Remember (17 page)

Chapter Sixteen

It was time.

Ashley knew it the moment she saw Landon walk toward her that afternoon. She had made a decision to tell him the truth, to share with him the secrets she’d planned to keep forever. And if he never again looked at her with longing and love after tonight, so be it. At least she wouldn’t be resigned to living in fear the rest of her life.

During the barbecue, with a dozen conversations in full swing, Ashley slipped next to her mother and squeezed in beside her.

“Can you take Cole with you when we’re done?” She kept her voice low. The last thing she needed was for Luke to hear her. He’d probably make some comment about how often Ashley pawned Cole off on their parents.

“Sure.” Her mom dabbed a napkin to her mouth and turned so she could see Ashley. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Ashley’s answer was quick. She didn’t want her mother to get the wrong idea. There was nothing serious between her and Landon, and after tonight—well, after tonight there might not be anything between them at all. “Landon and I are going to stay a little later. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” A grin played on the corners of her mother’s mouth.

“Yes, Mother, that’s all.” Ashley uttered a short laugh. “He’s not proposing to me or anything. We’re just friends, remember?”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and discreetly directed her gaze toward Landon. Ashley did the same. He sat tall and strong at the next table, talking to Cole and helping the boy spread ketchup across his hamburger bun. “Good friends, I’d say.”

“Fine.” Ashley sighed. No matter how far she and Landon had come, she still hated this part, this Baxter magnifying glass, this chance for everyone to see them together and guess what might be happening. “The point is, we need to talk. Without Cole.”

Her mother moved back from the table a few inches and put her hand on Ashley’s knee. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” She gave Ashley an apologetic smile. “I like Landon very much.”

“I know.” Resignation sounded in Ashley’s tone. “Me too.”

“Of course I’ll take Cole.” Her mother slid back into position at the table.

Ashley returned to her seat and told Landon about her parents’ offer. “Can you stay awhile? Here at the lake, I mean?”

“Sure.” Landon’s brow rose just enough to show his surprise. “You sound serious.”

“I . . . I have something to tell you.”

“Uh-oh.” Landon tossed her a grin that didn’t quite hide the concern in his eyes. “That can’t be good.”

“No.” Ashley pulled away from his gaze and picked at the watermelon chunks on her plate. “Probably not.”

The hour passed quickly, with more conversations and, after dinner, a marshmallow roast around the barbecue pit. Luke had brought his guitar, and the group sang along as he played a series of their family’s favorite songs by artists such as Garth Brooks, the Eagles, George Strait, and Skip Ewing.

Ashley and Landon sat away from the others, their chairs side by side. Cole was at Luke’s knee, singing along as much as he could, his off-key voice punctuating Luke’s clear, strong one.

Partway through the brief concert, Landon leaned closer. “What’s with you and Luke?”

“He doesn’t like me.” Ashley’s whispered answer was the first thing she could think of. Usually she’d make some remark about how the two of them didn’t see eye to eye or how he’d become a judgmental, self-righteous conservative. But maybe those statements were only cover-ups, ways to hide the pain. Because the rift between them hurt more than she cared to admit.

Luke played on as Landon knit his brows. He kept his voice low so none of the others closer to the firepit could hear him. “Of course he likes you. The two of you were best buddies as kids.”

Ashley felt the beginning of tears, and she blinked them back. “Not after Paris.”

Landon said nothing. Instead, he settled back in his chair and returned his attention to Luke. But this time—in a way that soothed the painful cracks in her heart—he reached out and quietly took her hand in his.

She savored the feel of his fingers against hers. His touch felt so good she wanted to cry. Even when no one else understood, Landon did. Why was she realizing that only now, when it was too late? When he was ready to move on with life and leave her behind? And why was she holding his hand, anyway—letting him get to her the way she’d always vowed he never would?

There was no point, no matter what Landon felt for her now. After tonight there’d be no holding hands, no shared closeness. Once he knew who she really was, he’d pack his bags for New York City and never look back.

When Luke finished playing, the group gradually headed for their cars. Ashley and Landon joined in, making promises to get together with Erin and Sam sometime soon and bidding good-bye to Cole and Kari and the others.

Finally they were alone. As the last of her family’s cars drove away, Landon turned and eased her to him. They hugged for a long moment. “All night you’ve been in knots, Ashley.” He drew back enough to see her face. “What is it? What’s eating you?”

The sun had set, and only a few faint streaks of light remained in the sky. Except for the glow from the fire and the light of the moon, the beach was dark. Ashley bit the inside of her lip. “Let’s sit.”

The night felt cool after the day of solid sunshine, and the breeze off the lake had picked up a little. They left their chairs off to the side, and Landon spread a blanket out near the barbecue pit. There they sat together, their shoulders touching. After a minute of silence, Ashley drew a deep breath. There was no easy way to begin. She pulled her knees up to her chest and tilted her face so she could see him. “I want to tell you about Paris.”

“Is that what this is about?” Compassion flooded his tone, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “No, Ashley.” She could feel him shaking his head. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to.” She stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the dying embers. “I thought I could bury the past. Just move on like it never happened.” She paused. “But I can’t.”

“No.” His voice mixed with the breeze and played softly in her mind. “Life doesn’t work that way.”

“You were right the other night.” She was quiet, desperate to avoid what was ahead but still determined to go on. “The only way to bring down the walls is to talk about what happened.”

With gentle hands he framed her face. “But you’re so afraid, Ashley. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Yes.” She mouthed the word but no sound came out.

“I don’t know what your feelings are for me, Ash—whether they’ve grown stronger lately.” He searched her face and tenderly kissed her brow. “But nothing you could tell me would change the way I feel about you.”

Ashley nodded.
He thinks that now.
“I wanted to do only one thing in Paris—”

Landon was quiet, giving her the space to talk. He kept his arm around her but shifted some, drawing up his good leg.

“Paint.” She gazed up at the sky. “I wanted to live life on my own and paint.” With that, the story began to tumble from her heart. “Before I left, I made arrangements to work at an art gallery. . . .”

The gallery had been located in the heart of Montmartre, a part of Paris known for its artists. One of Ashley’s instructors in Indiana had worked out the details.

As her departure for Paris neared, Ashley packed more than her clothes. She brought a second suitcase full of her four best paintings.

The day after she arrived in Montmartre, she dressed in a simple black skirt and jacket, wrapped up some art pieces, and reported for duty. “When the gallery director saw my work, she patted my arm and told me to keep my projects off the premises.” Ashley rolled her eyes. “Like they were trash or something! Like they’d bring down the quality of the gallery if she so much as looked at them.”

Landon winced.

“Yeah.” A single sad laugh came from Ashley. “That’s how I felt.”

Ashley continued the story. She’d been told that most galleries allowed aspiring artists to work in one of their back rooms or studios. But clearly they wanted Ashley answering phones and greeting the English-speaking tourists rather than painting. When she wasn’t working, the manager wanted her off the property.

But that changed the first weekend, when the gallery opened an art show featuring one of the area’s most exciting new artists, Jean-Claude Pierre. The man was a modern-day Impressionist with a groundswell of interest in his work. People were already talking about him as though he were a legend.

Ashley had seen his work and his photograph. Both left her breathless. She was thrilled just for the chance to meet him.

Of course she was able to attend only because she was on the clock. Her job was to walk the floor looking for English-speaking customers and answering whatever questions she could. Someone else would handle the local clientele.

She didn’t mind. She would have walked on the ceiling for a chance to meet Jean-Claude Pierre.

The gallery had hired a classical ensemble and catered in champagne and
foie gras
for the event. The evening was about to get under way when a man in his late thirties breezed through the door. Ashley took one look at him and felt the force of his presence like a physical blow. In that moment, he seemed everything she’d ever wanted in a man—dark looks, mystery, and an unbelievable gift of placing on canvas that which grew within him.

There was only one problem. On his left hand he wore a wedding ring. And attached to his arm was a petite blonde, about his age. Even from across the room, Ashley could see that Jean-Claude was bored with the woman, but there was no question, she was his wife. Her diamond ring lit up the gallery.

Jean-Claude had been there only a few moments when he spotted Ashley. He was chatting with his companion, gesturing to the manager about the display, when suddenly his eyes met Ashley’s from across the room. For the briefest instant, he paused in midsentence and simply stared at her. Then the corners of his lips rose slightly, and he gave her a polite nod.

Ashley did the same and turned away. Her cheeks burned from the fact that he’d caught her staring, watching him with a look that could not possibly have hidden the attraction she felt for him.

The rest of the evening passed without the two of them speaking. Jean-Claude and his wife made their rounds, visiting with all the right people and graciously speaking with buyers who had written checks and were taking home pieces of his work that night. At ten o’clock the guests began to leave, and from the corner of her eye Ashley watched Jean-Claude kiss his wife on the cheek. Then he motioned to a driver outside and bid his wife good night.

Ten minutes later, Ashley was adding the evening’s receipts when he came up beside her. “You are new, yes?”

She spun around and found herself trapped in his gaze.
Stop, Ashley. Walk away. He’s married.
Everything her parents had taught her screamed at her to be polite but distant. Nothing good could come from falling for a married man. Instead, she locked eyes with him and smiled. “Yes. From the States.”

“I knew it.” His voice was soft, sensual, with a touch of humor. “I like American girls,” he said. “So bold, yet so . . . unspoiled. I hope you are happy here.” He took her hand with a grace and elegance Ashley had only dreamed of and lifted it to his lips. The tips of his fingers played lightly on her palm as he left a velvet kiss near her wrist.

The gallery manager was in the back office, and they were alone on the floor. Ashley didn’t know what to say. Jean-Claude’s English wasn’t perfect, and neither was her French. But there was no mistaking his intentions when he brought his face near hers, his voice a whisper. “You must come with me,
chérie.
I want to show you my city.”

* * *

Ashley leaned back, staring at the blanket of stars that had spread across the sky. “If only I’d told him no.”

“You went out with him?” Landon’s tone was curious, nothing more.

“Yes.” She glanced at Landon and saw he was listening intently, but with open eyes. If the story was making him jealous or angry, he wasn’t showing it.

Give him time,
Ashley thought.
This is only the beginning.

She drew a calming breath and narrowed her eyes as the memories returned once more. “I didn’t get home until two in the morning. . . .”

Jean-Claude had taken her to a dozen famous spots that night, places where they shared coffee and conversation and finally cognac. Ashley and her art friends drank on occasion back in Bloomington. But the effect had been nothing like French cognac warming her insides in the presence of a man as exciting as Jean-Claude Pierre.

When he took her back to her small rented flat, he walked her to the door and kissed her—first slowly, then with more passion, until she was crazy with desire. She was about to invite him inside when he kissed her ear and whispered, “Tomorrow,
chérie?”

Ashley was helpless to say anything but what he wanted to hear. “Yes . . . tomorrow.”

And so began a routine. After spending the days apart, they would meet at the gallery and share the evening. On their fifth night, Ashley studied Jean-Claude over a glass of wine. “You’re married.”

It wasn’t a question or an accusation, merely an observation. A fact Ashley wanted him to know she was aware of.

“Yes.” He raised one shoulder. “My Gabrielle, she does not like the nightlife so much.”

Ashley wanted to ask Jean-Claude if his wife liked his spending time with another woman—a woman half her age. When the words wouldn’t come, Jean-Claude reached across the table and lifted her chin. “France is different from the States.”

“Different?”

“Men”—he painted invisible strokes in the air, searching for the right words—“men are allowed to . . . how do you say it? . . . express themselves.” He took her hands in his. “Passion is not a bad thing.” He smiled, and Ashley was struck by the toll it took on her heart. “How else could I paint if I could not express myself? My wife, she understands this. She wants me to do good work.”