck prickling with awareness.

“Helen Noble was able to give him his mother’s name. At first, she couldn’t. She was barely conscious when they first arrived. But she rallied just a bit before she passed and became somewhat lucid. Ian and his grandparents got to say their good-byes.” A sad expression settled on her face. “Apparently, even though she was so weak, and so easily disorganized from her psychosis, she seemed to recognize something about Lucien. It sounds as if she’d been very fond of Lucien’s mother, because she smiled and reached for him, and said his mother’s name. It’s funny, the memories that can linger so sharply, even in a mind that was so ravaged like Helen’s.”

“That’s amazing that she connected him to his mother without ever seeing him before . . . like a miracle,” Elise breathed. “He must look so much like her. And what is it? What’s her name?”

“Fatima,” Francesca said. “Fatima Rabi, I believe he said her name was. Helen Noble was even able to give him the name of the town where she’d grown up in Morocco. With that, and her name, there’s a good chance he’ll be able to find her . . . or at least other members of his family.”

Her heart leapt and then throbbed as she thought of Lucien getting his prize. “He must have been so happy . . . so relieved to get that news. All these years, he’s waited for it. He’s waited for family. I know it came at a heavy price, with Helen passing, but . . .”

Francesca tightened her hand on Elise’s.

“Lucien’s search had nothing to do with Helen Noble’s illness or death. Absolutely nothing. He may not see it right now, Elise, but if it hadn’t been for you setting off that chain of events, he would never have his mother’s name. He would never have had even the remotest opportunity to meet her. Helen Noble was the last link. Because of you, he’s been given that chance.”

Elise made a show of smiling. She was ecstatic that Lucien had a clearer path to his biological mother. But she couldn’t help feeling bereft as well, knowing he was likely on his way to Morocco even as she and Francesca spoke.

Not knowing when she’d see him again . . . if ever.

* * *

She returned to finish her duties at Fusion after talking to Francesca. When she arrived at the penthouse late that night, she stood in the opened doorway to the bedroom suite. Since Lucien’s absence, the room had taken on a funereal feel. His elusive scent remained like an insubstantial ghost, haunting her.

A pang of longing went through her—so sharp, it stole her breath. God, she missed him.

She should leave. Of course she should. She’d been engaging in wishful thinking by remaining at all, hoping for that opportunity to meet with him face-to-face . . . to beg for his understanding. But what was the point? She’d proven to him that she deserved his lack of faith in her. She’d illustrated precisely why he shouldn’t trust her. In fact, she’d ended up behaving in the precise manner he’d always accused her of.

Impulsive. Impetuous. Self-indulgent.

Tears stung her eyes as she pulled out her suitcase. It hadn’t been long ago that Lucien had packed it for her there in that rundown hovel where she’d been staying. Where would she stay now? She knew she should make plans, but a pressure seemed to be pushing down on her chest, a weight of grief, making the ability to make such a huge decision seem like an utter impossibility.