Page 80 of Across Time

“But what happened when you landed that made things go so wrong?” she asks. “I hope you were at least able to get to your clothes before you fell asleep.”

I bite my lip. I hate not knowing what could have happened to me during those missing hours between my arrival in 1987 and waking in the hospital. “I’m not sure. I remember landing, but I wasn’t at the farm. I was in an alley somewhere. It was like I fell into the wall and that was it. The next thing I know I was in the hospital.”

Henri buries his head in his hands, looking even less happy than he did a moment before. “Dieu. Anything could have happened to you.”

“But it didn’t,” says Marie, grabbing my hand. “And look at her. She’s never looked healthier.”

Henri doesn’t look reassured. I came here for him, willing to give up everything, and he seems to wish I hadn’t.

“And Mark?” he asks, his shoulders rigid. “Did you see him?”

I’m not sure what’s happening between us, but the air is thick—with tension and desperation and unanswered questions—and there’s just too much there. Like colliding weather in the heat of summer, there will need to be a storm before we can have clear air.

“Yes, I saw him. He came into Paris before I left.”

Henri’s eyes darken until they’re nearly the color of night. “Meeting in Paris. I assume that means you called him.”

“Yes,” I snap. “That’s generally how people get in touch with each other.”

Marie’s glance darts between the two of us. “So back to Cecelia,” she says, her voice overly cheerful and loud. “She took care of you?”

I nod, still watching Henri. “She put me up in a suite in the Ritz Carlton.”

Marie sighs dreamily. “So you lived like a queen for three weeks. What did you eat? How did you get clothes?”

I swallow and look away from Henri. “I felt like The Little Princess. Anything I could possibly have wanted, I had. She even took me to Chanel and when I didn’t want to buy anything, she began sending designer clothes to the hotel, more clothes than I could have worn in a decade.”

Henri’s eyes have narrowed to slits. "It sounds as if you should have stayed."

If he’d reached into my chest and ripped my heart in two, it couldn’t hurt more than his words do now. “I’m beginning to wish I had,” I reply, rising with my plate in hand, torn between weeping or throwing something at his head.

He pushes away from the table, grabbing what I left behind and following me to the counter. “Marie,” he hisses as he slams the butter and bread down beside me. “It’s time for you to leave.”

“Please,” she begs, “you both need to—”

“Go,” he growls. “Now.”

The door shuts and neither of us blink an eye. He’s wounded me, but only rage feels safe right now. “Do you have any idea what I gave up to come back here?” I ask. “And what I risked making the trip?”

“Do you have any idea what it was like to be stuck here knowing you were with someone else?” he demands. “For all I knew you’d already married him.”

“Well I’m here now!” I cry. “And it’s like you don’t even care!”

He tugs at his hair with an angry laugh. “Don’t care? I’ve spent the past three nights watching you sleep. That’s how much I don’t care. And given how horrified you looked when I kissed you last week, and the way you vanished when it happened, I can’t imagine why you’d choose to return.”

“Last week?” I ask. “But…”

The day I jumped ahead. I thought it was fall, but could it have been an unusually pleasant August day instead? Yes, it absolutely could have been. No wonder he’s been so uncertain since I arrived. “That wasn’t last week for me,” I whisper. “It happened back when I was still staying here with you.”

“And you couldn’t have explained that? You left me feeling like I was another André!”

I throw out my hands. “I thought I could prevent it happening if I left early!”

The light in his eyes dies and I realize the error I’ve made immediately. “I’m not saying I wanted to prevent it. I just didn’t know…”

His mouth becomes a flat line. “Didn’t know what?”

I take a deep breath. “I didn’t know I was in love with you. And I didn’t know if you’d want me to stay—”