Ties That Bind Page 2

  “Well, the Swiss temple is the obvious choice,” said Danielle. “It’s close enough for many of the church members to attend, if they want. I thought we could hire a bus and . . .”

  Rebekka stopped listening to her mother’s voice. She’d heard it all before, and at the moment, she just wanted to be alone with Marc. Yes, for years she’d dreamed of the perfect wedding with him, but she had been waiting for so long that even one more minute was simply torture.

  They kissed Marc’s two grandmothers, one grandfather, Marc’s parents, her mother, and then waved at Marc’s siblings and the children before escaping outside to the cobblestone sidewalk. Even this late in the morning the streets were teeming with cars and people.

  They walked hurriedly down the street together before Marc stopped. “Wait, not so fast. I’m already out of breath. And my heart’s pounding.” He took her in his arms. “Of course, that’s probably because of you. It feels like so long since I held you.” He kissed her firmly, his lips warm against hers.

  “We should have eloped,” she murmured.

  He groaned. “I know what you mean, but you were right making us wait. Your mother needs this wedding.”

  “But we could be married now.” Instead, she was staying at her parents’, trying to fill the gap left by her older brother, and wondering when her father would quit making not-so-subtle complaints about her upcoming marriage in a place he couldn’t enter. Yes, she could get married civilly in front of all his friends and business associates, but she didn’t want to. Being sealed to Marc in the temple of God meant everything to her.

  “Just tell me, and we’ll get back on that plane.” Marc’s grin vanished and she knew he was serious. “We could be married tomorrow.”

  She smiled. “No, let’s stay. I—I guess I just wanted to hear it from you.” She lifted her lips for another kiss, uncaring of the spectacle they might be making. This was Paris, the city of love; the natives were accustomed to romance in the street.

  “I would marry you at any time and place,” he whispered huskily. A frown creased his face. “I’ve been such a fool for taking so long to recognize how good we are together.”

  “There’s no looking back now.” Rebekka took his hand and they began walking aimlessly.

  “We may not have much time.”

  She stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . I’m so much older than you are and—”

  “Ten years isn’t all that much—”

  “—men tend to die much earlier than wo—”

  “—nowadays. We’ll manage.”

  He pulled her close. “I love you so much, Rebekka.” His breath was warm against her ear. “So much that it almost hurts.”

  He had voiced her thoughts exactly. “I love you, too.”

  They strolled together toward the Seine River, a comfortable silence hanging between them. Rebekka realized that the last time they had come to this cobbled walkway, they had only been friends. Her heart had been full with his presence, but he hadn’t taken her hand or declared his love as her thoughts had silently begged him to do. Couples had been lounging on stone benches or leaning against the wall, kissing or talking intimately, and Rebekka had envied them all.

  Marc released her hand and encircled her with his arms. “Want to stop a minute?” He motioned his chin toward a vacant bench.

  They hadn’t walked long and Rebekka was about to refuse before she noticed how haggard and pale his face looked. “Is something wrong?” she asked, arching a brow. “I’ve noticed your eyes blinking sometimes, like you’re about to go to sleep.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face and up through his hair. “I am feeling tired—and that seems to be affecting my vision a little. Actually, I’m exhausted now that I think about it. I couldn’t sleep well last night.” He chuckled in self-deprecation, pulling her onto the bench next to him. “I can’t seem to get enough sleep at all these days. I’m guess I’m too busy thinking about you.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “It could be the time difference. You’ve had to change time zones twice in two weeks.”

  He rubbed her arms, sending tingles into her flesh. “Maybe.” His voice was noncommittal.

  That worried her. She remembered something he’d written in an e-mail to her—something related to his transplanted kidney. His red blood cell count was lower than normal, but apparently the nephrologist hadn’t been too concerned. Yet had Marc ever returned for the recommended checkup? She didn’t know. Recently he’d seemed so healthy—except perhaps for this unnatural tiredness he was experiencing—that she’d forgotten the incident.

  Before she could question him further he said, “I really don’t have a meeting today. Must be the first time I ever lied about something like that.”

  “You weren’t fooling anyone except my mother. Didn’t you see that look your parents exchanged? They understood.”

  “I wonder how much I’ve missed seeing all these years.” Marc’s voice became suddenly forlorn.

  Rebekka leaned closer to him, searching his eyes. “We’ve been through this before. I thought we agreed not to look back. We’ve been friends all these years, that’s important too. And now we’re getting married.”

  He held her tightly, fiercely. “I’m going to make you the best husband, Rebekka. I promise.”

  They clung together silently, watching the water in the river, the occasional passing boat. A group of teens wandered by followed by an old lady in black, her large shoulder-bag filled with groceries.

  “My mother used to bring us here a lot when we were children.” Marc’s voice had returned to normal.

  “I remember you telling me that she used to come here with her brother all the time. And then with you and Josette and André when you were little. That’s why you love it so much.”

  “Perhaps.” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “But what I remember most of all was when you and I used to come here roller blading. Do you remember?”

  She felt his gaze on her face, but she kept her eyes on the water. “I do.” So many memories—most of them wonderful.

  Marc slid off the stone bench and knelt in front of her. “I know I asked you to marry me at the airport in Salt Lake, but I wanted to do it again here, where we have so many memories.” His eyes locked onto hers and she said nothing, sensing his desire to continue without interruption.

  “Will you marry me, Rebekka?” Out of his pocket he pulled a plush blue box that held a thick band with five large, channel-set diamonds.

  Rebekka felt her eyes widen. “You bought it?” They had looked at rings the week before and she had favored this one but had been embarrassed at the cost.

  “You liked it best. And we can afford it.” He removed the ring from its cradle. “Well?”

  Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. “Of course I’ll marry you, Marc. I love you. I’ve loved you since I was five.”

  Marc eased the ring onto her finger and then cupped her face with his hands, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.” He pulled his face to hers and kissed her tenderly and then with increasing emotion.

  At last they separated, staring deeply in each other’s eyes as several heartbeats passed between them. Rebekka could still feel the imprint of his hands on her face, of his lips on her mouth. “This is going to be the longest month of my life,” she murmured.

  Marc grinned and moved as though he were trying to get to his feet. Abruptly he tensed, bringing his hands to his chest. His breathing came more rapidly. “Rebekka . . . I’m feeling . . . odd. Like I’m going to throw up. My heart’s . . . racing. I’m having trouble seeing again.”

  A few seconds passed before she realized he wasn’t joking. Cold fear swept through her heart. The song she’d composed for him began again in her mind, sounding ominous. With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she helped him onto the bench, pushing him flat. “Breathe slowly,” she ordered, keeping her voice st
eady, though inside she was thoroughly panicked.

  What was wrong? A heart attack? Maybe. More likely it was something else, something related to the kidney transplant he’d received so many years ago. Every two years his transplanted kidney had been tested, and every test had shown that it was working perfectly.

  Except that something was not completely right the last time he went to the doctor, she remembered. The doctor’s warning hadn’t been severe, though; Marc would never have let it go if it had been. They both knew too well that the day would come when the donated kidney would stop cleaning adequate toxins from his blood, and he would have to endure another transplant.

  She tried to remember the details she’d read about kidney failure. Sometimes there was a slow decline, others were more rapid. The toxins in the blood would build up, causing tiredness. Blood pressure would rise, causing—what? Rapid pulse? A heart attack? Did it also do something to the vision?

  Why don’t I know these things? her mind screamed. She loved Marc so much and yet she was ignorant to all but the basics of the care he needed—or even his daily medications. One thing she did know: many people died from the numerous complications that were possible with the loss of kidney function. The failure didn’t have to be complete to cause death.

  “Marc,” she said. “Quickly, tell me. Could these signs be related to kidney failure—or some degree of it?”

  “I—” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was a moan. “I guess. I don’t know. There’s a huge list of what can go wrong. I’ve had some . . . symptoms, but I thought it was because of . . . us. I didn’t stop to think it might be related to my kidney.”

  Of course not. They’d had other things on their minds. And obviously the discomfort hadn’t been severe enough to cause him concern—until today.

  His labored breathing was growing worse, as was his pallor. Realizing she had no time to spare, Rebekka reached for her purse, searching for her cell phone. Whom should she call? An ambulance. That’s what she needed. Better to overreact than to lose him. She dialed the numbers and when her call was answered, she quickly explained her location and Marc’s symptoms. “He’s a kidney transplant recipient,” she added. “It could be kidney failure.”

  “Our people are on their way,” assured a calm voice that Rebekka couldn’t identify as male or female.

  “I thought it would be longer than this,” Marc said in a rush. “I had the feeling our time together wouldn’t be long, but I thought that was because—”

  “You’re going to be just fine. You aren’t getting out of marrying me so easily. Now shut up and breathe.”

  A grin appeared on his pale face. “That’s one of the things I love about you, Rebekka. You don’t mince words.”

  Rebekka held his hand as they waited for the ambulance, keeping a close eye on his breathing and his pulse, which was far too rapid. For once she wished she’d majored in nursing instead of languages.

  “I’m feeling better,” he said after a short time, lifting his head. “I think I just need to take a nap. Help me up.”

  “No.” She put a hand on his chest and pushed him back to the bench. “You stay right there. Keep your eyes closed.”

  She could hear the ambulance now and felt relief as men with a stretcher pushed through the growing group of onlookers. The relief didn’t last long.

  “Blood pressure two-sixty over one-forty,” someone said.

  “Is that bad?” Rebekka asked, already knowing from the grave looks around her that it must be.

  No one answered her question.

  “Well?” Marc demanded.

  “A little high,” a man told Marc as he inserted an IV. “Lie still and try not to worry. We’ll take good care of you.”

  They whisked him through the crowd, and Rebekka followed. One of the ambulance personnel dropped back to walk with her.

  “Two-sixty over one-forty is an extremely dangerous level,” he said in a low voice. “But we don’t want him to worry. That could make it worse. He could have a very serious stroke at any minute.”

  Rebekka stumbled and would have fallen but for the man’s quick support on her elbow. Had she come this far just to lose Marc now?

  She began to pray.

  Chapter Two

  André Perrault was loath to leave the family gathering, but it was far more important to be with his wife, Claire, who had contracted the latest cold going around the neighborhood. In anyone else it wasn’t something that would cause concern, but he was always careful when it came to her health. During the first five years of their marriage she had been sick to the point of genuine worry. The doctors had attributed her poor health to a lack of proper nutrition while growing up, and the quick births of their two daughters, Ana and Marée, now six and five respectively, had further weakened her.

  Five different doctors had warned André not to allow her to have another child—ever. Though he would have preferred more children, he vowed that he would not trade the chance of a son or another beautiful daughter for his wife’s life. Claire was his world and he loved her deeply. Meanwhile, Claire had learned to choose her food and nutrients carefully, and for the past two years she’d been well, if not completely strong. André believed her improvement was permanent, but he was careful nevertheless.

  “I’m home,” he called as he entered their comfortable apartment. The quiet was almost tangible, and he began to worry. “Claire? Where are you?”

  “In the living room.” Sure enough, she was settled on their off-white leather sofa, reading the Relief Society lesson she would be teaching in two weeks.

  He kissed her pale cheek as she swung her legs off the cushion to make room for him. Her white crocheted lap blanket fell to the teal-marbled carpet and he swept it up before sitting next to her. As a result of her lack of body fat she was often cold, so she’d made this small blanket to pull around her when in the living room.

  “How’d it go?” Claire’s striking turquoise eyes met his. “Where are the girls?”

  André put an arm around her and she snuggled close to him. “Louis-Géralde is off and the girls are having brunch with the family. My parents will drop them by when they’re through.”

  “That’s nice of them.” She paused before adding, “You could have stayed. I know how you enjoy those things, and I’ve been just fine here.”

  He nuzzled her soft, fragrant cheek. “Given the choice, I’d rather be here,” he said truthfully.

  She gave a little sigh and laid the back of her head against his shoulder. Her lesson book shut of its own accord. Claire opened it again, rifling through the pages until she found the right one. Her movements were quick and graceful, reminding André of a small bird who, despite its nervous energy, was ultimately so delicate.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  She glanced at him with a trace of guilt. “I took a painkiller. I couldn’t bear the headache anymore.” He knew Claire tried not to use over-the-counter medication because of her new healthy regime. She hated feeling ill and hated staying in bed even worse, but they had learned that taking medication was often a temporary fix which only masked the symptoms of her illness.

  “It must have been bad. I shouldn’t have left you.”

  “I’m really fine. It’s not like when I was sick before. Really.”

  André gathered her in his arms and arose, lifting her slight frame easily. “Well, I think it’s time you got back in bed—just in case.” Her fingers feathered over his arm, and without meaning to, he kissed the tempting white throat and buried his face into her black hair. She gave a low chuckle, her arms going up around his neck.

  He tucked her into their queen-size bed. “I’m going to get us something to eat.”

  She smiled at him, a ghost of her usual brilliance. “I’ll be better soon.” Her eyes appealed to him, begging forgiveness.

  He lay on the bed with his arms around her, their bodies separated by the blankets. “I know, Claire. Don’t worry about it. I love taking care of
you.” He kissed her cheek softly.

  “What if I . . . go back to being sick? I couldn’t bear that—for me or for you. I want you to be happy.”

  He held her more tightly. “I am happy. Don’t you know that? Being with you makes me happy.”

  He started to leave, but she grabbed his hand. “Stay with me. Please.”

  André held her silently for a long time until her eyelids drooped. Smoothing her hair, he realized that he had come home just in time to prevent her from working too long on her lesson. She was obviously exhausted but hadn’t returned to bed.

  He felt her head, and it seemed hot to him despite the medication. When she awoke he would take her temperature and then decide whether to take her to the doctor. Of course she would protest, not wishing to give him trouble or add to their expenses. She never seemed to understand that as one of the three partners in Perrault and Massoni Engineering and Architecture, he made plenty of money. Her frugal upbringing was deeply ingrained.

  Bestowing a final kiss on her head covered by the mass of black hair, he closed his own tired eyes and slept.

  Only moments seemed to pass before an insistent buzzing filled his head. Claire moaned softly and murmured, “It’s the door. Must be the girls.”

  André’s hand went instinctively to her forehead.

  “I’m fine. Really, I’m feeling better.”

  “Stay here. I’ll get it.” André pulled himself to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he walked toward the door. He punched the white intercom button in the entryway. “Yes?”

  His mother’s voice came cheerfully. “It’s us.”

  André pushed the buzzer that released the lock to the apartment building below. Then he opened the door and waited for his mother and the girls to mount the stairs to the first floor, knowing that for such a short distance they wouldn’t use the elevator. He knelt and hugged the girls as they arrived, each a miniature version of her mother.

  “We had so much fun,” Ana told him. “But you know, Uncle Marc is acting weird.”