Moonlight Over Paris(79)
It wasn’t possible—it couldn’t be possible. She must have misunderstood.
“I beg your pardon . . . I don’t think I—”
“I’m leaving Paris,” he said. “I sail home to New York at the end of next week.”
“Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
“My father isn’t well, and he’s asked me to come home. He needs me. My family needs me.”
“And just like that you give everything up—leave everything behind?”
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now,” he muttered, his shoulders hunched like an old man’s. “I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I . . .”
“Well, you didn’t. Instead you let me waffle on about my family and Edward and the pressure I felt to live my life a certain way, but you were going through the same thing, too. Why didn’t you just say something?”
“I wanted to. I did. But I was worried that it would come to this, to my having to go home and leave you behind, and I couldn’t even bear to think about it. It would have hurt to leave Paris, but to leave you . . .”
“Is that why you pushed me away? Said we could never be more than friends?”
“Yes. You’d spent years being treated like an afterthought by your fiancé and everyone else around you. I guess it seemed kinder to keep you at arm’s length. Besides, we were only just getting to know one another. I didn’t want to presume you cared for me.”
“I did,” she admitted, desolation gripping her like a vise. “I still do.”
“Then why have you been so distant? For months you’ve been avoiding me, and when our paths do cross you barely give me the time of day.”
“I didn’t think you would notice. I didn’t know you cared.”
“Well, I did notice, and I do care. I care when you ignore me, and I care when you compare me to the man who nearly ruined your life. Is that what I am to you? Nothing more than Edward in an American suit?”
“No. No, of course not. I didn’t mean that you were anything like him. Only that you both belong to the same world, with the same sort of impossible expectations and ironclad rules and people with their hearts and minds buried in the last century.”
“So? I don’t live in that world. I left it long ago.”
“You did, but now you’re going back. You’re the heir to Howard Steel.”
“It won’t change me, Ellie. I won’t let it.”
“I’m sure you’ll try, but how can you escape something that surrounds you? It’s not as if you can leave work at the end of the day and go home to a shabby little garret. This life you have, here in Paris—it’s over. Can’t you see?”
“It’s not forever. It’s only until—”
“Until when? You inherit Howard Steel outright?”
“What else would you have me do? Stay here and let my father die at his desk?”
“Of course not. That’s the thing, Sam—I agree with you. I honestly do.”
He stared at her incredulously, disbelief etched across his features. “Then why are you so angry with me? I’m not going to change. I didn’t before, and I won’t now.”
“I believe you.”
“Then come with me. Come to America and make a new start.”
It tempted her beyond reason, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to say yes. If Sam were still the ordinary newspaperman she had fallen in love with, she’d have gone without a second thought. But he wasn’t an ordinary man, and nothing could change that inescapable truth.
“No,” she finally said. “I’m sorry—you’ll never know how sorry I am—but my answer must be no.”
Silence descended, dark and oppressive, broken only by the relentless ticking of a clock on the mantel.
“That’s it?” he asked, despair shading his voice. “I leave and you stay?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Then I had better go.” Crossing the space between them in two long strides, he bent low to kiss her quickly, fervently, his mouth hard upon hers. “Good-bye, Ellie.”
Though she wanted very badly to run after him and take back everything she had said, she forced herself to remain where she was, dying by degrees, as he left the room and walked out the front door.
Pain bloomed in her chest, in the spot where her heart was meant to be, and it was so fierce and paralyzing that she could only breathe in short, shallow bursts. One day she would wake up, and the memories of this day would be gone, and she would think of her year in Paris, and Sam, without her heart stuttering almost to a stop.
One day she might think of him, and the look on his face just now, and she would not hate herself for it.
One day.
Chapter 28
The next day, Helena stayed in bed so long she gave herself a headache. It was nearly noon when Agnes came into her bedroom, yanked open all the draperies, and stood, looking quite fierce, at the end of the bed.
“It’s high time you got out of bed and stopped feeling sorry for yourself,” she announced. “I’ve asked the maids to run you a bath—do wash your hair, my dear, and give yourself a good scrub—and when you’re done, come down to the petit salon.”