This Time Forever Page 2

Mickelle dropped to her knees and tried to hold him so he wouldn’t injure himself. She knew she shouldn’t, that she was in danger of being hit, but she felt so helpless just watching. His arms and legs thrashed like the tail of a beached fish, and his eyes rolled in helpless terror. The jerking motions seemed to last forever.

  “Are you all right?” she asked when the seizure had finally ended.

  “What happened?”

  “You had a seizure.” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine.”

  But she could tell he was shaken. “I’ll call the doctor.” She started to her feet.

  He grabbed her hand. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

  Mickelle hesitated. As a child, Riley had been hit by a car while riding his bike, and while healing his brain had developed scar tissue that had caused seizures throughout his life. They’d been controlled fairly well by medication, but three years earlier the doctors had been able to remove the scar tissue, and the seizures stopped. He’d continued the medication in decreasing dosages for another year, but he had been medication-free for the past two. The doctor had told them he would most likely never suffer another seizure in his lifetime.

  So why had he?

  “Come on. Let’s go to bed.” Riley lurched heavily to his feet. “I’m okay, really.”

  Mickelle tried to take his arm in the narrow hall, but he shrugged her off. He slumped onto their bed, and she watched him for a moment to make sure he was all right. Then she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Afterward, she checked the boys to make sure they were safe in their rooms. When she returned, Riley was snoring softly.

  She touched the back of his head tenderly before kneeling to pray. Please help him, she pleaded.

  Riley had changed since the seizures had stopped three years ago. Before, he had been sullen, hesitant, and shy. Now, while still reserved around others and at times very sullen, he was more outgoing and confident. He also seemed more self-centered and quick to anger. Though all the changes weren’t positive, Mickelle believed he was progressing emotionally in ways he hadn’t been able to as a child and young adult, when the constant fear of having a seizure loomed over him. Sometimes she wondered if he was reliving the youth he’d never been able to enjoy—perhaps that was the reason for his truck and the new stereo system. This could simply be a phase in his delayed development. He might actually be growing into the man she thought she’d married.

  As she slipped between the covers, an uneasy feeling crept into bed with her. Riley appeared all right now, but what if he wasn’t? Would the seizures return again? She knew that would break his heart.

  Mickelle fell asleep wondering what the next day would bring.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rebekka Massoni was bored with life. At twenty-four, she had already accomplished many of her life goals. She had served a church mission to her native France, she was an accomplished pianist, she had college degrees in French and English, and she now worked as a translator for the American Embassy in Paris. She was thinking about going back to school for a doctorate in English.

  Many friends and family envied her achievements, but the goals closest to her heart had gone unrealized. The modern Rebekka didn’t dare share her sentiments with anyone, except lately with Brionney, her American friend who was far enough away that Rebekka didn’t feel embarrassed by confiding her deepest emotions. Besides, Brionney understood very well why Rebekka felt as she did. After all, she’d once loved the same man who now filled Rebekka’s dreams.

  Rebekka sighed and closed the latest mystery novel by Mary Higgins Clark, her favorite American author. In four strides, she was through the French doors and on the balcony that ran the length of her mother’s kitchen, looking down eight stories to the ground below. People walked along the cobblestone sidewalks, mostly carrying groceries from the market, occasionally holding a small child’s hand. Grizzled old men sat on wooden benches in front of the café, talking and enjoying the warm day. Though Rebekka was too far up to see, she knew that many would be smoking cigarettes or eating pastries from the café as they watched the passersby and talked about the good old days.

  She smiled to herself and leaned over the balcony to catch the slight breeze. Her long auburn hair—so dark it was almost brown—fell over her shoulders. “Hmm,” she said with a sigh. The smell of fresh bread permeated the Saturday morning air, reminding her that she’d not yet eaten. Still she lingered, watching the old men below.

  The “good old days” were in her mind much more than she would like to admit. Back then, she’d still believed that Marc would wake up one day and realize how much he loved her—not as a friend or sister, but as a woman, as someone who would love him for eternity. He would take her in his arms and ask her to marry him and kiss her lips, her eyes, her face . . .

  It had happened only in her dreams. She’d loved Marc Perrault since he’d come into her life when she was five years old. At first she had idolized him—probably because he’d saved her mother’s life when she’d been caught in the terrorist bombing on a train in Paris. In the blast, he had sustained damage to both his kidneys that had later resulted in a transplant to save his life. The romance of his sacrifice had impressed her even at such a young age. Over the past nineteen years, her love had matured from the idolization of a schoolgirl to the love of a woman for a man. Yet Marc still treated her like a little sister.

  She began to pace from one end of the balcony to the other in frustration, her right fist punching half-heartedly into the palm of her left hand. Why couldn’t she make him see her as a woman?

  “Rebekka, are you here?” Danielle called from the kitchen in a voice as soft as velvet.

  “Coming, Mother.” Rebekka went through the French doors and into the kitchen, shutting them behind her. Her mother came toward her, dressed in a gray robe that exactly matched her eyes. She had long, dark-auburn hair, high cheekbones, and a slender figure. People often said how much Rebekka and Danielle looked and sounded alike, more like sisters than mother and daughter. Rebekka found that hard to believe. She’d always thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. Even nearing fifty, she possessed a childlike innocence that Rebekka knew wasn’t a pretense.

  “Ah, there you are.” Danielle kissed Rebekka on both cheeks. “Marc rang below just now. He’s coming up.”

  “He didn’t need to. I could meet him downstairs.”

  Her mother smiled. “A gentleman always picks a lady up at her door.”

  Rebekka snorted. “This isn’t a date. We’re going to sing in the street with the church youth and hand out flyers. Marc’s like a brother, you know that. Could you ever imagine my own darling brother Raoul coming up to get me?”

  Danielle’s gray eyes grew melancholy. “It’s a shame you feel that way. I know Marc’s ten years older than you, but he’d make a good husband.”

  Rebekka turned from her mother to grab her Mary Higgins Clark book from the table—anything to hide her pain. “Yeah,” she agreed softly. “A shame.”

  Her mother didn’t notice her emotions. She never did; she took people at face value, accepting them for the front they presented. It would never occur to Danielle that Rebekka was in love with Marc unless she said so.

  “Speaking of Raoul, where is he?” Danielle opened a cupboard and took out a mug for her morning milk.

  “He had to work. He and André are finishing the designs for that new road the firm’s building. Marc should be working as well, but he promised that he’d come . . .”

  Rebekka let her words trail off as her father entered the kitchen. He went to Danielle and drew her into his arms, kissing her deeply. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  Danielle put her arms around her husband. “With the hours you’ve been working, you’ve needed your sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep without you next to me.” Philippe kissed her tenderly again before releasing her. He turned to greet Rebekka with the customary kisses on her cheeks. “Goo
d morning, my beautiful daughter. Where are you off to today?”

  “Marc’s coming, and we’re going to the marketplace.”

  Her father frowned, and the look in his blue eyes was intense. “With your church group again? I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I promised.” Rebekka knew her father didn’t approve of his wife and children’s decision to be baptized, but she was grateful he’d become tolerant enough to allow the membership. There’d been a time when he wouldn’t have permitted any of his family to set foot in a chapel, but over the years, Danielle had convinced even him to occasionally come to special church activities. He doted on her, and she continued to love him with complete and blind abandon, despite his pagan ways. Though her father wasn’t a member and Danielle couldn’t share her faith with him, Rebekka envied their relationship. It was better than her imaginary one with Marc.

  The door buzzer saved her from further discussion. “I’ll get it.” As Rebekka flew to the door, her heart beat rapidly in anticipation of seeing Marc. Involuntarily, she ran through ideas on how to get him to notice her. She’d tried everything from subtle hints to purposely trying to make him jealous—nothing had worked. After her mission, she’d even kissed him once on the mouth one night when he had taken her to the movies, but he’d thought she was teasing.

  Some joke.

  The only joke here was that she was hopelessly in love with a handsome, dark-haired older man who didn’t return her affections. A part of her thought that if he’d married, she could have overcome her obsession, but another part vowed that she would never be whole without him regardless.

  “Marc, hi.” She greeted him by kissing him on each cheek, enjoying the feel of his skin and the smell of his cologne. With the force of long habit, she stifled the urge to throw herself into his arms. “I’m ready. It’s not cold, is it?”

  “You could probably use a sweater.” He gave her an indulgent smile, his deep brown eyes glinting.

  Rebekka would almost swear that he wanted to ruffle her hair as he’d done when she was a child. Swallowing with difficulty, she said, “It’ll just take me a second.”

  Marc was already heading for the kitchen where Philippe and Danielle were preparing breakfast together. “I’ll just say hi to your parents. We have time.”

  Rebekka looked in the hall closet before remembering that she’d left her good sweater in her bedroom. When she returned to the kitchen, Marc was sitting at the table, sipping a cup of hot chocolate. He sat across from Danielle, who cupped a warm mug of plain milk in her long, graceful hands. Between them was a plate of croissants. Philippe stood by the counter, pouring himself a cup of steaming coffee.

  “So I don’t know how much good standing there and giving out flyers is going to do,” Philippe was saying.

  You’re embarrassed because your colleagues might recognize me, Rebekka wanted to say. But she didn’t; one simply didn’t say such things to her father.

  “We’re just doing our part.” Marc spoke to Philippe, but his eyes were on Danielle. Every curve of his beloved face was known to Rebekka; in her dreams she had caressed the closely-shaven cheeks, run her hands through the hair that he now wore long on top, and entwined herself in his arms.

  Rebekka stopped walking toward them suddenly. She stared at Marc. He still watched Danielle, and on his face was the same expression her father wore when he looked at her mother.

  No!

  Her mind rejected the thought immediately. He’s mine! He may not know it yet, but he is mine. I’ve waited so long . . .

  Except she couldn’t deny the truth staring at her. She’d just discovered the biggest irony of all. No wonder Marc had never married—he was in love with her mother!

  The aroma of her father’s coffee pervaded the kitchen. For years, she had linked the smell to her father and security, but all at once it had turned into something devastating.

  Now that she knew the dreadful truth, she saw that Marc’s feelings had been obvious all along, though he probably wasn’t aware of them himself. He always made excuses to be near Danielle. He was the first to volunteer to go to the store for her or to drive her to a doctor’s appointment. Anything she wished, Marc had been willing to do. When Rebekka had been little, he’d often taken her in-line skating or to the park, and he’d always been the one to help her with her homework. He’d even taken her to get her driver’s license, and to nearly every church or school activity. Rebekka had believed he’d done those things because he liked her, but now she understood that he had done it all to be close to Danielle. Rebekka was nothing to him but a pest—a name she had heard him use more than once when he wasn’t aware she could hear. She’d thought he said it tenderly, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  Memory after memory assaulted her—occasions when Marc had arranged to be close to Danielle. Most vividly, Rebekka remembered the many times during the past year when she had thought about moving out on her own, only to be urged by Marc to stay with her parents. Of course! Without her in the apartment, what reason would he have to visit?

  Was even their friendship a farce?

  This thought cut Rebekka to the core. She might be able to stand not having Marc return her love, but she couldn’t take not being his friend. His friendship had been a mainstay in her life since she was five years old. At this dreadful thought, her stomach heaved and acid stung her throat.

  “Rebekka, what’s wrong, honey?” Danielle asked in her soft voice. “You look pale.”

  “I don’t feel too well,” Rebekka managed. “I—Marc, you’re going to have to go without me. I think—I’m going to be sick.” She ran from the kitchen to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. With one hand she braced herself against the sink, and with the other turned on the cold water. She splashed her face repeatedly until the nausea subsided.

  “Rebekka?” Her mother’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  Rebekka looked in the mirror at her face, red now with cold. Her gray eyes stared back at her, large and haunted. She clenched her teeth and lifted her firm jaw, the only physical endowment she had received from her father. “I’m okay, Mother. I’m going to take a bath and lie down. Tell Marc I’m not going. I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t sorry. She wanted to rip his eyes out and throw them off the balcony. And then throw her mother off after him! How could I have been so blind all this time? How could I not see that Marc loved you instead of me?

  Rebekka didn’t cry. She was through wasting time crying for Marc. She was through being used. Sinking to the floor, she sat with her chin on her knees, holding her misery firmly inside until the urge to weep ceased.

  Now, what to do.

  Numbness settled over her heart. Marc was forever out of her reach, and she couldn’t stay where she would see him so often. Even once a week at church would be too painful. No, she had to get over him once and for all.

  America.

  The thought was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Others had gone to America and found their dreams. Josette, Marc’s twin, and his other sister, Marie-Thérèse, had done so, though both were now back in Paris, happily married and enjoying their children. Why couldn’t she find her own dream in America? She might never have to face Marc again.

  She rose resolutely to her feet, slipped off her shoes, and opened the bathroom door slowly. When she was assured her mother wasn’t waiting outside, she crept soundlessly down the hall to her own room. Making sure the door was locked, she went to the phone by the bed and dialed the number in Anchorage, Alaska, where Brionney was temporarily living with her husband and five children.

  “Hello?” Brionney’s voice sounded groggy, and Rebekka belatedly remembered the time difference. With a twinge of guilt, she realized that for Brionney it was the middle of the night.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Brionney,” Rebekka said in French. “It’s me, Rebekka. I forgot about the time difference. It’s morning here.”

  “It’s okay,” Brionney answered in the same language. “I was up with Forest anyw
ay. In fact, I was singing him a French lullaby. Or actually, all the French songs I know. They seem to calm him. Or maybe they’re calming me. Anyway, as soon as I get him back to sleep, it’ll be Gabriel’s turn to wake up and eat, though he’ll go back to bed a lot more quickly.”

  “It must be difficult having twins.” Rebekka tried to keep the envy from her voice.

  “Yeah, but Jesse helps a lot. I’m still nursing, but they’ve been taking bottles for the past four months. I can’t keep up with their demand. Some mothers of twins can, but not me.” There was a cry in the background, and Brionney sighed. “Especially Forest’s demands. Good thing he’s so cute.” She paused before asking, “So what’s up?”

  “I’ve been thinking . . .” Now that she was talking to Brionney, Rebekka was having second thoughts. Leaving France was a big step, and she would miss many things. What about her family and her job? Maybe leaving wasn’t the answer. Then she remembered the way Marc had watched her mother. Why couldn’t he look at her like that? New pain surged through her body. “I—I’m feeling a little trapped here. I was wondering if there was any way I could . . . I mean, it’s just until I sort things out.”

  “You want to come and stay with me?” In her excitement, Brionney forgot to speak in French. “That would be wonderful! I would absolutely love to have you come. It’d give me someone to practice French with—you can tell mine’s getting rusty. Right now, I can’t remember a word! That happens when I get excited.”

  “Just lack of practice,” Rebekka said in English. “I speak English a lot at work, and your brother and I always practice at church.”

  “Zack.” Brionney sounded sad. Her brother had married Marc’s sister Josette and moved to France. Rebekka had seen him more times in the past year than Brionney would for the rest of her life. Yet despite the distance, Rebekka knew Zack had stayed close to his favorite sister.

  “You miss him.”

  “Yes, but he’s with Josette and their children where he’s supposed to be. He comes home at least once a year, but I missed his visit last year because I was here.”