Across Eternity Read online

  They fight again that night. Yvette’s screaming wakes Cecelia, who still sleeps in the parlor. I creep down the stairs to the crib and bring her to bed with me. She falls back into a contented slumber, and I stare at her in the moonlight, this little girl who feels like mine though she is not, listening to the sound of things being thrown in the room below. “That’s enough,” Henri finally says. The front door slams, but things continue to be thrown.

  * * *

  The next night, when it starts all over again, I go downstairs to get Cecelia before she wakes. I hear Yvette’s words clearly this time. She tells him she wants me to leave, and that she doesn’t want me around the baby. Whore, she says of me when all her other words get her nowhere. She’s a whore and a witch and you look at her as if she just made the sun rise.

  I carry Cecelia upstairs, and wonder if it’s truly time for me to go. I’m the thing making Henri’s life harder right now, creating friction between Cecelia’s parents. How could it possibly be a good thing?

  On the third day, all of us are hollow-eyed from the fighting. I’m so tired I can barely remain awake through dinner, and Henri hardly looks better. Only Yvette, who continues to rest most of the day, appears refreshed.

  I’m just drifting off that night, my thoughts scattering like ash, when, from downstairs, Yvette’s voice wakes me.

  “You stared at her all night!” she cries. “You stare at her every night, just as you did at the dance! Does it torture you, the thought of her with Luc?” Cecelia begins to cry and I go downstairs and scoop her up. I can’t hear his words but I hear the anger in them, the inherent threat.

  “Did she spread her legs for you like she does the rest of the town?” Yvette screams. “She did, didn’t she? Did she spread her legs like the whore that she is?”

  Their door opens and he stands at the threshold, unaware of my presence, so I hear every word he says in reply. “No, she didn’t. But you did, and the child that resulted is the only reason I allow you to stay.”

  It’s only when he turns that he sees me there, with Cecelia. His face falls.

  “I have her,” I tell him.

  He tugs at his hair with those hands of his, tortured and desperate. “I’m so sorry you heard that.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell him, though as I say it the weight of this whole thing seems to press down on me. Loving Henri and his daughter when I can’t keep either of them, watching Yvette take everything I want in the world when she’s not even grateful for it…it’s too much. I feel like marsh grass in high wind, barely able to stay upright, sustaining one blow after the next and feeling as if it will never end. “But I’m leaving in the morning.”

  * * *

  I take Cecelia upstairs and, tucking her into the crook of my arm, the two of us fall asleep. I hear more shouting, later, but I’m so exhausted it doesn’t matter and Cecelia will sleep through anything as long as she’s being held. At some point, Marie comes in and takes her from me, and the next time my eyes open the house is blissfully quiet at last and flooded with sunlight.

  I walk down the stairs to find Marie sitting at the table. Her hands are idle for the first time ever, and she stares out the window.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  She blinks, as if surprised to find me here. “Yvette is gone.”

  “Gone?” I ask.

  “She left early this morning. She says she’s going back to Paris.”

  My head swivels. The crib is empty, and it feels as if everything inside my chest is sucked out by a vacuum all at once. “Cecelia?” I gasp.

  Marie gives me a small smile. “Yvette left her. Said the baby was our problem, not hers. Henri is walking her. He thought we should let you rest.”

  I collapse into a chair, leaning forward. My limbs are still shaking from that single moment of terror. “Thank God.”

  When I look up there are tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

  “For what?”

  “For all of this. It’s because of me that you went to 1918 in the first place. It’s because of me you got stuck there. Because of me that Henri thought you were dead and wound up with her at all. You’ve suffered so much and it’s entirely my fault.”

  I shake my head. “All of those things had to occur for Cecelia to exist. How can we regret any of them?”

  Her eyes close. “I know. But now Yvette’s gone and I hope—” She trails off.

  “You hope what?”

  “I hope you’ll stay,” she says. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to. And with the baby…all our lives are in jeopardy in a way they weren’t before. Whether Henri remains here or goes off to fight, Cecelia will need a woman’s care, and she can’t jump with us, which means one of us will always have to stay behind. What I’m trying to say is that I hope you will stay, but I’m asking far more of you with that request than I once was.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. The truth is that I am still so in love with Henri I feel like I can barely breathe at the thought of leaving him. But I am also hurt, even if I shouldn’t be. I know that I will probably stay—how can I not, under the circumstances: with his whole family in danger, with a new baby more defenseless than the rest of us?—but I’m not sure how it will be with us. Or if it will ever be the same.

  The door opens. Henri stands there with Cecelia on his shoulder, so impossibly tiny by contrast with her father. His eyes hold mine and I freeze, without a clue what to say. It is Marie who swoops in, brushing her hands against her dress and walking briskly toward him. She pulls Cece from his arms and begins cooing to her as she walks outside, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  “You heard?” he asks. He hasn’t moved an inch.

  My eyes slowly lift to his. I suppose I should tell him I’m sorry, but the words don’t come. Cecelia has lost her mother, but Yvette was already proving not to be much of one. “Yes,” I reply. “I heard.”

  My tongue goes to my lips. I’m not sure what he wants of me now. I’m not sure if he wants to pick up where we left off, not that it’s really an option, or if he’s actually grieving the loss of his wife. Based on his silence, I guess maybe it’s the latter.

  If he can’t even bring himself to ask me to stay, then it’s the surest sign I shouldn’t. “The two weeks I promised are nearly up,” I say quietly.

  For a moment I’m greeted with another of his silences, and it feels like agreement. My chest begins to cave in on itself.

  But then he takes three large strides to where I sit, and he drops to his knees in front of me. His head falls to my lap, like a child’s might. His voice is strangled when he finally speaks. “Please don’t leave me. I will find a way to earn your forgiveness. Please, just give me a chance.”

  My eyes burn, and all that pain I felt in my chest a moment ago is still there, but it’s different. It’s pain mixed with relief. He still wants me. He will do what is necessary to fix what’s gone wrong. Tears slip down my face and I bury my hands in his hair, rest my face on the back of his head.

  “I can’t just…it’s going to take me some time,” I finally say.

  He raises his head. “I will give you all the time in the world,” he pleads. “Just stay.”

  I nod, feeling heartbroken and ecstatic at once. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  * * *

  Marie comes in, not much later, and we all move somewhat awkwardly around each other for the rest of the day. Henri takes care of the chores and Marie cooks and I take care of the baby and not a single one of us mentions how things are going to be from now on.

  I watch Henri walking toward the house at dusk, and it’s the first time, in all these long weeks since I arrived, that I truly allow myself to appreciate him. To take in the sheer masculinity of those shoulders and his unshaved jaw and that swagger as he walks, and allow myself to want him again, want him in the way of something I might actually have.

  When he comes inside, his smile for me is almost bashful. “How was she today?” he as
ks, nodding at Cecelia.

  “Happy,” I reply. “I think she actually tried to hum when I sang to her. And she smiled. A real smile. Not just gas.”

  He nods, biting his lip. “Thank you…for watching her.”

  He’s never thanked me for this before. It makes things between us feel oddly formal, transactional, even. I don’t know what to make of it. “Of course.”

  I’d hoped things might improve over dinner, but they do not. During the past weeks with Yvette here, we’ve gotten out of the habit of casually discussing things related to my time, or traveling, or anything beyond the mundane conversations you might hold with a stranger. We talk about the weather and the farm, and Cece most of all. Which is wonderful—there is plenty to discuss—but it doesn’t make me feel closer to him.

  Henri still looks at me the way he has now for weeks. Hungrily. And as if the sight of me causes him pain. But I can’t go from a long discussion of Cecelia’s eating and pooping habits to ripping off his clothes.

  “I’ll take her tonight,” says Marie with an awkward look between me and her brother.

  Internally, I quail at the idea. There is not a chance I’m sleeping with him when his wife hasn’t even been gone twenty-four hours. I guess I still haven’t quite forgiven him after all, not entirely.

  I shake my head. “You both barely slept last night and I’m used to having her with me. I’ll take her tonight.”

  Henri’s shoulders, hunched over the table, grow still as I speak. His head remains facing down when I’m done. “Thank you,” he says formally. “I appreciate how much you’ve done for us these past few weeks.”

  I smile politely in response, feeling as if, somehow, we just took a large step backward.

  24

  SARAH

  Another day passes. Another night where I make excuses about Cecelia and sleep in my own room, longing for him yet unsettled by it all as well, though I don’t understand why.

  On the third morning, Marie stops me. “What exactly is happening with you and my brother?” she asks.

  I flush, moving Cece to my left shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess we’re getting to know each other again.”

  “And how do you think that will happen when he’s so scared you’re going to leave that he’s treating you with kid gloves, and the only topic you’re willing to discuss with him is his two-week-old?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. Do you think I want things to be like this?”

  She pulls Cece out of my arms. “I’m taking her for a walk into town,” she says. “Please find my brother and solve this before I get home.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I object, but she continues walking. I watch as she puts Cece into the pram on the porch and heads for the road, and then I look toward the fields, steeling myself. What am I supposed to say to him? What would I have said to him before? I can’t even recall who we were, and the discomfort isn’t entirely one-sided. The truth is that before I left, if I walked into the fields to find him, he’d have wrapped his arms around me before I could say a word. Now, most likely, he’ll wait with a pained look on his face, or ask me how Cecelia is.

  I take a quick glance in the mirror and then walk out the door and head through the fields. It’s unusually warm, as far into the fall as it is, and when I finally spy him in the last row, I find him stripped down to a t-shirt, which clings to his chest and shoulders and abs in a way that would make any female stare. His head raises and when our gaze locks, he has that look on his face once more—hungry, desperate, restrained.

  He begins to move toward me and I toward him, so scared and so needy I feel sick with it.

  I mentally comb through all the mundane topics to discuss with him—the weather, how much Cecelia ate this morning—anything to put us in a normal place, a place where he isn’t looking at me the way he is right now. My brain is empty today.

  “It’s a nice—” I begin, and the words are stopped short as he grasps my face in his hands and kisses me. Kisses me hard, with a low moan of need.

  That sound. My God. When he makes that noise it’s all I can do to stay on two feet. I cling to him, under the sway of my desire, hands clawing at his shirt, desperate for purchase, desperate for the feel of his skin after these months apart. His mouth is on my jaw as I untuck his shirt and slide my hands beneath it. My palms press flat, wanting to savor him, but I can’t hold still long enough. I want more, everything, as fast as possible and when his lips move to my neck, every nerve ending seems to light up. I arch against him as I gasp, wordlessly begging for more.

  “I can’t wait another moment,” he says, tugging at my dress, too reckless and needy to stop for buttons. “My God I’ve wanted this for so long.” I hear the back tear and it matters not at all.

  We pull each other to the ground, his mouth on my breasts as I reach for his belt. My fumbling hands are too slow. He shoves the pants down on his own and lays me back in the dirt, kneeling between my parted thighs. My panties still separate us. He tears them in half and pushes inside me.

  My God.

  I’d remembered it, and yet I hadn’t. The feeling of being stretched by him, being so impossibly full.

  If either of us had hoped to go slow, I realize now we’re not capable of it. The moment he slides out I’m jerking my hips to meet his again. We are gasping and senseless, teeth and tongues, swallowing the other’s sounds greedily. He’s too desperate to be gentle with this. His belt hits my thighs with each thrust, the rough canvas of his pants abrading my skin. I’m not gentle with him either. I rut against him, hard and frenzied, wanting to somehow drive out the agony of the last year.

  My back sinks farther into the lumpy ground beneath me, my legs wrap around him tighter and tighter and his murmurs, entirely in French, grow frantic and barely intelligible. He tells me he’s missed me and that he loves me. I feel a sharp pang in my gut, as if my body is opening, preparing for flight. His words change, grow filthy and desperate, things I never dreamed I’d hear him say. I clamp down around him and cry out. He jerks inside me once, and again, and a final time, but slower.

  My eyes open. I’m a little shocked to find us in the dirt, with the sun overhead. To find my dress in ruins and most of his clothes still on. He blinks, and his eyes are wide, alarmed, when they meet mine.

  He slides out of me, averting his gaze. He’s still hard, and the old version of Henri would have stayed where he was, would have told me he’d be ready again in a moment, but this one is uncertain. He looks at me like someone he just fucked by mistake.

  “Are you…okay?” he asks haltingly. My thighs are sticky now and the bottom of the dress is wet with us, which hardly matters since it’s too ripped to be salvageable.

  “Yes,” I say, sitting up, staring at my hands. “I’m fine.”

  His fingers trail along a point just above my collarbone. “I bruised you. I’m sorry.”

  He sits back, pulling up his pants. I pull my knees together and try to hold the dress around myself. “I didn’t notice. It was fine.”

  How can it be so gruelingly awkward between us now? I want to fix it, but the girl I was before everything happened would have launched herself in his arms—would have demanded he tell her every thought in his head no matter what it was—and I’m not her anymore. That girl didn’t have to ask if he was comparing her to his wife, didn’t have to wonder if she had, by comparison, failed.

  He runs a hand over his face. “I—” he begins.

  “I need to get back to the house,” I cut in, terrified of whatever is about to come out of his mouth. “Marie will be back soon. I don’t want her to see my dress.”

  He nods, shoulders hunched as if defeated somehow, and no wonder. I’m sure he never thought sleeping with me could possibly make things worse, but it definitely has.

  * * *

  For the rest of the afternoon I stay inside with Cecelia. It’s unnecessary since Marie is home, but the truth is I’m scared to run into Henri again. I’m scared of how uncomfortable thin
gs are between us. I’m scared of the weight of my desire, which even as I sit here burping Cece, has me feeling like I might come out of my skin with wanting him again. I think of it every time my bruised back hits the chair, every time my thighs—abraded by friction—rub together. I’m a disaster and I only want more and more, with someone who could barely look at me when it was over.

  Yvette. Does he miss her? She was a conniving little bitch, but men are stupid about things like that. She certainly didn’t enter into a relationship with him quite as innocently as I did, and maybe I’m just not…enough. I don’t have tricks. The little I know about sex I learned from Henri. Maybe he’s come to appreciate the value of an experienced partner.

  I think of the things he said to me just before he came, filthy things that shocked me and probably could have made me come even if he were just whispering them over the phone, and wonder if he said them to her as well. Did he get carried away at the end and forget who he was with?

  My stomach drops. “Of course he did,” I whisper aloud, horrified. “Of course, of course, of course.” I’m embarrassed for myself, for the way I reacted…thinking I’d somehow elicited that reaction from him. Mostly, I’m just sickened by the fact that he had that kind of relationship with her. That they were so open with each other, so filthy. So unlike us.

  When he comes in, I busy myself with Cecelia, and after dinner is cleaned up, I fake a big yawn and announce I’m turning in for the night, Cece pressed to my chest like a shield.

  He follows me to the bottom of the stairs, while Marie busies herself in the kitchen as if she doesn’t notice. “I’m sorry,” he says tentatively, “if I was too…rough. I got carried away.”