Legacy (2010)

The children went to the nursery, and the housekeeper stayed with them. Wachiwi couldn’t sleep, she was too excited. She kept thinking of how she had gotten here, and how blessed she was to belong to Tristan now. She could hardly wait to become truly his, in the eyes of God, and man, and in his arms as well. She wasn’t an innocent girl this time. She was a warm, loving woman and wanted to welcome him into her heart, her body, and her life. She was a passionate woman, and beneath Tristan’s cool exterior, his desire had been smoldering for her for months. Only respect for his late brother and Wachiwi had kept him silent for so long. He was standing in his room that night, looking out the window, and thinking that in the morning, the most beautiful girl in the world would be his.

He left for the church before her, and she came a few minutes later with the children in the carriage. He had asked two of his closest friends to serve as witnesses, since Wachiwi had no one in France except Tristan and his children. The ceremony was Catholic in a tiny chapel on the rue du Bac, close to the house. She had asked to become Catholic and had been studying with a priest in Brittany for the past two months. She had been baptized before their wedding. She wanted to do anything to please him.

Their friends attended them at the wedding, and his children stood beside them, and Wachiwi held Agathe’s hand as Tristan looked into her eyes in a way no other man had before. Matthieu stood solemnly next to his father. And Agathe held her bouquet of lily of the valley as Tristan took Wachiwi’s hand.

They said their vows, and he slipped a narrow diamond band on her finger. He had given her a large emerald ring as well, but this was the one she knew she would always wear. She was wearing a white satin dress that the queen herself had lent her when she heard about the marriage. She said she had so many dresses like it that it was nothing to her to give this one to Wachiwi for her wedding. And she still hadn’t lost all the weight from the baby she’d had three months before. And as they walked out of the church together as man and wife, Wachiwi looked as beautiful as any queen. The Marquise de Margerac, a chief’s daughter of the Sioux nation, had come home.

They all had lunch at the house together, and that night it was filled with friends and well-wishers dancing and drinking champagne. They stayed until early in the morning, and when Wachiwi and Tristan finally walked upstairs to their bedroom, she felt as though she had belonged to him all her life. She had been born for him, in a Sioux village far from here, and she had come across a continent and an ocean, for this moment in time, and this man. She looked up at him once he closed the door to their bedroom, and gently slipped the white satin dress off her shoulders. It took some doing, but finally it fell to the floor, and a few minutes later he saw her, just as Jean had, when he discovered her at the lake in all her naked beauty. Her skin shimmered in the moonlight, as she reached her arms out to him, and he gently laid her on their bed.

It was the moment they had both waited for and desperately wanted, the moment when they became one body and one soul, when she was truly his. He melted into her as though there had never been another time, another place. They lay together and clung to each other and later knew they had become one forever that night as the sun came up. He was her destiny, and now at last she was his.

They stayed in Paris for three days after that. She was presented at court as the Marquise de Margerac the day after the wedding, and everyone cheered and called when the crier said her name. Rivers of champagne were poured, and she danced with Tristan all night, and once with the king. Tristan had given her dancing lessons in Brittany in preparation for this day.

Her wedding day had been the happiest day of her life, and her presentation at court as his wife completed it. Marie Antoinette had been equally excited for her, and had embraced her warmly, admiring a new dress Wachiwi wore that Tristan had ordered. It was a brilliant red brocade and looked incredible with her skin and hair. And she was wearing a ruby necklace that had been his mother’s. They went home together late that night, and discovered the wonders of each other’s bodies again.

They took the children all over Paris, and then went back to Brittany. They almost hadn’t gone back to court before they left, but Wachiwi thought they should and convinced Tristan to do so. He was in such good spirits after their wedding, he didn’t mind. He wanted to do whatever his bride wanted, and knew she was right to pay their respects to the king and queen before they left town again, and they both realized afterward that her impulse to do so had been destiny. There was a Dakota Sioux chief being presented at court when they arrived.

He was a tall, imposing-looking man, younger than her father, with fierce eyes, but he smiled when he saw her and so did she. He said he had met her once with her father when she was a child, although she didn’t remember him. But he knew her father well and she recalled his name. He was Chief Wambleeska, White Eagle, and two of his sons had made the trip with him to France. In a combination of court garb and native dress, the three men were an impressive sight, and Chief White Eagle began speaking to her in Dakota as soon as they were introduced. It made Wachiwi’s heart ache to hear it, and long more than ever for her father and brothers. She had to fight back tears as they spoke.

Within a few minutes she asked him if he had news of her father. Chief White Eagle had made reference to her kidnapping by the Crow and said that the death of their chief had become legend among the Dakota Sioux. She was thought to have become a spirit after she vanished, and he was stunned to see her here.

“And my father?” she asked softly, as Tristan watched her face, guessing what she had asked from the look of pain and hope in her eyes. He feared what she would hear, and so did she. She always said her father had been very old and frail and she was born late in his life.

Chief White Eagle spoke for several minutes with a stern look on his face. Wachiwi nodded and a few minutes later, the chief was whisked away to meet other people at the court. He made a sign of peace to her and the marquis, and Tristan looked at his wife with a puzzled expression. It had been startling listening to them speak Dakota here.

“What did he say?” Tristan asked softly, and there were tears swimming in Wachiwi’s eyes when she looked at him and answered.

“The Great Spirit took my father before the winter came, before they even got to winter camp.” She had known it in her heart for months. It had been a year since she was kidnapped by the Crow, and her father had been gone for most of it. She would never see him again, but at least she knew now that he was at peace, and so was she. Their destinies had led them on different paths to where they were meant to be. And he had died of a broken heart without her, just as she had feared. It made her hate Napayshni all over again and not regret what had happened in the forest. It was retribution for what he’d done to her brothers, and her father.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan said softly as they left the court, and she nodded and held his arm. It made her heart ache to think of her father dying of grief, but at least she knew now. And they were both free. He had led a good life, and hers was ahead of her, with Tristan, his children, and their own. And she knew that, like Jean, her father would live in a peaceful place in her heart forever. She was sad but felt at peace.

She had asked Chief White Eagle to bring news of her to her brothers and tell them that she was well and happy, and married to a good man. He promised to do so, but said he did not know when he would leave France again.

She leaned her head against Tristan in the carriage on the way home. And they made love again that night. She lay in his arms, thinking of the new life that had begun for them. And when she slept, she dreamed of the white buffalo again, and a white dove flying near its head. She saw her father in the dream and when she woke in the morning, she saw Tristan smiling at her and knew her life was perfect as it was.

They went back to Brittany that day, and once back at the château, she moved into his bedroom, and they went for long walks together every day. They walked along the sea. She thought about her father and felt peaceful about him. And she and Tristan went riding for a few weeks, and then one morning in August, he suggested they go for a ride together in the woods, and she shook her head with a small smile as she looked at him.

“I can’t,” she said quietly.

“Why not? Are you ill?” He looked concerned, but she had already understood what was happening, and as he looked at her, he suddenly did too.

“Oh my God, are you sure?” She nodded solemnly. She was certain it had happened on their wedding night, just as it was meant to be. There would be a baby in the spring. They both hoped it would be a boy called Jean, in honor of the man who had brought them together. Jean had brought Wachiwi to Tristan, he had saved her, and brought her home where she belonged, forever, with Tristan and their family. She knew then that the white buffalo in her dream had led her home to him.

Chapter 17

Brigitte

Marc and Brigitte left Paris on a sunny April morning for Brittany, in his ridiculously tiny car that made her laugh when she saw it. She had never seen anything so small, but it made sense for Paris. She wasn’t quite as amused to be on the highway in it, but he assured her it was safe. It looked like a toy car to her, and her small overnight bag took up most of the backseat. His even smaller one filled the trunk.

They drove at a reasonable speed for several hours while Marc told her about his new book. He was deeply engaged in the intricacies of Napoleon’s relationship with Josephine, and its subtle effects on the politics of France, and it sounded fascinating to her. She smiled as she listened to him. What he said and how he analyzed things were so French. He was passionate about politics, but the love relationship between the two historical figures was crucial to him as well. She loved the combination of the two, the emotional and the analytical, the historical and the political. She was sure it would be a good book. He was a very bright, erudite man.

“So will yours be when you write it, about the little Indian girl,” he said with a knowing smile. He had an intelligent face, and a kind expression, and his eyes lit up when he talked to her. There was so much about him that she liked. She was sorry that geography made anything more than friendship undesirable for both of them, especially for her.

“What makes you think I’ll write it?” she asked him, curious why he seemed so certain that she would.

“How can you not? With all that you know, have discovered, and can deduce between the lines, how could you possibly resist a story like that? It’s action, adventure, mystery, history, and romance. And think of the time they were living in, the days of slavery in America, the last years before the Revolution in France. And what happened to them afterward? Did he lose his château? Was he a Royalist resistant? What happened to their children? The Indian piece makes it even more fascinating. And from a love angle, she came to France with one brother, and married another. How did she escape the Crow? Did she really kill her captor? Was she dangerous or an innocent girl? You have enough for ten books there, not just one.” He said it almost enviously with a wistful look in his eyes.

“Maybe you should write the book,” she said seriously.

He was quick to shake his head. “It’s your story, not mine. Writers don’t respect much, but I do respect that. Honor among thieves,” he said, and laughed as he looked at her, and then grew serious again. “I truly hope you write it, Brigitte.” He always pronounced her name in French, and she liked it. “I think you should come back and do more research, and spend a year or two writing it here.” And then he added with a meaningful look, “I would like that very much. I can help you, if you like.”

“You already have,” she said sincerely. “I would never have found the court diaries without your help. I wouldn’t know as much as I do now if I hadn’t found them. I would never have known that the marquis’s younger brother brought her here and died on the way. I thought she just got lucky and married a marquis. The real story is so much more interesting than that, and more complicated.” She had to agree with him, it would make a wonderful book. It was more than just family history, it was an important record of the times, in both countries, America and France.

“That’s why you have to write it. I’m going to continue annoying you until you do. Besides, I have a vested interest in this.”

“And what’s that?” She was teasing him and enjoying their banter. They hardly knew each other, and yet she felt completely at ease with him. She wondered if Wachiwi had felt that way with her marquis, or if he had been daunting. There was nothing daunting about Marc. On the contrary, she felt relaxed and so at ease with him, and she enjoyed their conversations on a variety of subjects.

“My vested interest,” he confessed, “is that I want you to come to Paris, and stay for a while. Long-distance relationships are too hard, and I don’t like them. In the end, they always fall apart. I like Boston, but I’ve already lived there. I’m too old for the student life, and even the life of an academic, and I’m much too old to be traveling every few weeks. It’s too tiring, and I have to write. So do you. You can’t commute to Paris either. Long distance won’t work.” He spoke as though a relationship were a serious option, for both of them. It seemed premature to her.

“I thought we were just friends,” she said calmly.

“Is that all you want?” he asked her honestly, taking his eyes off the road to look at her, but there was very little traffic.

“I don’t know what I want,” she said truthfully. “Maybe it’s enough for now. And you’re right. Long distance doesn’t work, which is why my boyfriend and I broke up.”

“Do you miss him?” Marc asked, curious about how she felt. He had asked her that before, and she thought about it again now.

“Sometimes. I miss having someone familiar in my life. I’m not sure how much I really miss him. I’ll probably know when I go back to Boston.”

“That’s not missing him then. That’s just missing having a generic boyfriend. If you missed him, as a person, you would miss him here too.” She thought about it and realized he was right. And the odd thing was that after six years of evenings and weekends and dinners and daily phone calls, she didn’t miss Ted that much. She missed being able to tell him things, like what she had discovered about Wachiwi, but she didn’t long for him like a woman who had lost the love of her life. He hadn’t been. It had been easy. And she had been too lazy to want more. She thought that was a terrible statement about herself, and she shared it with Marc. He was less critical of her than she was of herself.

She had thought a lot about the relationship with Ted since it had ended. There hadn’t been enough there to justify keeping it going for six years, with no future plans between them. She had just “assumed.” It was so stupid, and yet it was so easy to do. Easier than facing what wasn’t there. And now she was thirty-eight years old with no man in her life, no future plans, and no kids. Not even a job now. Because she had assumed that that would last forever too. And the worst of it was that she had been passionate about neither, neither the man nor the job. She had settled for “good enough,” mediocrity, and no passion. Worst of all, for the last decade, she realized now, she hadn’t been honest with herself, or demanded much. She had settled. She didn’t want to do that again. Nor did she want to get into something she couldn’t handle, or that didn’t make sense. Like a long-distance relationship between Paris and Boston. And he didn’t seem to want that either. So they would have to be friends.

“What about you?” she asked him. “Do you miss the woman you were with?”

“Not anymore,” he said, truthful again. “I did in the beginning. It was convenient, but not enough. I’ll never do that again. I’d rather be by myself than settle for so little.” And then he smiled at her, looking very Gallic. “Or with you.” He was charming, and had been enormously helpful to her, but it was too soon to know if he was sincere. Maybe he was just smooth. But it sounded good when he said it, and she took it at face value. A flirtatious thing to say and nothing more.

They rode on in silence for a while after that, and stopped for lunch at a quaint inn he knew in Fougères. He told her about the region they were in, and its history. He knew a lot about many things—literature, history, politics. He was an intelligent man, and she was grateful she had met him. He had been invaluable to her research, and her mother would be thrilled with all that she’d found. The project seemed to have grown beyond its original purpose, and she now knew so much more than just a list of her ancestors, and when they lived and died. Wachiwi had become a little sister, a symbol of courage and freedom, an inspiration, a best friend.

“Tell me about the Chouans,” Brigitte asked him as they finished lunch. He had referred to them several times now, and she knew it had to do with Royalist resistants in the aftermath of the French Revolution, but she didn’t know much more than that, and it was obvious that he did.

“You should read Balzac’s book on the subject,” he suggested helpfully. “Les Chouans were the nobles and their supporters who refused to give in to the Revolution. In Paris, with rare exceptions, they lost their heads, and whatever they had—their houses, châteaux, lands, money, jewels, and mostly their lives, unless they were able to escape, but few did. The revolutionaries wanted revenge for years of oppression and inequality, and they wanted all the royals and nobles and aristocrats killed, and they made it happen. But the heat of the battle was in Paris. Farther away, particularly in a region called La Vendée, and Brittany, where your ancestors lived, the battle was not so thick, and the resisters were stronger. Many of them refused to surrender their châteaux, and put up a fight. Les Chouans are all of those who resisted, and also les Vendéens, but the heart of the resistance was in Brittany. Many kept their châteaux, although some were badly burned by the revolutionaries. But they weren’t able to kill as many aristocrats in Brittany. They didn’t have the forces they did in Paris, so the Royalists held their ground. Many were killed, and some of the châteaux were destroyed, but many survived. It will be interesting to see how your marquis fared when we get to Brittany. He may have been forced to surrender his château. It obviously wasn’t entirely destroyed if it’s still standing and they have tours there, or it may be nothing more than a burned-out shell. Many of the burned-out châteaux were never restored. It’s a great pity.”

And then he added some gratuitous information. “Many people blamed Marie Antoinette for the excesses of the time, and the direction in which she led the king. One can’t put it all at her door, but the nobles in those days, and the royals, certainly created a terrible situation for the poor, and didn’t seem to care. They paid for it dearly. Les Chouans were the only resisters, and their neighbors in La Vendée. But they weren’t as overwhelmed by sheer numbers as they were in Paris. It served them well that they were so far away. They were safer in Brittany, as safe as anyone was during the Revolution.” It shocked her to realize that the Revolution had been barely more than two hundred years before, which didn’t seem so long ago. Napoleon had come just after. The monarchy had been replaced by an empire, which wasn’t much better. And Napoleon had been just as excessive in his own way.

“It’s fascinating the role that women played in all that. Marie Antoinette before the Revolution, and Josephine after. It fits into my women’s gender studies. I should write a paper on it one day,” she said, looking pensive. She liked the idea.

“And don’t underestimate the courtesans. They were powerful women as well. The intrigues and manipulations at court were tremendous, and in some cases, women held all the power, and the key. Men are always willing to ride into battle. Women are much more clever, and can be very dangerous at times.”

“What a book that would make,” she said, smiling. “And to think I’ve spent seven years researching women’s right to vote, and I thought that was interesting. It’s nothing compared to all this.” But the French were singularly committed to intrigue, and when she said it to Marc, he didn’t deny it.

“That’s what makes our history so interesting. It’s never what it appears to be on the surface. All the important pieces are on the underside of the story, and you have to search for them to know what really happened.” Not unlike the details she had unearthed about Wachiwi. “How do you feel about having an Indian in your ancestry?” he asked her. He had wondered about it.

“I like it,” she said simply. “At first I thought my mother might be upset, since she’s such a snob about our aristocratic French background, and such a purist. I wasn’t sure being part Sioux, even by a fraction, would please her. But she seems to like it too. And I love the idea that there’s something more exotic in my DNA than a lot of French nobles with titles, with all due respect,” she said, glancing at him apologetically for the comment.

Marc laughed when she said it. “Don’t worry, I don’t have a single aristocrat in my background. My ancestors were all peasants.”

“Whatever they were, they were courageous people, judging by the book about your parents and grandparents.”

“I think going against the tides is in our nature. That’s very French too. We never want to do what we’re supposed to. It’s much more fun to start a revolution, or be in the resistance. We’re oppositional people, and we never agree with each other either. That’s why we love talking politics here, so we can disagree with everyone.” There were heated debates in cafés constantly, and on campuses, about meaningful subjects. It was one of the things Brigitte had always liked about France.

They talked all the way to Saint Malo, and it was too late to visit the château when they got there. They checked into the hotel where he had booked rooms for them, and they walked around the port. The town was old-fashioned and pretty. He told her it had been a whaling town long ago, and he entertained her with more stories about the region.

They stopped and bought ice cream, and sat down on a bench to eat it, looking out at the ocean.

“Can you imagine the size of the boat Wachiwi must have come here on?” She looked dreamy when she thought about it. What a brave girl she must have been. And the man she loved and was traveling with had died on the trip. It must have been terrifying for her.

“I don’t want to think about it,” he said. “I get seasick.” He finished his ice cream, and they walked back to the hotel. They each had a tiny room barely bigger than the bed, and they shared a bathroom, but it was cheap. They each paid for their own room. He had offered to pay for hers, and Brigitte wouldn’t let him. He had come here to help her with her research, and there was no reason why he should pay for her. And she didn’t want to be obligated to him.

They ate dinner at a fish restaurant that night since their hotel served no food. The meal was delicious, and he ordered an excellent bottle of inexpensive wine. And dinner with him was lively and interesting. She always had a good time with him. He was so well educated and knew so many things about history, art, literature. She was astounded at his memory for historical facts and dates. He knew more about some aspects of American history than she did. And he was well informed about politics in the United States too. He was incredibly bright without being pompous, which was rare. So many of the professors she knew in academic life were disconnected from the real world and thought they knew it all. Marc knew a lot but still managed to be humble and make fun of himself. She liked that about him, and he had a good sense of humor. He told her some funny stories about his student days in Boston, and they were laughing when they got back to the hotel, said goodnight, and went to their respective rooms.

She was wearing an old flannel nightgown and brushing her teeth when he walked in on her in the bathroom. She had forgotten to lock the door, and he was wearing boxers and a T-shirt and looked just like any other guy at home. He didn’t look sexy and French, he looked human and real, and she liked that about him. He apologized profusely for walking in, although her nightgown covered her from neck to ankles.

“That’s a sexy-looking gown,” he said, teasing her. “My sister used to have a nightgown like that when we were in school.” He had mentioned her to Brigitte before. She lived in the South of France, was married, and had three kids and he was close to her. He referred to himself as her black sheep brother because he had lived with a woman, never married, nor had kids. She was a lawyer, and her husband was a judge in a small provincial town. “I don’t think she caught her husband by wearing it though,” he continued to tease Brigitte.

“I’m not in the market for a husband tonight,” she quipped back. “I left all my sexy nighties at home.” The truth was that she didn’t have any, and hadn’t bought sexy lingerie or nightgowns in years. She didn’t need them. She’d had Ted.

“What a pity, I was just about to propose.” He put toothpaste on his brush while he chatted with her, and a minute later, they were both brushing their teeth at the sink. It was a funny thing to be doing with a man she hardly knew, but somehow she didn’t mind. They were becoming real friends, despite his teasing her about relationships and proposals. For them, there was no risk of either one, she was determined to be friends.

When they finished brushing their teeth, he said goodnight, and they went to their rooms and locked the doors. Or she did. He left his unlocked just in case. He would have been perfectly happy if she had become overwhelmed by a tidal wave of lust during the night. Instead, she slept like a baby, and felt fresh in the morning. He expressed his disappointment over it at breakfast, and was teasing her again. In fact, he would have been startled if she had turned up in his room. She had made her boundaries perfectly clear to him, and despite what he said, he respected them, and her. He thought her a very impressive woman, and Ted a fool for having left her. No royal mummy he found in Egypt, or pharaoh’s tomb, would be worth it, in Marc’s opinion. Brigitte was a good woman and brighter than anyone he’d met in a long time.

They drove to the center of town after breakfast, and Marc stopped at the town hall. He had told her that marriages, births, deaths, and whatever had happened in the county were recorded here. It would confirm what she already knew, and perhaps unearth some things she didn’t. And once again, he was right. After paying a small fee, they spent several hours poring over ledgers. They found the entries for Tristan’s birth and his younger brother’s, and their parents’ births and deaths; both had died relatively young and within days of each other. Marc guessed they had died as a result of some epidemic, and he noted that Tristan had been only eighteen at the time, and his brother ten years younger, so he had inherited the title and everything that went with it when barely more than a boy.

They found the record of the births of Tristan and Wachiwi’s children, the first one named after his late brother. She had seen those names and dates already in the photographic records of the Mormons, but here they were, right where they originally came from. It moved Brigitte to see them in the ledgers. She made notes on everything for her mother, and when they walked into the courtyard afterward, there were young couples with bright expectant faces waiting to be married. Marc explained that in France one had to have a civil wedding before a church one, so all of the young couples there were having their civil ceremonies, and then would marry in church a week or two later. They all looked excited and happy, as Brigitte and Marc walked past them in the courtyard. The various sets of parents were chatting with each other. Brigitte smiled as she walked by, and then she and Marc got back in the car and drove to the château. They had timed their day perfectly. The guided tour was starting in less than an hour. She wanted to hear what they had to say, and to finally see what had once been her family’s château centuries before.

They drove up the same road that Wachiwi had traveled when she got there, to where the château sat on a cliff, looking out to sea. The Château de Margerac was a government-run monument now. They bought two tickets at the entrance to the gardens, and strolled together. Brigitte was amazed at how enormous it was. It looked like a fortress and had changed very little over hundreds of years. There were still bright flower beds in the garden, a maze, and benches where you could sit and look out at the view. They had no way of knowing that the bench where they sat for a few minutes was the one where Tristan had proposed to Wachiwi. But just being there made Brigitte feel steeped in her own history.

The stables were long empty, and there were a few ancestral portraits but not many, and those had been reclaimed at auction by the Department of Historic Monuments. Brigitte noticed some dusty hunting trophies, as people gathered at the foot of the grand staircase to take the tour, led by a young woman who explained who the Margeracs had been.

She said the château had been built in the twelfth century, and she reeled off a list of names of the generations who had lived there, and what they had done in the community and county. She said that the château was one of the largest in Brittany, and its owners had successfully fought off their enemies in the Middle Ages. And then she explained that that had been the case after the Revolution as well. They were taking the tour in French, and Marc translated for her as the guide spoke quickly, leading them through the master bedroom on the second floor and through several other grand rooms that were empty. They were told that there were bedrooms on the upper floors, as well as the nursery, but they were empty and closed to the public.

And as she finally led them back to the great hall, she announced almost proudly that the Marquis Tristan de Margerac had joined the forces of the resistance, after the Revolution, les Chouans, and had succeeded in keeping the château from being taken from them or invaded. She said that local history showed that he had kept his family sequestered there, despite a fire set in one part of the château by revolutionaries. But the marquis had prevailed and there were local stories that his wife had fought valiantly at his side. Tears sprang to Brigitte’s eyes as she said it. She could easily imagine Wachiwi fighting to defend her home, her family, and her man, a Sioux to the end. The guide said that the château had remained in the family until the mid-nineteenth century, when they had migrated to America. And at the turn of the century, after other owners sold it and it changed hands several times, the Department of Historic Monuments had taken it over and restored it. She said that much of what they saw there was as it had originally been, although in the time that the last generations of marquises had lived there, it had been far more grand. There had been antiques, many of which had disappeared, many servants, extensive lands, all of which had been sold off when the château changed hands. She said the stables had been filled with Thoroughbred horses, and she mentioned that Marquis Tristan de Margerac’s wife had been an exceptional horsewoman of legendary skill in the county. She made a passing comment that she was remarkable in that she was a Native American, believed to be a Sioux, and had come to France to marry him, although she didn’t know the details. She said that her name was Wachiwi, and both she and her husband were buried in the family cemetery behind the thirteenth-century chapel on the estate, where members of the family had been buried for hundreds of years. She added that no direct members of the Margerac family still existed in France. They had all emigrated to America during the nineteenth century and possibly died out.

Marc squeezed her hand when the guide said it, and it made Brigitte want to wave her arms and shout, “Here I am! I’m one of them!” She was still looking deeply moved and vibrant and excited when the tour ended and they walked back outside. She had bought several pamphlets and postcards for her mother, and she looked around feeling a deep tie to her ancestors and their château, and most especially to Wachiwi, who was an inspiration to her now.

She was intrigued to know that Marc had been right. Tristan de Margerac had been a Chouan, and had been able to keep the château, despite the revolutionaries’ attempts to capture it and set it on fire. He had held his ground like others in the region, and Wachiwi had helped him, with all her Sioux fierceness and courage. It must have been a frightening time.

Hearing about it made Brigitte want to write about it, but she still didn’t know how. Fact or fiction? Historical novel? Anthropology? History? Romance? She didn’t know which avenue to pursue, or if she ever would. Maybe it was enough to just know about it, and realize that she was part of it in some way.

She and Marc went down to the small cemetery behind the chapel, although the others didn’t. They had no interest in looking at the headstones and vaults of dead Margeracs for centuries of generations. The chapel was empty when they went inside. One side looked as though it had been damaged by fire long ago, but it was still standing. Brigitte couldn’t help wondering if it was part of the damage done by the revolutionaries or if it had happened later on.

They wandered out into the garden behind it. There were several somber-looking mausoleums, and many headstones, some of which had been worn smooth by time and the names on them lost. Brigitte knew what she was looking for and what she hoped to find, as Marc followed her into the first two mausoleums, and then a third. All were the names of Margeracs of previous generations, and the carvings of their names were well preserved. They were mostly sixteenth and seventeenth century, and some from the mid- and early 1700s. Tristan and Jean’s parents were there. Brigitte was disappointed to find that Tristan and Wachiwi weren’t, as they walked back outside.

There were two handsome monuments at the back of the cemetery, under a tree, with smaller headstones around them. She had lost hope of finding Tristan and Wachiwi by then, but there was something soothing about reading the names that were her forebears’, and part of the ancestry her mother had been pursuing and chronicling for years.

Marc saw them before she did. He had walked all the way back to the rear of the cemetery to read the names on the last two monuments, and he waved excitedly to Brigitte. She climbed through some tall weeds to get there. The path that meandered through the cemetery was long since overgrown.

He was standing there reverently with tears in his eyes as he silently held out a hand to Brigitte. Their names were clearly marked. They had both died in 1817, within less than three months of each other, twenty-eight years after the revolution, three years after Napoleon’s abdication, and two years after the battle of Waterloo. Wachiwi had died thirty-three years after she had come to France, and thirty-two years after she became the marquise. When they searched through the tall grasses, they found many of the others, her children, their spouses, and two of their children who had died in France. Still others had gone to the States. So many of the names she had seen recorded recently in ancient ledgers were there, with Tristan and Wachiwi in their midst. Their monuments sat solemnly in the peaceful garden, side by side just as they had lived. Tristan had died at sixty-seven, which had been a considerable age for those times, and it was hard to know how old Wachiwi had been. If she had been around seventeen when she left her village, and eighteen when she married Tristan in that case, then she must have been fifty when she died, and perhaps had died of grief without him, although it wasn’t unusual to die at that age. He was more unusual for having lived much longer. The dates of his birth and death were recorded on Tristan’s tombstone; on hers only the date of her death was inscribed. Probably no one had ever known her precise age—nor had she, since there was no record of her age when she left her tribe, and later fled with Jean.

It was deeply moving, standing there. There had been generations of her ancestors that had come later, but it was Wachiwi, the little Sioux girl who had stolen her heart, whose story she loved. The wild girl from the Dakota Sioux had survived being kidnapped, crossed a continent, an ocean, and come to France, found love and stayed, been presented to a king and queen at court, lived through a revolution and defended her home, and had been an important link in a long chain of generations that ultimately connected her to Brigitte, who felt a deep bond to this girl. Standing near Wachiwi’s final resting place, and her husband’s, made Brigitte feel as though she had come full circle in some way, and found her roots at last. She felt a part of this place, and these people, almost as though she knew them, and in many ways, thanks to what she had read about them, she did. She was suddenly deeply grateful to her own mother for leading her on this path, albeit reluctantly at first.

She and Marc stood holding hands in the cemetery, and then slowly, reluctantly, they walked away, past the chapel and the château. He put an arm around her, and they walked back to where they had left his car. It was an unforgettable afternoon. And she felt sad to leave them, and the château, as they drove away.

“Thank you for letting me come here with you,” Marc said quietly as they drove back to the little town. It had been moving for him too. The story had been so intricate until now, so mysterious, like a puzzle they had been trying to solve, and now it was laid out before them like a stained-glass window, all the pieces fit and the light was shining through it. He was proud to have been a part of it, and grateful to have shared it with her.

“I would never have known all I do about her now, if it weren’t for you,” Brigitte said, smiling at him. The court diaries she had found had made a huge difference in her understanding of who Wachiwi was and what had happened to her.

“I think it was destiny that brought us together,” he said with a sigh. He believed that. Stranger things had happened.

“Maybe,” she conceded, but she hadn’t done as much for him, and wished she had. She liked listening to his stories about his book.

“Perhaps it’s your destiny to stay in France too, like Wachiwi,” he said cryptically, and she laughed. He was definitely taken with her, enjoyed her company, and didn’t want her to leave. She had finished everything she had come here to do. And after they got back to Paris, she had to go home.

“I have to look for a job,” she said practically. “In Boston.”

“You can find one here.” He mentioned the American University of Paris again, and conveniently he had a friend there in the admissions office, whom he offered to call on her behalf.

“And then what would I do? I have no apartment, no friends. I have a dozen years of history in Boston.” And boredom, she thought to herself, but didn’t say it.

“You have me,” he said cautiously, but they were both aware that they hardly knew each other. Nothing had happened between them, and maybe never would. She couldn’t move to Paris for a man she liked talking to. That wasn’t enough, and they both knew it. And Brigitte wasn’t an impulsive person. She was sensible, and always had been. “I think you should write the book here, about your Sioux ancestor,” he insisted, but she wasn’t convinced. It was a wonderful story, because it mattered to her, but she wasn’t sure if it would make a book, nor if she could write it. She wasn’t a novelist or a historian, she was an anthropologist. This was different, it was full of the raw emotion she had no experience writing. “It might do you good to spend a year in Paris,” he said, still trying to convince her. “At some point in our lives, we all have to do something crazy that makes no sense but warms our heart.” And he knew that Wachiwi did.

“I don’t like taking risks,” Brigitte said quietly, and he turned to look at her.

“I know. I can see that. Maybe you should.” But it wasn’t his decision to make, it was hers. And hers was to go home to Boston. It felt like the right thing to do.

They had dinner at a different fish restaurant that evening, and spent the night in the little hotel. And on Sunday morning they drove back to Paris. They chatted occasionally on the drive, and part of the way Brigitte fell asleep. Marc looked over at her with a smile. It was nice having her there next to him, dozing peacefully as he drove. He was glad he had gone to Brittany with her. And he was sad thinking that in a few days she’d be gone. He only hoped that the days since he had met her had convinced her to stay.

Chapter 18

Wachiwi

1793

The months and years after the onset of the Revolution had been frightening for all of them. Fortunately, they had been in Brittany when the first outbursts of violence had erupted in the streets of Paris. The news that came to them from those who fled was impossible to believe. Versailles invaded by armed ruffians and revolutionaries, the entire royal family arrested and imprisoned, the Palais du Louvre thronged with crowds defacing the exquisite rooms. Noble children murdered, adult royals on the guillotine, heads rolling in the streets, blood in the gutters everywhere. And many of Tristan’s friends and relatives were dead.

They had no idea what had happened to their house in Paris for many months and finally learned that it had been pillaged and looted. Revolutionary soldiers had camped out in it, and then abandoned it again, taking much of value with them. Wachiwi was grateful that they were in Brittany with their children.

Wachiwi was frightened at first and reminded of when she was kidnapped by the Crow. Tristan understood immediately and assured her that no one would ever take her away again.

“I will kill them first,” he promised her with an unfamiliarly murderous look in his eyes. “I will protect you.” And she knew he would. She felt safe with him. He turned the château into a fortress, raised the drawbridge, and transformed their home into an armed camp, with other nobles staying with them. They formed a band of more than fifty resistants staying there. He taught Wachiwi to fire a musket and load a cannon, and she fought at his side on many nights. She was never afraid when she was with him.

It was Wachiwi who saw the flames first the night the revolutionaries set fire to the north wing of the château. Her babies were inside, with Agathe and Matthieu, and the man she loved, as flaming arrows flew over their walls and set fire to the trees, which spread almost instantly to the château, fanned by a fierce wind. And then suddenly the Sioux in her rose up and took control. She took a powerful bow from one of Tristan’s archers and began firing arrows back at them and injured many men, and killed more than a few. She was a Catholic since her marriage, but had no pangs of conscience about what she was doing. She was fighting for their home, and as he watched her, Tristan was proud of her and had never loved her more. She was the only woman fighting beside the men, and she was tireless as she fired muskets, and shot arrows at their attackers.

She was wounded once in the same shoulder that had been injured when she tried to flee from the Crow, but it was only a graze this time too. After that Tristan insisted she stay with her children, but within hours she was back in the fray, alongside him and the other men.

It was an infamous time in France with their countrymen turning on each other and killing their own. The damage to the north wing was considerable, but in time the attacks diminished and the revolutionaries left. The other Chouans went home, the countryside was peaceful again, and Tristan put his efforts into rebuilding the château, grateful that they had lost neither their heads nor their home. He hadn’t been to Paris to observe the damage there. The house was closed, and he had no desire to leave Wachiwi, their three small boys, and his two children. He wondered if they’d ever feel safe again. And he loved her more than ever. He had discovered a fierceness in her as she fought beside him that made him realize again what an extraordinary woman she was, and how much she meant to him, more even than his country or his home. He had been fighting to protect her and their children, more than anything else. And she felt the same way about him. She lived for Tristan and their three sons and her stepchildren, and would have killed anyone who was a threat to them.

“So, Madame la Marquise,” Tristan said as they walked in the sunlight of the gardens that were still partially burned. The stables had been damaged too, and they had lost some horses in the fire. But the revolutionaries had retreated, when they couldn’t take the château. The Chouans in it were too fierce, so they moved on to other locations that were less well defended. Tristan and Wachiwi had saved their home. He looked proud of her as he smiled and sat down on the bench where he had proposed to her, and it showed scars from the fire too. The maze had been destroyed. “It can all be rebuilt,” he said quietly, and Wachiwi knew he would. He loved his home, and hated the revolutionaries and what they did. She had never realized what a brave warrior he was until then. He was a peaceful man, but no one was going to take his home or hurt them. It reminded her of her brothers who were so far away. She still missed them, but her life was here with Tristan and her children. She felt as much French as Sioux now, although the Sioux in her had come out during their battle to defend their home.

“How is your shoulder?” he asked gently, and she smiled back at him.

“It’s fine. You would make a good Sioux warrior,” she said, and he laughed as he put an arm around her as they sat on the bench. “I don’t ride as well as you do.”

“Neither did my brothers,” she teased.

“You’d make a good archer for the king, if we still had one,” he said sadly. Everything had changed. The world was upside down. Too many people he knew were dead. He didn’t want to leave Brittany again. They were better off here, in peace, far from Paris. He feared it would be years before the country settled down. “Are you sorry you came here?” he asked her, meaning France and looking worried. It was such a terrible time.

“Of course not,” she said softly as her eyes looked deep into his. He could see her strength and her love, and was reassured. He hated what they’d been through. “This is my life. You are my life,” she said firmly, “and our children. I was born to be with you.” She was certain of it. He was her tribe now, and the only one she needed or wanted. She was not Sioux, she was his, and had been since she got here. “I want to die with you one day,” she said solemnly, “a long time from now. When you go, I will come with you.” He looked at her as she said it, and knew she meant it, as he leaned over and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss from a gentle man who loved her with the same fierceness with which she loved him.

“I want to live a long life with you, Wachiwi,” he said quietly, and then looked out to sea. She leaned against him, and smiled up at him peacefully. The war to save their home was over, and they had much to do, and look forward to.

“We will,” she said softly, as they sat looking at the sea together, and then, hand in hand, they wandered back to the château they would repair in the coming months. They walked upstairs to the nursery together to see their children. Agathe and Matthieu were there playing with their younger siblings. They were still shaken by the battles they’d been through and all they’d seen. Tristan looked over their heads at Wachiwi and smiled at her happily. And she smiled back at him. There was nothing to fear as long as she was with him.

When they left the children, they walked downstairs to their bedroom and closed the door softly. She put her arms around him, and this time he kissed her with the same passion he had felt for her since the beginning.

She followed him to the bed where their babies had been conceived and born, and as he held her and she kissed him, he knew he was the luckiest man alive that the chief’s daughter named Wachiwi was his, and would be until the end of his days. She was the dancer of his heart and soul and dreams.

Chapter 19

Brigitte

On Monday, Brigitte spent the day doing errands, and a little shopping. She wanted to buy a present for her mother, and something for Amy and her kids. She walked along the Seine again after that, and she went to see an exhibit she had wanted to see since she arrived but hadn’t had time for. She figured that she had another day or two of museums and monuments she wanted to see, and then she no longer had an excuse, she had to leave. She had to get on with her life. And her real life was in Boston, not here. But she loved being in Paris anyway.

When Marc dropped her back at her hotel on Sunday, he had said he would call her soon. He knew she was leaving that week. He mentioned that he had a meeting with his editor the next day, and he called her late Monday afternoon and invited her to dinner. He suggested a place she’d never heard of before, in the seventeenth arrondissement, and he said they had excellent food.

He picked her up at eight o’clock and they had a terrific evening together, as always, and at the end of the meal, as they drank café filtre and shared ice cream and “macarons,” he looked at her sheepishly and said he had a confession to make. She couldn’t imagine what it was, and was stunned when he told her. He had called his friend at the admissions office of AUP and asked him if they would meet with her to see about a job. He admitted readily that it was a presumptuous thing to do, but he insisted that there was no harm in it. If they had nothing, it didn’t matter, and if they did, she could always turn it down if she didn’t want it. She said she didn’t, and was shocked and annoyed by what he’d done, although she knew he meant well. But she didn’t like his presumption.

“If you’re so hot for me to come here,” she snapped at him, “why don’t you move to Boston?” But the big difference between them was that he had a job, and she didn’t, which made her considerably more mobile. She had very little to anchor her in Boston, and he had much more here. He was still teaching at the Sorbonne and had obligations that Brigitte didn’t.

“Are you very angry at me?” He looked apologetic, and was aware that it was a pretty gutsy thing to do, but he liked her so much, she seemed at loose ends, and he would have loved it if she moved to Paris, even for a year. If nothing else, they would be good friends. Of that he was sure, and so was she. But she wasn’t about to move to Paris for a friend, or a job at AUP. She was going back to Boston to find a job there in the academic community she was familiar with.

“I’m not angry,” she explained. “Maybe just surprised … flattered … it’s nice to know someone cares that much to try so hard to get me to stay. I’m just not used to people lining up interviews for me, or making my decisions.” Ted never had, and she preferred it that way. She was an independent person, even if she was currently out of a job, and she was perfectly capable of finding one herself. He had offended her a little by setting up the interview for her, but she knew his intentions were good, and she forgave him because of that.

“The decision is yours, Brigitte,” he said firmly. “I just wanted to give you the opportunity if you want it.” She didn’t, but now she didn’t want to be rude.

“What did you tell them at AUP?” She was curious now, even though she wasn’t going to interview for a job.

“That you’re brilliant and charming and a terrific person and I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, and you worked for ten years at Boston University and are looking for a change.”

“Well, that sounds about right,” she conceded, “especially the brilliant, charming, terrific part.” And she was ready for a change. She just didn’t know to what, and the admissions office at another school would be all too similar to what she used to do. It hadn’t been a very exciting job, and she realized now that she had been bored a lot of the time. She had done a lot of very tedious work, which was the downside of never having wanted too much responsibility. So she did a lot of menial things. That was the trade-off.

“It’s a very small school, and may be more fun for you than a big school. You’d probably have a lot more contact with the students, and more influence. I think it’s less than a thousand students.” BU had been thirty-two thousand, both graduate and undergraduate, it was huge, and he had a point.

“I suppose I could talk to them, to not put you in an awkward position, and then go home and interview. And if nothing great turns up there, I could always think of the job here as a fallback position.” It seemed funny to use a job in Paris as backup. She knew that to others it would have been top of the list, but she wanted to go home. She told herself she had a life in Boston. But did she, with no boyfriend and no job? She didn’t here either though, and Marc was her only friend. It was something, but not enough, and he was very new in her life, even though he had been very kind. She had a real life, and real friends, somewhere else. But she wasn’t entirely opposed to talking to AUP, since he had set it up. Marc was pleased. He gave her all the details that night before he dropped her off at her hotel, and he said he’d call the next day to see how it went.

And much to Brigitte’s surprise, it went extremely well. The man she met with in the admissions office was personable, easy to talk to, and loved the school. He was the best PR agent they could have had, and by the time she finished listening to him, she was ready to enlist. Almost. She liked everything he said about the department, but they had no job at the moment, and she still wanted to find a job in Boston. Other than that, it was great. And she reported all of it to Marc when he called her. He’d already had an enthusiastic call from his friend, who thought Brigitte would be terrific for them, and had told Marc, as he did Brigitte, that if anything opened up, he’d let her know. It had been something of an exercise in futility, but it was good practice. She hadn’t been on an interview in a while, and it warmed her up for job hunting in Boston.

“Well, I tried,” Marc said, sounding forlorn for a moment. “I guess it would have been too perfect if they offered you a job.”

“I didn’t expect that,” she said kindly. “It was nice of you to set it up. A little pushy maybe,” she teased him, “but nice.” She had decided to accept it in the spirit it had been given, with a warm heart.

“So when are you leaving?” he asked, sounding worried.

“Day after tomorrow,” she said matter-of-factly. She had done almost everything she wanted to do, and she was ready to go. It was time to get on with her life. The interview at AUP had been interesting, but it didn’t change her course. They hadn’t made her an offer, and her sails were set for home.

“I have to have dinner with my publisher tonight. I’m late with the book, and I have to be nice to him, or I’d cancel. And tomorrow I teach a class. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” It was her last night in Paris.

“I’d love to.” He had been nothing but nice and generous with her, and she couldn’t think of a more pleasant way to spend her last night in Paris, with a new friend. And hopefully at some point he’d visit Boston, or she’d come to Paris again for a vacation. It was nice knowing people around the world. And Marc was a special person. He really was a lovely man.

He told her he’d pick her up at eight the next day, and she spent the day racing around, tying up loose ends. By the time he came to pick her up, her bags were packed, everything was ready for her to leave the next morning, and she could spend the evening with him and relax. She was wearing a red dress she had bought that afternoon, and he admired it as soon as she came downstairs.

“You look terrific!”

“I saw it in a shop window today, and I couldn’t resist. I figured I should bring something home from Paris.” She had bought a beautiful scarf for her mother, toys for Amy’s kids, and a pretty sweater for Amy. The red dress had been a final splurge.

He took her to another cozy restaurant, and as usual conversation during dinner was lively. They each expressed a thousand opinions, traded experiences, and laughed a lot. And for the first time neither of them mentioned Tristan and Wachiwi, tonight was only about them. Brigitte had a perfect time, and Marc looked genuinely sad when they left the restaurant and took a walk near Notre Dame, which was all lit up.

“How can you leave a city like this?” he asked her, spreading his hands and looking very French again. He had one of those wonderful expressive faces, with a thousand expressions. He always looked very French, and she liked his looks. Ted had been very Anglo-Saxon. He was handsome but not sexy. There was something sensual about Marc’s lips, although she always pretended not to notice.

“I’ll have to admit, it’s not an easy city to leave.” She looked sad too and she had enjoyed her time with him. But she couldn’t stay here forever, particularly once she finished what she had come here to do. She didn’t want her Indian ancestor to become an obsession. She was going to turn her notes over to her mother to do with as she wished. It was her mother’s project after all, not her own, even if she had fallen in love with Wachiwi.

They walked for quite a while and looked down at the Seine, and then he drove her out of the way, to the Trocadero on the way home. It was the perfect image of Paris, as the Eiffel Tower stood before her in all its splendor, and as though on cue, as he parked his car, the tower began to sparkle, shooting lights in all directions. It was the perfect final night in Paris, and unable to resist the beauty of it, they both got out of the car. She stood looking up at the tower, like a child, mesmerized by the dazzling lights, and the exquisite view of Paris stretching before them, all the way to Sacré Coeur, and as she stood looking at the scene in silence, Mark put his arms around her and kissed her. She was too shocked to pull away or move, and realized she didn’t want to. Instead she put her arms around him and kissed him back. It was a moment not to waste, and a night she knew she would never forget. And whatever he was to her, or wasn’t, she liked him a lot, and would have been open to more than that if she was staying in Paris. But she wasn’t. So all this could ever be was one glorious romantic night kissing someone she truly liked in front of the Eiffel Tower. It didn’t get better than that, except maybe if you were madly in love. But she didn’t need that now, or want it, it would have complicated everything between them. This was simple and clean and fun. She smiled at him when they pulled apart, and he kissed her again, as a young boy came up and tried to sell them a model of the Eiffel Tower. Marc took his wallet out and bought her one. He handed it to her, and said it was in memory of one of the best nights of his life, and she thanked him and agreed.

They said very little to each other on the drive back to her hotel. There was nothing left to say. They both knew she wasn’t going to sleep with him before she left, and he didn’t ask. She was going home, and they might never see each other again, or not for a long time, if ever. The times they had shared had been perfect. They enjoyed each other’s company, respected each other, liked each other immensely, had a good time, and he had helped her a lot with her research. She knew she would cherish the memory of him and this night forever. And when she said goodnight to him, she was holding the little glass souvenir in her hand.

“Thank you for everything,” she said warmly. “I had a wonderful time. Again.” She had enjoyed Brittany with him. And the Bibliothèque Nationale, all the restaurants he’d taken her to, their serious discussions, their laughter, the things he had taught her about the history of France, their walks along the Seine. They had done a lot in a short time.

“I hope you come back soon,” Marc said with a wistful look, and then he grinned. “If not, maybe I’ll come to Boston sometime to visit you. It’s not so far,” he said, as though trying to convince himself. But it was. Their lives were worlds apart. “I hope you find a job,” he said, and she smiled at him.

“So do I. I’ll have to start beating the bushes seriously when I go home. I’m sure something will turn up soon.”

“I’m sure it will,” he reassured her, and then without saying anything more, he kissed her again. They kissed for a long time, and for a crazy instant she wished that she wasn’t leaving Paris and was staying here with him.

“Take care of yourself, Marc,” she said sadly, as she left him. “Thank you for everything.”

“A bientôt,” he said softly, brushing her lips with his own, and then she walked back into the hotel, and he went back to his car.

When she got upstairs, she set the little Eiffel Tower down on the desk and looked at it, and wondered why she hadn’t gone to bed with him. What was there to lose? Her heart, she reminded herself, which didn’t sound like a good idea to her. It was better like this. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, brushed it away, went to brush her teeth, put on her ancient flannel nightgown, and went to bed. But when she fell asleep that night, for her last night in Paris, she dreamed of him.

Chapter 20

Marc called her on her BlackBerry when she was on the way to the airport. He said that he just wanted to say goodbye to her again. He was trying to sound cheerful about it, but she could tell that he was sad, and so was she. It really was rotten luck in a way, she thought to herself, she had met a man she really liked, and he lived three thousand miles away. It happened that way sometimes, but it would have been nice if they lived in the same city. Instead she had had a great time with him, and she was taking home a souvenir of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe that was good enough. She thanked him again for everything, and dinner the night before, and he thanked her for the time she had spent with him. He was no longer trying to convince her to stay. He had understood.

She said goodbye to him, and checked her bags in when she got to the airport. She was flying to New York, to see her mother first, and give her the notes on everything she’d learned in France. Brigitte wanted to hand them over to her, so Marguerite could get on with her genealogy, and Brigitte would keep a copy for herself. It was nice to have, in memory of an extraordinary time and their remarkable Indian relative.

She went through security. The flight was on time, and once they were in the air, she laid her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Marc had said he would e-mail her from time to time, and she had promised to do the same. And now, she had to concentrate on finding a job. She had had a great time in Paris, but she had to get on with her life. She was looking forward to seeing her mother and telling her about the trip.

Brigitte watched two movies, had a meal, and slept for two hours on the flight. She woke up just as the captain announced that they were landing in New York. It had gone very fast. And once she was in the airport, picking up her bags, she felt as though she had been shot out of a cannon. All the gentility of Paris had vanished. People jostled her, all the porters were somewhere else as she struggled with her bag. There was an endless line of people waiting for a taxi, it was raining, people were shouting at each other, and she wanted to run back into the terminal and catch the first plane back to Paris. Welcome to New York.

She finally managed to get a cab, gave him her mother’s address, and called to tell her she was on her way. They were going out to dinner together, and when Brigitte got to the apartment, she ceremoniously handed over the folder full of meticulous notes about their ancestors, before she did anything else. Her mother hugged her gratefully, and thought Brigitte looked very well. She seemed relaxed and happier and more at ease in her own skin than she had in a long time. Her mother looked at her through narrowed eyes and told her she appeared more “confident.” Brigitte was amused at her choice of words, and then realized she was right. That was how she felt. All her anxiety about what would happen to her next seemed to have vanished. She was still childless, unmarried, and unemployed, but she felt good about herself. The time in Paris had done her good, and so had Marc.

They chatted for about an hour in the apartment, about Wachiwi, the court diaries, the marquis, his brother, the château, and the Bibliothèque Nationale. And her mother was impressed. Brigitte had learned so much in such a short time. It was the most efficient, thorough job of research Marguerite had ever seen, and she was astounded that Brigitte had navigated the National Archives by herself.

“Well, I have to admit, I had some help,” Brigitte confessed. “I met a writer at the library, and he gave me a hand. He’s a historian, and a professor, and he knew the place like the back of his hand, and he showed me around. I probably couldn’t have done it without him.”

“That’s interesting.” Her mother was curious, but didn’t want to press her, but Brigitte volunteered the rest. Or most of it anyway. Not the kiss on the last night. Some things were better left unsaid.

“He came to Brittany with me, and told me all about the Chouans, the aristocrats who resisted the revolutionaries and fought to keep their châteaux. It’s very interesting stuff.” Apparently. And so was the fact that Brigitte had gone to Brittany with him. Marguerite wondered if anything else had happened there, but didn’t ask. Her daughter was looking very well, and had a new light in her eyes. Her mother wondered if it was love, or even passion. Whatever it was, it was very becoming. Brigitte was looking terrific, and she was full of excitement as they talked about everything she’d found. She told her mother it was all in the folder she had given her.

“I can’t wait to read it.”

“Marc thinks I should write a book about it,” she volunteered as they left for dinner. They were going to a neighborhood restaurant on Madison Avenue that her mother liked.

“Marc?” Her mother looked quizzical as the doorman hailed a cab for them. This was getting more interesting by the minute.

“He’s the writer I mentioned. He thought I could fictionalize it, or do it as a historical. The story is so good, I don’t think fiction would add anything to it.” Her mother wanted to hear more about the man she kept mentioning, and finally at the end of dinner, she couldn’t restrain herself any longer. His name had come up several times.

“Did anything happen with this Frenchman you met?” She wondered if Brigitte had fallen in love, but she didn’t look it. She looked peaceful and happy. She didn’t have the anguished look of someone who had left a man she loved in Paris. But her mother sensed that she was different.

“No, I didn’t let it. There’s no point starting something, and then leaving. It would have been a mess. Long-distance relationships never work. I just had a good time with him. That’s all it was. But I’ll admit, it’s too bad he doesn’t live in Boston. You don’t meet guys like him too often. He tried to talk me into coming to Paris for a year to write the book. I’m not going to do that. I doubt I’ll ever do it. I have a book to finish. And I have to find a job in Boston, that’s where I live.” Her mother nodded and thought that everything Brigitte was saying was so pat and sensible that she wondered if it was real. She was beginning to wonder if Brigitte had fallen in love with this man and didn’t even know it. But she didn’t say that to her daughter. She just nodded, and listened, and watched her, and pretended to believe her, since Brigitte appeared to have convinced herself of everything she was saying.

“Do you think he’ll come to visit you in Boston?”

“He said he might. Although I’ll probably never see him again. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Not everything makes sense, sweetheart. Or not always,” her mother said gently. “Feelings aren’t sensible. Sometimes you fall in love with people who don’t make sense. And the ones who do make sense turn out to be the wrong ones.” Like Ted, where their six-year affair went nowhere. “Is he in love with you?” Marguerite asked, curious about him.

“He doesn’t know me well enough to be,” Brigitte insisted, and she had told herself the same thing. “He likes me. Maybe even a lot.” Marguerite sensed that there was more to it than that, on both sides, but she didn’t push. And for the rest of the evening they talked about Wachiwi, who was an inexhaustible subject. And Brigitte’s mother agreed with Marc, although she didn’t know him. She thought Brigitte should write a book about her in some form. She obviously had a deep attachment to the subject. Far more than she did for her book about suffrage, which seemed to have died on the vine, or in the research years before. Her mother thought she should shelve it for the time being and do this one, and she said as much to her daughter when they went back to the apartment. Brigitte still didn’t look convinced, any more than she was when she and Marc talked about it. She was scared.

And then both women went to bed at a decent hour. It was six hours later for Brigitte, but she seemed to be in good form and great spirits. They both lay in bed that night, thinking, Marguerite about the Frenchman her daughter had met, wishing she knew more about him. And Brigitte about the book everyone thought she should write and was afraid to. It was such a big subject that she was frightened to tackle it and not do it justice. She didn’t want to write a bad book about such an extraordinary woman, or to take the risk that she would. It would have been a sacrilege to screw it up and botch the story of Wachiwi. It seemed much safer to her to continue working on the book about women’s voting rights, and let someone else write the book about Wachiwi. She didn’t feel capable of it, no matter what Marc and her mother said. She was going to stick with her book about suffrage and write the definitive book about it she always said she would. Wachiwi was far too big, complex, and volatile a subject. It was a book she felt she couldn’t control, and much scarier than the vote.

Brigitte spent two days in New York with her mother, and they had a great time together. At some point Marguerite asked if Brigitte had heard from Ted, and she said she hadn’t. It seemed strange to both of them that six years had ended in one night, fizzled into nothing and died in silence. It showed how little had been there, and they both agreed that it was disappointing.

She flew back to Boston on Saturday night, and took a cab to her apartment. She hadn’t heard from Marc either since she got back, and she didn’t expect to. She reminded herself that he owed her nothing. And she hadn’t contacted him either, nor would she. It would just confuse them. She told herself that the romantic moments that had happened in front of the Eiffel Tower on the last night were a pleasant interlude and an aberration. She convinced herself that it meant nothing to either of them. And it was nice to know that even at her age, you could do something silly and romantic.

When she unpacked that night she put the little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower on her dressing table, and smiled at it for a minute, and then finished unpacking. She had half a dozen messages on her machine, none of them important. The dry cleaner had found her lost skirt. The library at BU said she had failed to return two books and was being charged for it. Amy had phoned to remind her to call the minute she got home and that she loved her. Two telemarketers. And a call offering to renew the guarantee on her oven. They were not exactly the kind of calls that anyone wanted to come home to, with the exception of Amy’s. And when she looked around, she could see that the apartment was looking dusty and forlorn. She realized that she needed to spruce it up a little and throw some things away, maybe move some furniture around before it got seriously depressing. With Ted gone, now was a good time to do it. She needed to do something to spice up her life. And she tried not to panic over the fact that not one of the places she had sent her résumé to had responded. Neither by phone nor e-mail. They were probably still busy processing the applicants that had accepted. Things wouldn’t lighten up for them till June. And this was only the end of April. And the deadline for acceptance was mid-May. She told herself it was too early to hear anything.

She called Amy when she finished unpacking. She was putting the boys to bed but invited Brigitte to spend the afternoon the next day. She was delighted to do it. She promised to come at noon, and when she did, she could hear screaming in the kitchen. It sounded like someone was being murdered. Before she could ring the doorbell, Amy had yanked open the door, tossed Brigitte the car keys, and told her to drive them to the emergency room. Her three-year-old had bumped his head on the corner of the table, and it was bleeding profusely through a wet towel she was using to apply pressure to it. She had been holding her one-year-old under one arm, and all he had on was a T-shirt, diaper, and sneakers, and he was crying now too. She got them both into the car seats in her backseat, and was sitting between them as Brigitte drove them to the university hospital. The screaming was so loud it eliminated all possibility of conversation. All she said was, “Thanks!” as she shouted it to Brigitte from the backseat and then, “Welcome home!” as they both laughed. It was a good thing Brigitte had shown up at that moment—it would have been an even bigger mess if she hadn’t.

They waited two hours in the emergency room, while her injured son sucked his thumb on her lap and Amy was covered with blood. And the younger boy fell asleep on Brigitte’s lap as the two women had a conversation in whispers.

“So how was Paris?” Amy asked her.

“Terrific. I got some fantastic information for my mother.” Amy nodded. She hoped she did more than that.

“Did you have a fabulous time?” she asked pointedly.

“Yes,” Brigitte reassured her.

“Any guys?” Amy always went right to the point, and for a minute Brigitte didn’t answer, which her friend found suspicious.

“Not really. I met a writer at the library who helped me with my research.”

“How boring.” Amy looked disappointed to hear it.

“No, he wasn’t. He’s a very bright, interesting guy. He wrote a book I read in English a few years ago. He’s a writer and teaches literature at the Sorbonne.”

“Still boring.” It didn’t sound to her like he made the cut. She was hoping Brigitte would have had a wild affair in Paris. It would help her get over Ted. Spending her vacation in the library doing research didn’t sound good to her.

“He came to Brittany with me for the weekend. It was great.”

Amy looked hopeful again. “Did you sleep with him?”

“Of course not. I’m not going to be some guy’s one-night stand and never see him again. How depressing.”

“Not getting laid in Paris sounds even more depressing to me,” Amy said bluntly. “Of course, sitting in the emergency room for two hours on a Sunday afternoon isn’t high on my list of fun activities either.” She went to see what was happening then, complained about the long wait, and a half hour later they took them in. Her son had to have four stitches, and he was exhausted from screaming when they left. It had been a stressful afternoon. Amy put both of them down for a nap when they got home, and she and Brigitte sat down for a glass of wine in the kitchen. Amy said she needed it, and Brigitte sipped hers to keep her company. She never liked drinking in the afternoon, and hardly drank at dinner.

“Okay, so tell me again,” Amy continued. “No mad passionate affairs in Paris, just some schoolteacher you spent the weekend with. What a waste of a ticket to Paris! You couldn’t do better than that?”

Brigitte laughed at how she said it. “He’s a nice guy, and I like him. He’s just geographically undesirable. He lives in Paris. I live here.”

“So move. There’s nothing special about Boston.”

“I live here. I like it. I’m looking for a job here.”

“Anything new on that score, by the way?” Brigitte decided not to tell her about the interview at AUP. They didn’t have anything for her anyway. And Amy would have pounced on it. She was desperate for Brigitte to have a life, a guy, a baby. It was too much pressure for Brigitte.

“I’m going to start calling around tomorrow. This is a busy time of year. They probably haven’t had time to get back to me.” Amy nodded agreement, but she also knew that her friend didn’t have much to show for her ten years in the admissions office at BU. Being number three after ten years was hardly impressive. But it had been what Brigitte wanted. And it was going to hurt her now, looking for a new job. What it would show any prospective employer was either a lack of ability, or a lack of ambition. In her case, it was the latter, but how were they supposed to know?

They talked until the boys woke up, and then Brigitte left and went back to her own apartment. And once she got there, she didn’t know what to do. She thought about going to a movie, but she hated to go alone. There were people she could have called, but she didn’t want to explain what had happened with Ted or that they had broken up. It made her feel like such a loser. Uh, yeah … after six years, he dumped me and went off to do a dig. Wouldn’t he have taken her along if he loved her? The way it had ended would tell everyone that he didn’t really care about her, and what did that say about her? Lately her ego was more wounded than her heart. But either way, she didn’t want to call anyone and have to explain.

She wandered around the apartment, got out the vacuum cleaner, and did her laundry. It made her think of the comfortable Sunday nights she had spent with him for six years, at the end of the weekends. They usually cooked dinner together. Just as she had feared, the reality of her solitude was beginning to hit her now that she was home. It reminded her of what Marc had said, that if she had loved Ted, she would have missed him when she was in Paris, not just when she went back to Boston. This was about what she didn’t have in her life, not about whom she was missing. Reminding herself of that helped, and she cleaned the apartment thoroughly before she went to bed. It had been an uneventful day, and a far cry from the weekend before, when she’d been in Brittany with Marc, going to fish restaurants, visiting the château, and staying at the cozy little inn. She laughed to herself as she put her flannel nightgown in the dryer. There was certainly nothing exotic about her life. She thought about calling Marc just to say hello, but she didn’t want to do that either. She needed to let go of that connection and not hang on too tightly, and by then it was four in the morning for him. And he hadn’t called her since she left. He was doing the right thing. She was just lonely and bored on a Sunday night.

She went to bed early and called all the universities she had sent résumés to, the next morning. Everyone was pleasant and polite. Yes, they had gotten her CV, they had no openings at the moment, but they would keep it on file. Some suggested she call back in June, others in September. It seemed incredible that at nine universities, there wasn’t a single opening. But there was nothing remarkable on her CV. She’d had a very standard job for ten years, and had done nothing to distinguish herself. She had published no articles, taught no classes, had organized no special programs. She had done no volunteer work. She had worked in the office, spent weekends with Ted, and researched her book. She was embarrassed now when she thought about it. How could she have challenged herself so little, and asked so little of herself?

It made her sit down at her desk with real determination and get back to her book about the women’s vote. She reorganized all her research, weeded through it, and took some things out, and by Tuesday, she started to write again. She had written a whole chapter by the end of the week. And then she read it. When she had finished reading it, she burst into tears. It was the most boring thing she’d ever written. Even academics wouldn’t want to read the book. She didn’t know what to do.

She was sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, when her mother called her on Friday night. She sounded excited. She’d been reading everything in the folder Brigitte had brought back from the trip.

“The material on our little Sioux relative is incredible. And the marquis sounds like quite a guy too. The stuff on her is riveting, and she was barely more than a girl.”

“Yes, it is.” Brigitte sounded lackluster, and her mother could hear it.

“Something wrong?”

“I’ve been working on my suffrage book all week, and it stinks. I don’t know what made me think anyone would care about this. It’s like reading cereal boxes, or tax forms, or prune juice labels. I hate it, and everyone else will too. And I’ve invested seven years of my life in it. I should just throw it away.” Her mother had never thought it an interesting subject, but Brigitte had always argued hotly for it, as an anthropologist and a woman. As a reader, and a retired editor, Marguerite had always thought it sounded pretty dull, but she didn’t want to be rude. “What do I do now?”

“Maybe your friend in Paris is right. Maybe you should write about Wachiwi. I agree with you. I don’t think you need to fictionalize it. It’s terrific the way it is. What about doing something with that?” Her mother was trying to be helpful.

“Maybe,” Brigitte said, sounding depressed.

“Have you heard from him, by the way?” her mother asked her with interest.

“No.”

“Then why don’t you write to him? You can send him an e-mail.”

“I don’t want to muddy the waters, Mom. We left things pretty much the way they should be. Friends who would get in touch from time to time. If I start writing to him, it’ll confuse us both.”

“What’s with all the shoulds? And what’s wrong with a little confusion between friends?” Her saying that reminded Brigitte instantly of the night they had kissed under the Eiffel Tower. The confusion had felt good that night. But that was then, this was now. And she was home. Paris was like a distant dream. And so was he.

“I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself. It’s kind of a letdown to come back from Paris. What I need is a job. No one seems to be hiring right now.” She had enough to live on until the end of summer, or longer if she was careful, but more than anything she was bored. And her mother could hear it in her voice.

“Well, come back to New York anytime. We can play. I’m in a bridge tournament next week, but after that I’m free.” At least her mother had bridge. She didn’t have that. She had nothing to keep her busy right now. And every time she thought about the material on Wachiwi, it scared her to death. And she didn’t want to tell Amy how she was feeling, or she’d tell her to go back to therapy. Amy suggested that when Ted left, and Brigitte didn’t want to do that right now either. She didn’t know what she wanted, or who.

She watched old movies on TV until late that night, and then, for lack of anything better to do, she sat down at her computer and wrote Marc an e-mail. She wasn’t sure what to say. Hi, I’m so bored I could scream … I still don’t have a job, my social life seems to have gone down the tubes … my book is the most boring piece of crap on the planet … and I’m thinking of burning it, and how are you?

Instead, she wrote him a short e-mail, saying that she was thinking about him, that she’d had a wonderful time with him in Paris and Brittany, and the little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower was sitting on her dressing table. And she said that her mother was thrilled with the material she brought back, and thanked him again for his help. She said she hoped everything was fine with him. And then she sat staring at it, wondering how to sign off … “Bye” sounded juvenile, “All the best” too businesslike, “Warm regards” ridiculous, “Fondly” pathetic, “Love” misleading. Finally she came up with “Thinking of you. Take care,” which sounded honest and real. She read it about six times to make sure it didn’t sound mushy, romantic, or whiny. And then she hit the send button, and it went. She gulped when she sent it, and was sorry instantly. There it was. The risk thing again. What was she doing? The guy lived three thousand miles away. What was she thinking? She finally told herself that she was sending an e-mail to a nice guy she had met in Paris, to say hello.

“Okay. I can live with that,” she said out loud, trying not to feel stupid or anxious. She read it again, even though it was too late to do anything about it. And then she went to bed. And for a second as she climbed into bed, she decided she was glad she’d sent it, and hoped he’d write back.

Chapter 21

When Brigitte woke up in the morning, her heart pounded when she saw she had an e-mail from Marc. She felt like a kid, when a boy slipped her a note in class. She felt excited, and guilty, and scared, and she wasn’t sure why. She hadn’t felt like that in Paris. But this was different. It seemed strange writing to him from here, and a bigger commitment, or a bigger statement. But she had written to him, so she had to deal with the consequences now. She opened his e-mail, and took a breath, and then sighed with relief when she read his. It was fine. Friendly and nice.Dear Brigitte,What a nice surprise to hear from you. How is Boston? Paris seems very quiet without you. I’ve had very little to do. My students have spring fever and keep cutting class. And I want to too!The book is going well, my editor has been very helpful, and I hope to turn it in soon. My publisher seems to have calmed down a little and is not threatening my life.I miss Wachiwi, and you. I’m glad your mother liked the material you found. I still hope you will write the book about Wachiwi, sooner rather than later. I hope that all is well with you. Stay in touch.

And he signed it “Je t’embrasse,” which she knew was French for “I kiss you” (as in on both cheeks, not on the mouth). It was a harmless greeting, and he had signed it Marc, and then added a P.S. “Each time I see the Eiffel Tower now, I think of you. I feel now as though it belongs to you, especially when it sparkles because you like that so much. Good thoughts to you from Paris. Come back soon.”

It seemed like a totally benign, friendly, warm e-mail, and she thought the “Good thoughts to you from Paris” was sweet. He had hit just the right tone. It wasn’t scary, overly personal, or uncomfortable, it was just warm and nice and open enough, like him. She was glad she’d written to him. Her mother had had a good idea.

She had nothing to do after that. And the next few weeks seemed like the most boring and unproductive of her life. She finally called a few friends and went out to dinner with them. They didn’t make a big deal about Ted, and just said they were sorry they had broken up, but she felt like the odd man out now. They were all couples. The only unattached person she knew was Amy, and she was busy with her kids. One or the other of them had had a cold for the past two weeks so she couldn’t get out, and Brigitte didn’t want to catch whatever they had. Kids that age were always sick.

It was spring, and Boston was in full bloom. She spent Memorial Day in Martha’s Vineyard, which was fun, and then she came back to Boston, and her life stalled again. It was hard keeping busy without a job, and she had shelved her book for now.

She heard from Marc a few times, and she kept her e-mails to him light. She didn’t tell him that she was freaked out about not having a job and her life felt like a wasteland right now.

And finally, when she got back from the Vineyard, she took her notes out one night about Wachiwi, and read them, and fell in love with her all over again. More so than ever, with a little distance now. It was an amazing story, and she could see why her mother and Marc thought she should write a book about it.

She thought about it for days after she read it, and just to see what would happen, she tried to write a first chapter, starting with Wachiwi in her own village. She read up on the Sioux on the Internet, so she could describe them properly, and what she wrote about the young Sioux girl seemed to write itself. It was effortless, and when she finished after three long days of working on it, it seemed beautiful and mystical. It was a story she wanted to tell, and suddenly she wasn’t afraid of it anymore. It was beckoning her, and she threw herself into it wholeheartedly. The days flew after that. She had never enjoyed writing anything so much in her life. She thought about sending an e-mail to tell Marc she had started it, but she didn’t want to jinx it. She decided to wait for a while, until she had written a few more chapters. It was still very rough, but she really liked what she had.

She had been writing for ten days, and she was hard at it late one night, when her computer told her she had an e-mail, but she didn’t want to interrupt what she was doing, so she kept going for several hours. It was like flying, and she didn’t want to stop. She was shocked to realize it was almost five in the morning when she sat back with a satisfied look. She saved what she had written. And then she remembered the e-mail she had heard come in. She went to her e-mail and saw it was from the AUP in Paris. She opened it, and discovered it was from the man she had interviewed with. She wasn’t particularly interested in it, but she read it, and then stared at it and read it again. They were offering her a job, part time, at a decent salary, that she could live on, three days a week. And they told her that they had studio apartments available for students and faculty, for a nominal fee. The job had opened up because the number-two person in the admissions office had announced that she was pregnant and wanted to take maternity leave for a year. He said she was forty-two, it was her first pregnancy, she was having twins, and they had just put her on bed rest, very early in the pregnancy. So they could offer Brigitte the position for a year. And he made a point of telling her that the head of the admissions office was retiring in a year, so there might be other possibilities for her at AUP, if the current job they were offering her didn’t turn out to be permanent, which he thought was a possibility too. In any case, they could promise her a year. And it was also clear to her that if she wanted the job, this time she’d have to take more responsibility and step up to the plate. It was a small school and they needed everyone to pitch in and be flexible, and she was willing to do that. She had learned her lesson. By taking so little responsibility at BU, she had been the first to become obsolete. She wanted this to be different, if she took it. But did she want a job in Paris? She wasn’t sure.

They were offering her everything she needed—a job, decent pay, a part-time schedule that would allow her to write the book about Wachiwi if she wanted to, and an apartment for little money if she wanted that. It was all right there, if she took it. She didn’t know what to do. She stared at the e-mail and then walked around her apartment.

She never went to bed that night, and she saw the sun come up from her living-room window. She wanted to ask someone’s advice, like Amy or her mother, but she was afraid they’d tell her to take it. And what did they know? It was easy for them to say. What if it was a terrible mistake? If she hated it? If she was lonely? If she got sick in Paris? If she missed a great job in Boston because she was in Paris? She had a thousand worst-case scenarios ready. But she also knew that no one was offering her a job in Boston, or hadn’t yet. Her CV hadn’t shaken the world, and no one had responded. And what if they didn’t, and she had no job here either? What if … what if … what if … She had worn herself out totally by ten o’clock that morning, worrying about it. And they had asked her to respond soon because they had to fill the position. They said that the woman taking maternity leave was leaving immediately, and they wanted Brigitte to be there in two weeks. Two weeks to wrap up her life in Boston. What life? she asked herself. She had no life. She had an apartment she had never really liked, she wasn’t dating anyone, and she had been out of work for four months. She had started a book, maybe, which she could write anywhere, and maybe better in Paris. But what about Amy? Her mother? She was crying by noon, and by late afternoon she was panicked. The phone rang at six o’clock, and she was terrified it was her mother. She didn’t want her to hear how upset she was or have to tell her why. She felt like a four-year-old, and she wanted to hide in the closet. The phone went on ringing. She went to check caller ID and didn’t recognize the number, so she answered, and she was even more stunned when she did. It was Ted. She hadn’t heard from him since he left. She was shocked to hear him on the phone, and couldn’t imagine what he wanted. Maybe he was sorry he’d left her. Then maybe she wouldn’t have to go to Paris. It was just too scary.

“Hi,” she said, trying to sound casual, and feeling stupid as she did it. They knew each other too well to play games or at least they used to.

“How are you, Brig?” He sounded happy and in good spirits. She had no idea what time it was for him, or exactly where he was.

“I’m fine. Is something wrong?” Maybe he was in a hospital and needed her. Or had too much to drink, and drunk-dialed. Anything was possible after four months of silence.

“No, everything’s great here. I was wondering how you are. I’m sorry things got so botched up when I left. It was hard.”

“Yeah, it was. I’m okay,” she said, but her voice sounded small. He didn’t seem to notice. “I went to Paris and did some research for my mother.” She realized that he’d never known she got laid off. She hadn’t wanted him to know.

“Did you take some time off?” he sounded puzzled.

“Uh … actually … I took a break from work. I’m writing.”

She had been writing for ten days, but she didn’t say that. At least she was doing something. He was running a dig for a major university, and she didn’t want to sound pathetic.

“That’s great.” He didn’t ask her what she was writing.

“How’s the dig?”

“Fantastic. We’re pulling out stuff every day. It was a little slow in the beginning, but it’s been really good for the last month. So what else are you up to?”

“Not much.” She hated sounding like such a loser, and then before she could stop herself, she wasn’t sure if she said it to impress him, or to ask his advice, she blurted out, “I just got offered a job in Paris. Ted, I don’t know what to do.” She was crying again, but he couldn’t hear it. “I just found out last night.”

“What kind of job?”

“Admissions office at American University of Paris. Part time, with an apartment.”

“Are you kidding? That’s right up your alley. Take it.” She was afraid he would say that.

“Why? What if I hate it?”

“How bad can it be in Paris? We don’t even have indoor plumbing here.” She was suddenly glad she wasn’t with him. “If you hate it,” he added, “you can quit and come home. You need a change, Brig. I think we both kind of outgrew Boston, and didn’t want to face it.”

“And each other,” she said honestly.

“Yeah, and that too. It’s hard to make changes. Things get so comfortable and you don’t want to move. Maybe it would do you good to be a little uncomfortable for a while, and do something different. You can learn French.”

“It’s an American school,” she reminded him.

“In a French city. I don’t know, Brig. It’s up to you, but it sounds like an answer to a prayer to me. You’ve done Boston, you’re good at what you do. And if they’re offering you part time, it’ll give you time to write the book you’re working on. What the hell, give it a shot. Sometimes I think ‘what the hell’ is the right answer. You’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing is irreversible except dying. And moving to Paris for a while sure won’t kill you. You might love it.” She had been so busy thinking about everything that could go wrong that she hadn’t thought of that. But he was right. What if she loved it? It was the one scenario she hadn’t considered.

“I know you get scared, Brig,” he went on. “We all do. I was scared shitless when I came here, but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I know what happened with your father really shook you. But sometimes you’ve got to take a chance. You’re too young not to, and you’ll probably regret it forever if you don’t take it. That’s what I was afraid would happen here. If I had passed up this dig for us, I’d have resented it forever. I didn’t want that to happen.” She understood, but it had hurt anyway.

“You could have taken me.” She had never said that to him before he left, and it felt good to get it out now.

“No, I couldn’t. You’d hate it here. Believe me, it’s not Paris. It’s hot and dusty and dirty. I love it, but the living conditions are squalid. I knew that from the digs I’d visited. You would have been out of here in ten minutes,” he said, and she smiled thinking about it.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. It sounds awful.”

“But it’s what I love to do. Now you’ve got to do what you love to do. Write the book, go to Paris, change careers, find a guy you’re crazy about, who’s not going to run off to Egypt after six years. I miss you, Brig, but I’m happy. I hope this winds up being right for both of us in the end. That’s why I called you. I’ve been worrying about you, and feeling guilty. I know it was a shit thing to do, dumping everything after six years. But I had to do this. I want you to find what you have to do. Maybe it’s Paris. I hope it is.”

“Maybe so,” she said pensively. It was good to hear him, but he didn’t sound like hers anymore. And probably never was. He was someone she had known, but they had never really been connected. She knew that now. And maybe they never would have been right for each other. Maybe she would never find the right guy. But Ted made sense. She couldn’t just sit there forever in Boston, waiting for life to happen. She had to grab it by the horns, no matter how scary it was or what the risks were. And how risky could Paris be? He was right about that too. What if she loved it? And if she didn’t, she’d come home. She was suddenly glad he had called her. He had given her courage when she needed it. His call had turned out to be a gift.

“Let me know what you decide. E-mail me sometime.”

“I will,” she said softly. “Thanks for calling, Ted. You really helped me.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said honestly. “You know what you want to do. Just do it. Take a chance, Brig. It won’t be as scary as you think. It never is.”

She thanked him again, and they hung up a minute later, and she sat staring at the phone, thinking about it. It felt strange having heard from him, but good in a way too. It was closure of some kind. They had needed that, and never had it until he called. He had been too chicken to do it before. But at least he had now.

She still wanted to think about the AUP offer. She didn’t want to make any hasty decisions. She needed a couple of days. She wondered if maybe she should talk to her mother, or Amy. She went back to her computer and read the e-mail again. It was simple and clear, and a nice clean offer, in a city that she loved. And she had one friend there, Marc. He was more than a friend, she knew, but she hadn’t wanted to take a chance on that either. And then, before she could change her mind, she hit the reply button. She thanked them for their very kind offer. She said that she knew it was an excellent school, and she had very much enjoyed her interview with them. She realized then that the letter she was writing was setting it up for her to decline. She sucked in her breath then, and wrote the next line. She almost wanted to scream while she did it. “I accept your offer. I would like to have one of the apartments you mentioned. Thank you very much. See you in two weeks.” And she signed it and hit the send button. She thought she was going to faint when she did it. But she had done it! And if she hated it, she could quit and come home. A whole new life had just begun.

Chapter 22

Brigitte thought about e-mailing Marc after she sent the one to AUP, but she decided not to. It seemed like too much pressure on both of them, and too much anticipation about what would happen, or might not. She was nervous enough about the job, without worrying how he felt about her for the next two weeks. So she said nothing. He wrote her an e-mail a few days later, and she acted as though everything were normal in Boston. She said she was doing some writing, the weather was beautiful, and asked about his book. Their e-mail exchange was casual and friendly, which was all she wanted right now, until she got there at least.

It took her two days to get up the guts to tell her mother, and another day to tell Amy after that. Her mother was startled but not entirely surprised. She wanted to know if it had anything to do with the writer who had helped her at the archives, and Brigitte said it didn’t, which wasn’t entirely true, but she didn’t want to admit that to her just yet, or even to herself. And whatever the reason, her mother thought it was a great idea. She said she hated to have her so far away, but she thought it would be a wonderful change for Brigitte and just what she needed. Her mother was aware too that her life had been in a stall for a while. Paris was going to be a wonderful change for her. Her mother promised to come over and visit her in the fall, and after reading all of the material Brigitte had gathered for her, she wanted to visit the château now too.

For some reason, it was harder for her to tell Amy. She felt guilty for leaving Boston, as though she were abandoning her, leaving her alone to cope with her two kids. But it was a choice Amy had made when she decided to have them, and she never complained.

“You’re doing what?” Amy said, staring at her, when Brigitte told her, sitting in her kitchen. She had mumbled it, and had asked Amy if she could come over for a few minutes. Amy could see that something was up the minute she walked in. Brigitte looked uncomfortable and nervous, and she had a sudden feeling that she was going to follow Ted to Egypt, and she hoped she wouldn’t. She was totally unprepared for the announcement about Paris, and was blindsided by it.

“I’m taking a job at AUP and moving to Paris,” Brigitte repeated, looking miserable. It had been harder to tell her than she feared, but she had to. She was leaving in ten days.

“Holy shit, girl!” Amy exploded, beaming at her. “That’s fantastic! How did that happen, or when? You never told me you applied there.”

“I didn’t … well, I did … but I didn’t mean it. Marc set it up with a friend of his when I was there. I just went to humor him. They e-mailed me three days ago. I was too scared to tell you. I thought you’d be upset.” She smiled at her jubilant friend in relief. Amy was the most generous person she knew, and always happy for other people’s victories and successes, instead of rejoicing in their defeats as so many others did. It was easy to see that she was thrilled for her friend.

“Of course I’m upset. I’m going to miss you. But there’s nothing for you here. You’ve done it. It was right for a while, but Ted’s gone, your job disappeared, you might as well get your ass out of Dodge and try something new. And Paris is about as good as it gets. What does that guy think? Marc, whatever his name is?”

“I didn’t tell him. And I sent the man who hired me an e-mail asking him not to tell him either. That’s too much pressure for me right now. I can’t deal with his expectations and a new job too.”

Amy looked surprised. She thought he had more to do with it than he apparently did. Brigitte looked nervous about him too, not just the job. “Are you going to tell him when you get there?” It would have seemed strange to Amy if not, except that she knew her well, that she hated change and had an aversion to risk. And right now Brigitte was dealing with both. She was scared shitless. But she was doing it anyway. For once she wasn’t taking the easy way, she was facing things head on, and throwing caution to the winds. The writing she’d been doing about Wachiwi was helping her. It was a constant reminder of how brave some people were, and how well things turned out sometimes. Wachiwi’s story had had a happy ending. Brigitte was beginning to think that hers could too. And she couldn’t hide in her rabbit hole forever, afraid to take chances.

“Yes, I’m going to tell Marc when I get there,” she answered Amy’s question. “Just not yet.” And then she admitted, “I’m too scared. What am I going to do if I get a good offer from a school here before I go?” She’d been worrying about that for days. It would create a real dilemma for her if that happened.

“Turn it down, silly. Paris or Boston? Now there’s an easy decision.” For Amy maybe, not for Brigitte. She would never have had the courage to make the choices Amy had, and she wouldn’t have wanted to. She wanted children, but not the way Amy had done it, at a sperm bank. It seemed too uncertain to her, and children seemed like too much responsibility to her to take on alone. If she never married or found the right man, she was prepared not to have children. She and Amy were just very different people, with different needs.

The two women talked for a while, and Amy was startled to realize she was leaving in ten days. It was so soon, and Brigitte had a mountain of things to do before she left. She had decided to get rid of a lot of her things, and put the rest in storage. The studio apartment they were offering her in Paris was furnished, and she didn’t want to take too much with her. She asked Amy if there was anything she wanted, and she said she’d come and look that week before they got taken away.

“So when are you going to tell this guy?” she asked, curious about Brigitte’s relationship with Marc. She kept saying they were just friends, but Amy didn’t believe her. There was a light in her eyes every time she mentioned him, and she insisted on their “just friendship” much too often.

“I’ll tell him when I’m in Paris. Maybe after I get settled.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Amy warned. “If he’s a good one, someone else will grab him.”

“If that happens, then he’s not meant for me,” Brigitte said coolly. She was thinking of Wachiwi, who had fallen in love with Jean and left for France with him, and ended up marrying his brother. You could never predict what would happen. There was an element of destiny in everything that one could never account for. And it applied to her relationship with Marc too. Whatever it turned out to be would be the right thing in the end. She was convinced of that now. And she wasn’t going to rush it.

She told Amy then that Ted had called her, and she looked surprised again.

“What did he want?”

“Some kind of closure, I think. It was okay. It was weird hearing from him at first. He called right after I got the e-mail from AUP, and I was hysterical. He actually helped me. He thought I should do it.”

“Of course he did. Because if you go off to Paris and have a new life, then he doesn’t have to feel so guilty for dumping you here in a hot New York minute, and on Valentine’s night yet.” Amy had never approved of how brutally he had left her. She had lost all respect for him when he did, and she felt very sorry for Brigitte.

“Maybe it was for the best in the end. I could have wasted another five or six years. It was never right,” she admitted to her friend. “I just didn’t want to see it.”

“He could have been nicer about it,” Amy said sternly.

“Yes he could,” Brigitte conceded. “I’m not even mad at him anymore. It was strange talking to him though, it felt so disconnected. It was like talking to a stranger. Maybe we always were.” Amy nodded and didn’t comment. She had never thought much of the relationship or him. He seemed so totally without passion, except about his work. She hoped the new man in Paris was better, if Brigitte decided to get involved with him. She wondered if she would, but it was beginning to seem likely. And she could no longer use the geographic excuse to avoid it. Maybe that was why she was being cautious about telling him. She wanted to give herself options, or at least that was what Amy thought. All Amy wanted for Brigitte was for her to find a good man. She hoped this one was.

Brigitte spent the rest of the week putting the things she wanted to keep in boxes, and stacking the rest to give away. She got rid of books, mementoes that no longer meant anything to her, sports equipment Ted had left and never reclaimed. She was amazed at much of the stuff she had collected. And she made a small pile of things she wanted to send to Paris for her apartment there, photographs of her mother, some reference books and research papers, and a few sentimental things she knew she’d miss too much if she put them in storage. There were photographs of her with her parents when she was small, a nice one of Amy with her kids. And she put away all the photos of her with Ted. She didn’t need them anymore, and had meant to put them away months before. This was a good time for her to sort through everything and get rid of what she didn’t need, and all the things that had become obsolete in her life. She put all her mementoes with Ted in a box and sent them to storage. She couldn’t bring herself to throw them away.

And then finally, it was over. The apartment was empty, her bags were packed, the furniture had been stored. Amy had taken a few things, and she’d given her the couch she bought with Ted. She didn’t need it anymore, and if she came back, she wanted to start fresh. But for now her fresh start was in Paris.

Her last evening with Amy was one of laughter and tears. They reminisced about silly things they’d done together, jokes they’d played on each other and friends. Brigitte remembered the births of both her babies and had been there, and now she was going three thousand miles away, but she was feeling calmer about it than she had at first.

“I know it sounds stupid,” she said to Amy as they sat in her kitchen, “but I feel like I’ve finally grown up. I guess I’ve been coasting for a long time and didn’t know it. I think this is the first time I’ve made a big decision, and didn’t just back into it, or slide into home base.”

“I think you hit a home run on this one,” Amy praised her. She totally approved of her decision to go to Paris. And even if it wasn’t the right job in the end, it was a great idea to try it, and it might open a door to something else. She had said as much to Brigitte. “I hope it works out with Marc too.”

“I’m not expecting anything except friendship,” Brigitte said simply, and she almost meant it. Not totally.

“That’s what you’re expecting. But what do you want, Brig? If you had a magic wand, what would you wish for? A life with this guy, or someone else?” It was an important question, and Brigitte thought about it before she answered. And when she did, she spoke softly.

“I don’t know him well enough to be sure. But maybe a life with him. He’s a good person, and I really like him. We get along, and I think we respect each other and we have a lot in common. That’s a good beginning.”

“Sounds like it to me,” Amy said, smiling at her friend. “Then I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you that it works out. I’m going to miss you like crazy though if you stay there.”

“Boston’s not so far. I’ll come to visit. I’ll come to see my mom in New York anyway.”

“And if I ever get these wild Indians of mine tamed, I’ll come to Europe.” But they both knew it wouldn’t be anytime soon. And Amy needed every penny she made to support them. No one helped her, which made her decision to have them even more courageous.

“I’ll call you,” Brigitte promised when she left. And they had e-mail. They e-mailed each other frequently anyway, even right in Boston. Being three thousand miles away from Amy was going to leave a huge void in her life. She was used to having her right down the hall at work, or a few minutes away.

They both shed a few tears as they hugged each other, and then Brigitte ran down the steps, waving, and walked home. She had sold her car the week before and had gotten a decent price for it. She had disbanded a whole life in ten days. Twelve years in Boston were over.

None of the schools she had sent her résumé to made her a last-minute offer. So the decision to take the job in Paris had been a good one. Brigitte couldn’t help wondering if it was the only offer she would get at all. And she had texted Ted a few days before that she was going and thanked him for his input. He really had helped her. It had been just the push she needed to jump off the diving board into the water. And she was waiting to see now if her arrival would be a big splash or a small one. She had to see what happened when she got to AUP, and then saw Marc.

The morning after she said goodbye to Amy, Brigitte rented a car and drove to New York. She didn’t want to take her two big suitcases on a commuter flight, and the drive down was pleasant. It was a beautiful June day and the sun was shining, and she found herself singing as she drove. She was feeling good about her decision.

She spent three days with her mother. They went to the theater, and out to dinner. Her mother showed her how she had organized the information Brigitte had given her, and it fit in with the rest. Everything was in order, and they could track their family easily now to 1750. Her mother still wanted to pursue their ancestors before that, all the way to the time the château had been built in the twelfth century, but she was on the right track now and thought she could do the rest of it herself.

“How’s your book coming?” she asked Brigitte over dinner.

“I haven’t had time to work on it, I’ve been too busy packing. I’ll get back to it in Paris.”

“This is very exciting,” Marguerite said, smiling at her proudly. “A new job, a new city, a new book, maybe a new man.” She hoped so for her sake. Either Marc or another, just so she was happy. But Brigitte looked very content these days. She had ever since she came back from France the last time. When her mother last saw her, she was still high from her trip and all that she had discovered. There had been some nasty slumps since then, which led to her decision to leave Boston. She had no regrets at all now, and only a few fears. Day by day it felt more right to her than ever. She was feeling confident about the job. The big question in her mind was Marc.

They had exchanged several e-mails, all very friendly. School was almost out for the summer, and he was delighted. He said he was going to the mountains for a vacation in August, to visit some distant cousins. And he said he was going to be in Paris in July. He had asked what she was doing, and she said she didn’t have plans yet, which was true. She wanted to settle into her job, and get used to living in the city. She had told him she had a new job, but she didn’t say where. And he had forgotten to ask her which school, so she didn’t have to dodge the question. She didn’t lie, she just didn’t tell him. A sin of omission, not commission. And eventually she would thank him for the introduction to his friend at AUP, but not yet. She wanted to see him again first before she told him anything, and see how they both felt. There had been contradictions in their relationship before, the easy friendship that they had both enjoyed, and the kisses beneath the Eiffel Tower on her last night. She didn’t know which route they would take, or which one she wanted, the friend or the man. And she wasn’t just passing through town now. She would be living there full time, so a relationship between them would have to make sense, to both of them, and not just be an accident of chance. She didn’t want to make the same mistakes she had with Ted, of falling into something easy, and never asking the right questions, of him or herself. This time she wanted answers before she took any leaps. She didn’t want to be lazy or scared, she wanted to be wise, and have her eyes wide open, not just her heart.

The night that she left New York, she and her mother had an early dinner. They talked until she left for the airport, and her mother hugged her tight before she left. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart. Have a wonderful time, and I hope you meet lots of good people there, and have a great time.” They promised to call each other, and Brigitte knew they would. They called each other often, and worried about each other. There were tears in Marguerite’s eyes when she kissed her. All she wanted was for her daughter to be happy. It was what Brigitte wanted for herself too, and she hoped she would be in Paris.

As she went down in the elevator with her bags, it was exciting to know that in exactly nine hours she’d be there. She could hardly wait.

Chapter 23

She was flying Air France on the midnight flight. It would land her in Paris at noon, local time. And the human resource office had told her that her keys would be waiting with the concierge of her building, and they had e-mailed her the address. It was on the rue du Bac, right near Tristan and Wachiwi’s house, which felt like a good omen to her.

It was a six-hour flight, with a six-hour time difference from New York. The service on the plane was excellent, and it wasn’t too crowded. The two seats next to her were empty, so she could lie down, and she covered herself with a blanket and slept. She felt refreshed when she woke up, and she had breakfast before they landed. Croissants, yogurt, fruit, and coffee. And the next thing she knew, they had touched down.

She went through immigration and customs without problem, and found a luggage cart for her bags, and they just managed to fit in the Parisian taxi. She gave him the address in French. He nodded and they were off in the heavy traffic from Roissy to the city. It took them almost an hour to get there. And she looked at everything once they arrived in the city. The streets on the Left Bank already looked somewhat familiar to her from her recent stay in April, and she was thrilled when they drove past Tristan’s house on the rue du Bac on the way to her new address. Tristan and Wachiwi were part of her life now, and they would be increasingly so while she wrote the book, which brought them to life for her. She felt as though they were her best friends now, or much-loved relatives she couldn’t wait to see again. She could see them on the pages that she was writing.

She paid the cab driver, pressed the code on the outer door, pushed it open, walked through a narrow passage to a courtyard, and pressed the buzzer marked “concierge.” It was the apartment where the woman lived who ran the building. The building itself looked charming and ancient, but everything looked well tended and clean. And the concierge knew immediately who she was, handed her the keys, pointed to the sky, and said, “Troisième étage.” Third floor. Brigitte thanked her and saw that there was a tiny cagelike elevator that looked barely bigger than a breadbasket. She put her bags in one on top of the other, and then ran up the stairs herself. There was no room for her and the bags. She already knew that the third floor in France was the equivalent of the fourth in the States, and she was out of breath when she got there, and then pulled her bags out of the narrow cage.

She used the keys to enter the apartment, and had already been warned by the school that it was tiny, but it was much better than she had expected. It had an unobstructed view over the rooftops, and at a little distance looked down into a convent garden full of trees, and then her breath caught as she looked straight ahead. She had a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, and at night when it was all lit up, it would be a light show just for her. It was the perfect apartment. From now on the hourly fireworks and sparks of the Eiffel Tower in the dark would be right outside her window. She could hardly wait. She sat down and smiled as she looked around her for a minute and then explored the apartment. She was smiling from ear to ear. There was a tiny mouse-sized kitchen, with a miniature oven, a microwave, and a fridge barely big enough to keep the makings of a meal in. But everything was clean and neat. And there was no bedroom, just the one good-sized room where she would sleep and live, and then she realized that she could see the Eiffel Tower from her bed. There was a round dining table in front of the window and four chairs. The furniture was worn but pretty. The upholstery was oatmeal color, and the curtains were old pink satin. There were two big leather chairs in front of a fireplace, and a small couch across from her bed. There was ample room to entertain in, live, and have a life in, and best of all she had the view. And when she checked, the bathroom was marble and the tub was a decent size. She had everything she needed, and sat down on the bed and grinned.

“Welcome home,” she said out loud, and felt that way. She still had to unpack, but she didn’t want to get started. There was something she had to do first. She had put it off long enough.

She dialed Marc’s number on her BlackBerry, and he sounded surprised. She had only called him once since April, normally they e-mailed each other. He seemed genuinely startled to hear her, but very pleased.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked cautiously. She could hear noise around him, and he sounded busy.

“Not at all. I’m being very lazy. I’m sitting in a café. The one we went to across from your hotel, the first time we had coffee. I come here a lot now.” He loved going there because it reminded him of her. And she knew exactly where it was. She picked up her sweater as she talked to him, left her apartment and locked the door, and kept talking to him on her BlackBerry as she hurried down the stairs. He was only a few blocks away, which made it so easy for her.

“And where are you?” he wanted to visualize her where she was. He was reveling in the sound of her voice, and she was smiling as she ran, trying not to sound out of breath. She had crossed the courtyard by then, and gone through the outer doors, and had just reached the rue du Bac.

“I’m just leaving my apartment. I’m walking down the street,” she said to explain the noise around her. “I just thought I’d call to say hi.”

“That was nice of you,” he sounded happy. He wanted to tell her he missed her, but he didn’t dare. She had been so clear with him about being only friends because they lived so far apart. But even if he didn’t say it, he had missed her ever since she left. For a short time she had filled his days and evenings, and ever since his life seemed bleak without her. He was thinking of going to Boston one of these days to see her, but he hadn’t broached the subject to her yet. He was planning to soon and see how she reacted to the suggestion. “How’s the book coming?”

“I haven’t had time to work on it for a couple of weeks. I’ve been too busy.”

“How’s your new job?”

“I haven’t started yet. I start next week.” He was still disappointed that she hadn’t taken one in Paris, but he didn’t say that to her either. And by then she was standing across the street from him, and saw him at the café. He was sitting at a small table, and he looked just the way he had before. His hair was a little shorter, and he was wearing one of the jackets she had seen him in and liked. Her heart skipped a beat as she watched him, unseen by him. This was more than a friend. She had known that it would be clear to her when she saw him again, and it was. She had suspected it the night she kissed him, and now she knew for sure. She fell silent as she stood there, smiling, so happy that she had come back. She wondered if Wachiwi had felt that way when she first saw Jean, or later her husband. Something in Brigitte’s gut flipped over, and she felt sure it was her heart. She had forgotten to say anything to him for several minutes, she was so engrossed in what she was seeing, and she saw him look concerned.

“Are you there?” He thought they had been cut off, and she laughed. As she did, she saw him smile. It was funny watching him, without his knowing she was there.

“No, I’m not there, I’m here,” she said, teasing him.

“Where? What do you mean?” They were both laughing, and as though sensing her near him, he turned, and saw her across the street, walking slowly toward him. Without thinking he stood up and just stared at her, and then he walked toward her too. They met on the sidewalk, and he looked down at her with the gentlest look of love she’d ever seen.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, utterly confused. She was like a vision, as though his wish had been granted and she appeared.

“A lot of things, I think,” she answered cryptically. “I took a job here … the one you found me at AUP. I was going to thank you but I wanted to surprise you when I arrived.”

“When did you get here?” He wanted to know everything, and he was beaming as people walked around them, as they stood facing each other holding hands. Paris was used to lovers, and no one complained or cared that they were blocking the sidewalk, and neither did they. All they could see was each other.

“About three hours ago,” she said in answer to his question. “They gave me an apartment on the rue du Bac. I have a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower from my window. The place is the size of a postage stamp, but I already love it.” And she hoped he would too. The big leather chairs would be just right for him when he came to visit.

“And you’re going to be working here?” he looked ecstatic. It was Christmas in June for him, and hopefully for her too. He wanted both of them to make this decision, consciously, not just him, and so did she.

“Three days a week, and the book.”

“For how long?” He already looked worried, he didn’t want her to leave.

“They offered me a year. We’ll see after that.” He nodded. Maybe by then she’d be writing full time and living with him. He hoped so. Now that she was here, he had myriad plans for them, if she agreed. And then she looked at him shyly. She wanted him to know the rest. He had been very patient with her last time, and she thought it was only fair to tell him. She had said it to no one else. She wanted to see him first. “I didn’t just come for the job,” she said softly as he moved closer to her, and touched her face with the long gentle fingers she remembered from when he had kissed her last time. He had touched her that way then too.

“What did you come for then?” he asked her. They had both forgotten their phones and still held them in their hands, connected to each other, as they were. A connection never to be broken, hopefully lasting forever.

“I came for you … for us … to see what would happen if we live in the same city …”

“That was very brave of you,” he said as he kissed her, and then looked at her again.

“Wachiwi helped me do it. I figured that if she could be so brave, so could I. I wanted to take the chance.” For the first time in her life.

“And what do you want to happen?” he asked her then.

“Whatever is meant to be. I had to find out what this is, and what we are to each other.”

“I think we know.” She nodded, and he walked over to leave some money on the table he had abandoned, and then he came back to put an arm around her and walk her home. He had his briefcase with him, and he swung it as they walked down the rue du Bac. They both noticed Tristan’s house as they passed it and smiled, and a minute later they were at her new address, and she invited him upstairs. They bounded up the stairs like puppies, teasing each other and laughing. She took her keys out, opened her door, and he followed her inside. As she had, he liked what he saw. It was warm and welcoming, and even though it was only one room, it wasn’t too small. Even with the two of them there, it was very livable. He stood at the window with her, admiring the view. They looked down at the convent garden below, and then straight in front of them at the Eiffel Tower. It was the perfect Paris apartment. And as he put his arms around her, he kissed her with all the longing of the past two months without her. It had seemed endless to him, and in fact hadn’t been very long. He never wanted her to leave again. He wanted her to stay with him in Paris, to discover the wonders of it with him, just as Tristan had when he brought Wachiwi to Paris and took her to court.

“I love you, Brigitte,” he said into her neck, and then kissed her again, and suddenly worried that he had frightened her and gone too far, but she didn’t look worried when he looked into her eyes. She was smiling at him and looked totally comfortable and at peace.

“I love you too.” She was sure of it this time. She had no doubts or fears. This time she knew it was right. Her search for her Sioux ancestor had led her to him, and he had found her just as he was meant to. A miracle had happened to them. Destiny. The perfect plan. And they both knew she was here to stay. Just like the little Sioux two hundred years before.

About the Author

DANIELLE STEEL has been hailed as one of the world’s most popular authors, with over 590 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international best sellers include Family Ties, Big Girl, Southern Lights, Matters of the Heart, One Day at a Time, A Good Woman, Rogue, and other highly acclaimed novels. She is also the author of His Bright Light, the story of her son Nick Traina’s life and death.

Visit the Danielle Steel Web Site at www.daniellesteel.com