barely survived his flame, and now she knew that she could no longer risk it. He had his scars, and she had her own, no less fierce because they hadn't been won in battle.
“I love you too,” she whispered, knowing that she shouldn't say those words to him. But it was a whisper from the past, a salute to all that had been and had died with Andre.
“Will you see me before I leave for Spain again?” It was so like him to pressure her, to make her feel responsible for him once he went into battle. She smiled at him, but she shook her head this time.
“I can't, Charles. I'm married.”
“Does he know about me?” Slowly, with a look of agony, she shook her head in answer.
“No, he doesn't. He thinks I went a little wild one summer on the Grand Tour, and got a little out of hand, as I think my father described it to his friends. That's what my father said years ago, something about a little romance.' And that's all Malcolm knows. He has never allowed me to discuss it. Malcolm has no idea we were ever married.” It was so like her father to tell people that. He had never told people of her life with Charles and their staying in Europe had made it easier for him. All he cared about were appearances, and reputation. He had lied to protect her, and told everyone she had stayed in Europe to study. He had to save face at all costs, and he had wanted to save Marielle from her “terrible mistake” when she married Charles Delauney. And now, Marielle's husband still believed the lie, because she let him.
Charles couldn't believe she had never told her husband the truth. They had told each other everything. They had shared all their secrets. But at eighteen, what was there to hide? At thirty, it was different.
“He knows none of it, Charles. Why tell him?” Why tell him she had spent twenty- six months in a sanatorium, wanting to die…that she had tried to slash her wrists…take pills…drown herself in the bathtub…why tell him any of that? Charles knew, he had paid the bills…and she had recovered.
“Will you tell him you saw me today?” He was curious about her, and them. What kind of marriage could they have if she told him nothing? Did she love him, or he her? She had said “I love you” so easily after all these years, and Charles believed her. And now she shook her head in answer to his question.
“How can I tell him I saw you, when he doesn't know you exist in my life anyway?” Her eyes were very calm, and her face very lovely. She seemed at peace, and that was something.
“Do you love him?” He didn't believe she did, and he wanted to hear it.
“Of course. I'm his wife.” But the truth was she respected him, she admired him, she owed him. She had never loved him as she loved Charles, and she never would. What's more, she didn't want to. A love like that caused too much pain, and she no longer had the courage. She glanced at her watch and then back at Charles. “I have to go.”
“Why? What will happen if you don't go home, if you come home with me instead?” He looked as though he meant it.
“You haven't changed. You're still the man who convinced me to elope with him in Paris.” She smiled at the memory, and so did he.
“You were easier to convince in those days.”
“Everything was easier then, we were young.”
“You still are.” But in her heart, she knew she wasn't.
She pulled her coat more tightly around her, and slipped on her other glove, and he began to walk her slowly toward the main door of the cathedral.
“I want to see you again before I go.”
She sighed, and stopped to look up at him. “Charles, how can we do that?”
“If you don't, I'll come to your house and ring your doorbell.”
“You probably would.” She laughed in spite of the sorrow of the day that had brought them together.
“You'll have a hell of a time explaining that.” Just thinking about it almost brought on one of her migraines. “You know where I am. I'm at my father's. Call. Or I will.”
After seven years, here he was threatening her, and looking so damn handsome while he did it.
“And if I don't call?”
“I'll find you.”
“I don't want to be found.” She looked serious, and so did he when he answered.
“I'm not sure I believe that. And after all these years, we can't just… I can't just let go, Marielle…I can't…I'm sorry.” He looked so forlorn, and in an odd way, almost broken.
“I know.” She slipped a hand into his arm, and they walked through the door, just as Malcolm's chauffeur darted through a side door. He had spent an interesting hour watching them. It was a side to Marielle he hadn't seen before, but in some ways it didn't surprise him. Malcolm had his own life too, and she was a beautiful young woman. Beautiful, and frightened, he knew. She was intimidated by everyone, especially her husband. And he wondered who would pay more for the intelligence of what he'd just seen, in time…Mrs. Patterson herself? Or her husband?
Charles and Marielle were walking slowly down the steps arm in arm, and he held her close to him as they reached the bottom. “I won't press it if you don't want me to, but I'd like to see you before I go.” But he really looked as though he meant it.
“Why?” She looked straight at him, and he gave her the only answer he could have.
“I still love you.”
Tears filled her eyes as she looked away from him. She didn't want to love him anymore, or be loved by him, didn't want the memories, the pain, the anguish. She looked up at him again. “I can't call you.”
“You can do anything you want. And whatever you do, I'll still… is it just as hard for you…” He glanced back at the church, thinking of the day that had brought them here, and then he looked down at her, his eyes filled with tears, as hers overflowed in answer, and she nodded.
“Yes, it's just as hard. It doesn't go away.” And it never would. She understood that now. She had to live with it, like constant pain. She looked up at him again. “I'm so sorry…” She had wanted to say those words to him for years, and now she had, but nothing was different.
He shook his head, pulled her tight against his chest, and then let her go. And with a last look at her, he walked away, up Fifth Avenue, without saying good-bye to her. But the truth was, he couldn't. She watched him for a long time, and then she slipped into Malcolm's car. As the chauffeur drove her home, she was thinking about Charles…a life long lost, never to be found again…and Andre.
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