Chapter Thirty-Four
When Rebekka arrived at Marc’s apartment, there was no answer. She used her key to let herself in, the gnawing fear of losing him growing every minute. She wished she could turn back the clock to Saturday and change her reaction that evening. If only she could have understood her true feelings then.
She quickly glanced through the rooms. The scattered papers in his office showed signs of its recent use, but the bed was made and there were no dirty dishes. Where had he gone?
She tried to think like Marc, but was uncertain if her reasoning was accurate. Last month she would have felt in her heart where to find him, but now she wondered if she had lost that intuition.
Ridiculous, she told herself. I still know him. And I love him.
The thought steadied her. “When I didn’t call him, he would have gone to my house,” she said aloud. “But I wasn’t home. He can’t go to the office, and all his family is at the hospital, so where else would he go?”
She snapped her fingers suddenly and headed for the underground garage. After a moment’s hesitation she left the elevator on the main floor and went outside, nearly jogging the block to the metro station. Where she was going it would be a lot easier to not worry about her car.
She had to pay a ticket because her pass had expired when she had been in America, and she hadn’t needed to renew it since most of her traveling had been to and from the transplant hospital, for which she had used her car. Impatiently, she counted the stops.
Please be there, Marc, she said in her head. Please be there.
When she arrived at her station, she was the first one out the doors and raced down the marble steps two at a time. She blinked briefly in the weak winter sunlight and buttoned her long leather jacket against the chill in the air. With a flood of other people, she crossed the street at the crosswalk but hurried on alone to the Seine River. A single artist painted on the parapet overlooking the river, his hands encased in gloves that left his fingertips bare. His nose and cheeks were reddened with wind, as though he’d been there for hours. Next to him in a midsize wooden crate was a stack of unframed paintings lying on their sides, separated carefully from one another by white tissue paper. He looked hopefully at Rebekka as she passed, but she was in too much of a hurry to stop. Smile fading, he turned back to his work.
Rebekka hurried down a flight of cobblestone steps to get closer to the river. This was the same place she and Marc had come that day so long ago when he had collapsed. He had to be here. Her eyes anxiously scanned the area, her thumb toying with the engagement ring on her finger. How often they had come here over the years. Surely he would remember!
The music she had composed for Marc, to be played for him on their wedding day, began in her mind, slowly building to a loud crescendo. Vivid, turbulent, warm, tender, and passionate—like her feelings for him. The warnings it had once haunted her with were gone.
Marc wasn’t in sight.
A couple of teenagers lounged on one of the stone benches, and an old man with a cane walked farther down the cobbled path next to the river.
How could he not be here? Rebekka’s heart ached. Would he listen to her explanation? Would he believe that she loved him, not with a portion of her heart as she did André, but with her entire soul?
There was a movement behind a tree growing from one of the few squares of dirt placed periodically in the cobblestones. Rebekka’s heart lurched. Marc! She would recognize him anywhere.
He turned and saw her at that moment. He took a step, revealing the rest of his body that had been hidden by the trunk of the tree. Rebekka also took a step in his direction, marveling at the emotions in her breast. How much she loved him! Having almost lost him gave her new insight to the extent of that love.
Their eyes met. “Rebekka.” His mouth formed the word, but she was too far away to hear. He was wearing jeans and a polo under his long, black leather jacket, and had two sets of in-line skates slung over one shoulder.
Skates?
They closed the distance between them until they were only inches apart. Rebekka wanted to throw herself into his arms, and searched his face for a similar desire. Had she destroyed all her dreams?
His eyes were unreadable and the fear of losing him grew to a stabbing pain in her breast. “Marc,” she whispered.
He fingered one of the metal blades. “I went to your house,” he said softly. “I thought that . . . I wanted to remind you.” His hands shot out and grabbed hers. “Rebekka. I know there’s someone else, but you are my life and I’m going to fight for you. I believe we’re meant to be together!”
The silliness of him going to her apartment with in-line skates when he couldn’t possibly use them during his recovery brought a lump of tenderness to her throat. His expression turned to one of torture as she struggled to speak. “I know,” she managed finally, simply.
With a finger, he unhooked the skates from his shoulder and sent them crashing to the stones at their feet. He reached for her, and she stepped into his arms.
“You’ve been crying.” His thumb smoothed a tear on her cheek.
“I was afraid of losing you.”
He held her tightly and she could feel his body tremble. “When I was here just now, I kept thinking the same thing. I was scared that I had lost you.”
Rebekka smoothed his brow and kissed his cheek, vowing never to hurt him again. “I’ve waited nineteen years to become your wife, and I’m not giving up now. I love you, and I’m sorry for Saturday night.”
“I was wrong.” He stared earnestly into her eyes. “I should have married you right there in the hospital. If I had to do it over again, I would. Oh, Rebekka, I know it’s selfish, but I can’t stand the thought of eternity without you.”
No, you were right, she wanted to say. If you had died I might have married André. I might have grown to love him.
Love him more than Marc?
It really didn’t matter anymore, though she was honest enough with herself to admit that if Marc had married her and then died, she might have eventually come to resent him later. From this moment, she vowed to never look back. Instead, her mind raced with plans for the future.
“Kiss me,” she murmured, lifting her lips to his. “Just kiss me.” He did and in his arms, nothing else mattered.
After a long time, they wandered from the river. Rebekka spotted the young artist, still painting in the cold, and pulled Marc to a stop to peruse his work. “He’s really quite good,” Marc said.
Rebekka smiled at the artist. “Will you do one of us?”
A flush covered the already cold-reddened face. Without speaking the artist turned his easel toward them, and Rebekka saw that he had already begun a rough rendition of a couple embracing by the river.
“That’s us!” Rebekka exclaimed with wonder, marveling at how the artist had captured their joy.
“It’ll take me a few days to finish,” the man said, smiling at her contentment. “I’ll need half the money now and half when I deliver the painting. It would work best if I could take a few pictures of you up close—to work from in my studio. So that the faces are right.” He held up a camera. Rebekka suspected that he had already taken their picture while they had been embracing below, but she was glad. Now she would always have something to remind her of this moment.
“Shoot away,” Marc said, encircling Rebekka with his strong arms. He kissed her again.