He’d asked Delphine to remove her shoes.

  Then he gave each of them a simple wedding band to wear. They were too big for either of them, but no one would know. They were cheap gold—highly polished to reflect light and draw attention to themselves.

  Delphine was turned sideways, her back to the arm of the couch. Her legs were stretched out, her knees slightly bent and resting in Aric’s p. Marco had adjusted her dress so that her feet were clearly visible. She wore the same nail polish from the interview, and the same ck of lipstick. Somewhere in her sightline—above her—he’d hung a series of bare lights. Their reflection in her eyes looked like someone had painted a consteltion of stars on them.

  Aric sat with both feet on the floor. His left hand rested on her feet, the gold of the wedding band gleaming brightly. His head was turned toward her, his right arm resting on the back of the couch. Delphine’s left hand rested on the back of the couch, her fingers pointing toward Aric’s—a silent invitation to close the gap. Her own wedding band caught the well-pced light. Her right hand rested gently on her colrbone.

  “Bene. Fantastico. Proprio così,” Marco said. Good. Wonderful. Just like that.

  He moved closer. Changed angles.

  “Rimani così,” he said. “Non devi fare nul. Ora ci penso io.” Stay just like that. You don’t have to do anything. It’s all on me now.

  Aric knew that was because of him. He’d begun to follow Marco’s movements.

  When he looked back at Delphine, she was smiling at him. Or smirking. He could see the corners of her eyes crinkle slightly as she fought to keep her expression still.

  She watched as his eyes went to the ring on her finger. It was a small movement, and Marco wasn’t positioned to see it. She’d done the same thing when he’d been focused on Aric.

  It wasn’t real. She had to keep reminding herself of that. It was art.

  Isn’t there a state in America where a man can marry two women? she wondered. She thought there was. Or had been.

  She was used to sitting perfectly still while her mind wandered—as everyone around her focused on her. But she could sense the tension in Aric. He was close to fidgeting. She could feel it.

  She could feel the boundary between them. Like an air bubble suspended underwater. If she reached out and pierced it, it wouldn’t pop. It would open and allow her in.

  Aric sensed her drawing closer.

  Closer.

  He remembered the night on the train. The first time they felt their skin touch. The first time she had shouted his name into his enveloping mouth. The first time he had brought her to the pinnacle of ecstasy. And she was close enough to share it with him.

  The memory flowed into her and she felt her heart respond. Her face flushed as his hand moved down her legs. They were both too occupied with each other to pay any attention to Marco. But his attention was entirely on them.

  When Aric’s hand found her feet, her back involuntarily arched and she gasped in a breath. Then her face broke into a wide grin and a quick ugh escaped her.

  She locked her eyes onto his.

  “I love you.”

  He smiled, and then finally said it out loud.

  “I love you too.”

  Lucia’s hands were pressed to her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks. Marco’s face was dry as he captured every detail before him. His voice, when he could find it again, was rough.

  “Amore.”

  Some loose shots were all that remained.

  Delphine and the man whose name Marco would definitely commit to memory ter stood nearby. She was taller than him now that her shoes were back in pce, but the man didn’t seem the least bit bothered. Marco had seen enough models balk in the same situation—would insist they not be photographed like that. But this man’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he seemed happier.

  And the way they continued to look at each other—it obviously hadn’t been an act. They kept finding excuses to touch each other. Or perhaps they weren’t even aware they were doing it.

  At one point Delphine leaned forward and whispered something into his ear, and the room filled with deep ughter—his, and then hers. He stretched up and kissed her, and she pulled him in closer.

  It was intimate.

  It was beautiful.

  It was love.

  Marco Belndi captured it all.

  Sunday, 9 September 1984 — On board the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits between Marseille and Avignon

  Delphine slept like the dead as the darkness outside gave way to daylight. Aric closed the heavy curtains to preserve the interior darkness, but continued to peek around their edge to watch the sun as it began to poke its head above the long, straight rows of green leaves. It was vineyards as far as the eye could see from where Aric sat. Occasional low stone walls marked boundaries of some sort—ones that were probably important to the local residents.

  Behind him, he heard Delphine’s steady breathing. He turned and admired her beautiful face as she slept. She was perfect. Even the whirlwind of the st forty-eight hours couldn’t diminish her beauty—neither the one anyone could see with the naked eye nor the one only he could glimpse, the core of her essence.

  He thought back to Friday again. After the photo shoot she’d been like a fountain pouring into its reflecting pool before overflowing. Her mood at the Versace show had been infectious. Professionally bored faces walking the runway had been few and far between.

  “I wish they would smile more,” several spectators had noted afterward. “They’re so much more beautiful when they smile.”

  “But then you’re not looking at the clothes,” others had objected.

  And Delphine Moreau at the Versace after-party had been a creature to behold. Which is exactly what he did the entire evening. Sometimes up close as she walked him around, her arm around his neck, her ughter in his ears, her smile causing his heart to palpitate. At other times from a distance as she talked to other models or brand reps, one animated hand gripping a fluted gss as it swung wildly—endangering anything nearby that wasn’t waterproof—or champagne-proof.

  Saturday had been only slightly less festive. One final show. One final grand reception.

  One final appearance of Delphine Moreau and Rico Stel.

  He tried to stay in the background—to give Delphine the freedom of movement the others had. Delphine had other pns.

  “I want you by my side tonight. I want everyone to remember us this way. I want to remember us this way. When we leave here, we get right on the train. In a few days our dream will end, and all I’ll have to keep me warm at night will be memories.”

  He must not have kept the sadness off his face completely, because she reacted quickly. Her hand came up and rubbed his arm.

  “That’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight I want you to dance with me.”

  He’d smiled at the idea. She’d been teaching him how to dance. In their hotel room. Her in nothing but one of his shirts, her long, smooth legs and arms moving in a way he thought he’d never be able to duplicate.

  A soft knock on the first-css cabin door requested his attention. Aric opened it as quietly as possible. Delphine barely stirred. Aric recognized the head porter’s face but could not remember his name.

  “Du café, monsieur. J’ai pensé que vous aimeriez aussi quelque chose de consistant. On ne voudrait pas qu’elle s’évanouisse en descendant du train, n’est-ce pas?” the middle-aged man said. Coffee, sir. I thought you might also like something more substantial. We wouldn’t want her fainting when she gets off the train, would we?

  “C’est très attentionné. Merci. Je suis désolé de ne pas me souvenir de votre nom,” Aric replied as he opened the small folding table beneath the window. That’s very thoughtful. Thank you. I’m sorry I don’t remember your name.

  “That’s all right, sir. Almost no one remembers my name. It’s Michael.”

  “Thank you, Michael. For the breakfast, and the compliment.”

  “It’s my pleasure, sir.”

  He took a quick look at the sleeping beauty in the lower berth before departing. Delphine’s hair was loose. She still wore the silk blouse and tailored scks she’d boarded the train in. She had curled into a fetal position earlier in the morning—a few minutes before there had been another knock on their door.

  “Contr?le des passeports, monsieur,” the head conductor had said quietly. He gnced at the sleeping woman he’d personally escorted to her accommodation—their accommodation. He knew who she was. Most of France and Italy knew who she was. The man who accompanied her—he didn’t recognize the face. But he recognized the look in their eyes, and even the thought of that possibility for himself had made him blush. Passport control, sir.

  Aric had handed the man two passports—one French, the other American.

  “Merci de vous occuper de ce pour nous. Elle est épuisée,” he said softly. Delphine had settled again, and he hadn’t wanted to wake her. Thank you for taking care of this for us. She’s exhausted.

  Twenty minutes ter, he’d had the documents back in hand.

  “Your French is excellent,” the conductor had said in a whisper as he handed them back.

  Aric gnced at Delphine before replying.

  “I have an excellent teacher.”

  2 Grand Rue, Saint-Christol, Provence-Alpes-C?te d’Azur

  Just before the bend in the road where Grand Rue turned east was a set of wooden doors painted gray. Two sets of double doors, really—the leftmost leading into a small garage with a snted roof, the right one—the one with the metal pte stamped simply 2 mounted in the stone wall next to it—opening onto a modest courtyard.

  At the other end of that courtyard stood Chateau Moreau. Grand Rue was much too narrow to park on, and Delphine had commandeered a space on a nearby side street marked taxis only.

  “You can barely get a taxi in Saint-Christol on a weekday,” she expined after Aric asked if they should drag their bags out of the trunk and back seat of the ancient Peugeot in case it got towed. “I doubt anyone will notice it before we drive it away on Tuesday.”

  She had changed into a simple white linen blouse and dark, fitted jeans. The ballet fts on her feet were so close to her own skin color that Aric had to look twice to convince himself she was wearing anything at all. Her hair was pulled back simply, and the only thing on her face was moisturizer. Aric was wearing his worn fnnel shirt, Levi’s 501s, and a pair of topsiders.

  He marveled at the difference twenty-four hours made—except for when he was praying they’d make it to their destination in one piece. Delphine flew down the narrow Proven?al streets like a banshee was in hot pursuit. She took each turn or bend in the road as if it were there specifically to challenge her, and it was a challenge she accepted. At one point he turned to say, don’t you think you’re going a little fast? But the look on her face—like a racecar driver navigating a crowded track—gave him pause. If it came to it, he could always wrap the vehicle in a yer of indestructible energy. God help whatever they hit.

  It was just past 2:00 p.m. when Delphine opened the robin’s-egg-blue door that led into the kitchen. An L-shaped counter blocked their path. To its left was a closet with sliding doors cd in mirrors. A narrow passage beyond led into the small living room, home to a table with room for four. Positioned in the center of the table top was a mixing bowl covered with a cloth. The faint aroma of yeast made Delphine smile.

  “It’s just me!” Delphine called out. “Anyone home?”

  Silence was the only answer she received.

  It wasn’t a surprise visit. Delphine’s father had left the car at the station for them. She’d given him an approximate arrival time, and they were only an hour past that. For French Rail, that was considered on time.

  Delphine made a quick inventory of the house before returning to the kitchen. She wrote a note on a pad of paper.

  Finally home. Went to the church.

  No expnation was required. Aric knew it wasn’t Mass that made église Saint-Christophe Delphine’s first stop after visiting home.

  It was Sister Cécile.

  “It’s a small church, and a small school,” Delphine expined. “Just five Sisters, and the Mother Superior.”

  “The Mother Superior is Sister Cécile?”

  She nodded as they walked. “She was our teacher from the first day all the way to graduation.”

  Aric had to stop and think about the size of his own graduating css. There had been over a thousand students total, grades nine through twelve.

  Two hundred and fifty per grade?

  Granted, that had been boys and girls. Delphine had graduated from an all-girls school.

  One hundred and twenty-five girls in the graduating cohort of Sommerbridge High School in 1977. More or less.

  Delphine’s graduating css had been ten girls.

  It was quiet as they walked. The streets were deserted, lined with stone walls that would make any noise echo, but would protect the homes on the other side from sound. Sunday had been the only day the steel mill near Aric’s house was quiet. And the train tracks behind it. And while New Engnd was not known for wide avenues, they were at least open.

  But this was where Delphine had grown up. This was the vilge that had produced such a fine example of womanhood. Beautiful and intelligent. Empathic. Loving. Change just one thing about Saint-Christol and what would Delphine have become?

  They arrived after a contemptive walk at the point where Chemin de Ronde and Chemin des égntiers split. On one side was église Saint-Christophe; on the other, the school. Next to the church stood a stone building with steps leading up to a nding and a door painted the same shade of blue as Chateau Moreau. A wrought-iron railing guarded the steps and the nding.

  Delphine pced her foot on the bottom step and her hand on the railing before deliberately proceeding upward. Aric got the sense that she was afraid of what she would find.

  He was right.