The Butterfly and the Violin (40 page)

Sera’s heart warmed just as tears misted her eyes. “Then it meant more than the money to him.”

“Yes. And now, I believe your William hasn’t a job or a family fortune to claim. I’m not sure whether that matters to you, but he sounds remarkably similar to a penniless cellist Adele and I once knew.”

Sera jumped up from the settee. In a flurry, she grabbed up her purse and damp trench coat and apologized, “I’m sorry, Miss Sophie. But I have to go.”

“But you haven’t heard the rest of the story.”

“I know . . . I want to! I need to know what happened to Vladimir. But . . .” Sera looked at the door and back to Sophie. “I need to find William.”

“Yes, dear. That’s quite all right.” Sophie followed her to the door.

“Did he give any indication as to where he was going?”

“He said there was something he wanted to see before he flew back to America. A favorite piece of art?” Sophie winked.

Sera’s heart leapt, and her body with it. She planted an impulsive kiss on the woman’s cheek and sailed out the door as Sophie’s charming laughter carried down the hall after her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

S
era was near to breathless when she walked up the stairs, having run from her taxi into the Musée de Louvre through the rain. It was late on a Friday—nearly closing time—and she worried he’d have already gone. But in the instant she rounded the corner, William was there. She could see him from behind in his usual jeans, his messenger bag slung so casually over his shoulder, his broad back to her.

She stood there with tears in her eyes, looking at the scene. The
Winged Nike of Samothrace
was more beautiful in person. It was the way she’d always pictured it: magnificent and mysterious, free and beautiful as its every angle captured the light bouncing off the lofty cream walls. And it stunned her that while the ethereal sculpture reigned so majestically in the center of its grand portico, she hardly cared. The moment she’d always dreamed about was perfect because she couldn’t take her eyes off the man who stood in its shadow.

She trotted up the stairs until she was standing close enough to reach out and touch his arm. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He slowly turned from the sculpture and connected his blue eyes with hers.

“Sera.”

She didn’t know what to say. She’d thought of possibly a hundred things she wanted to tell him on the way from Sophie’s
apartment. How she was stupid and sorry and could he forgive her for being so hopelessly stubborn?

She wanted him to be who he was, who he’d told her God had called him to be once, before money and expectations got in the way. But oddly, none of that seemed important. Not when he’d said her name so sweetly and was standing before her with a contented smile.

“You’re here.” She smiled back and wiped some of the raindrops from her cheek. “You came all this way?”

“Well, I couldn’t let you be in Paris all alone.” His voice was soft, forgiving. “Could I?”

Though the crowds had thinned, there were other tourists still in the portico, some walking through and stopping to look at the statue while others breezed past the towering sculpture unaffected. A rather hurried older man walked in the space left between them and said, “
Excusez-moi,
” when he passed by and bumped her shoulder on his way down the stairs.

They looked at each other and grinned.

“It’s what I thought I always wanted, to come back to Paris. To be standing right in this very spot one day. To have this exact view. And I always thought if I found Adele’s painting, it would fill the void in my heart. But I wanted everything on my own terms. I didn’t want to wait on God, for His perfect timing. For His guidance . . .” She stood just inches from him. “And strength . . .” A pause, and she inched forward. “And a reason to trust my heart to someone again.”

He nodded, a genuinely tender look on his face. “Me too.”

“I know you didn’t take the money.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“I think I understand why,” she said. “Do you want to tell me?”

“I’ve known all this time I’m not who I’m supposed to be. I haven’t been living the life God has called me to. I couldn’t take
the money,” he admitted, and took a careful step forward, until the tips of his shoes just brushed hers. “Not if it forced me back into that life. And never if I lost my chance to have a new one.”

She smiled, freeing her heart from the burden of the last two years, and allowed a tear to trail down and mix with the rain on her cheek.

“Sera, my beautiful, gifted friend. You saw Omara’s painting as a child, didn’t you? On your last trip to Paris with your father?”

“How did you know?”

“Sophie mentioned that it had been lost after the war, until my grandfather found it a few years later. He sent it to Adele and she kept it all the years of her life. When Sophie said it was left in a gallery in Paris after Adele died, I put the two together. Now it makes more sense. I understand why it was so important to you. I know you’ve been living in the past, just as I have.” He reached up and brushed a tear off her cheek with the edge of his palm. “But I want a redefined future, a real one with the freedom to pursue God fully—and with you in it. Can you forgive me for breaking your trust?”

“Yes—”

“I know I’ve hurt you.” He kept on as if he hadn’t heard her. “That I’ve acted like a fool, and I know what’s between us has just started, so I don’t expect an answer right away . . . I don’t even know if I could move or where I’ll find a job, but . . .” William kept talking, rationalizing his thoughts aloud. “I’m not even sure what I’m trying to ask you . . . except that if it wasn’t for what happened, would you consider—”

“Will?”

He stopped and took a deep breath.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t care what the question is.” She bit her bottom lip. “My answer is yes.”

William’s hands cupped the sides of her cheeks and he brushed
her lips with his, connecting in a way she’d never thought possible. She melted into him, loving the familiarity when his arms wrapped around her. She felt somehow . . . home.

He pulled back from the kiss and for a moment dropped his arms open at his sides. “You realize I have nothing now, right? I have an old Bible and my grandfather’s painting of an Austrian violinist. Beyond that, you’re going to get me. That’s it. Just William.”

She stared up at the sculpture for a moment and smiled.

Paris is the city of love. But this, Lord? This is all I want.

Sera reached out to one of his waiting palms and laced her fingers with his. “Second chances, remember?”

He nodded at the reminder and dropped a kiss to her temple.

“Then she told you, about them. Adele and Vladimir?”

“Yes . . . wait, no! I still haven’t heard what happened to Vladimir!” Sera looked up at
her
William. “I ran out the door to find you.”

“You actually left without hearing the whole story? I’m flattered, Manhattan.”

“You’ll tell me, won’t you?” She brushed a hand over his cheek, feeling the incredible weight of his arms around her as the winged marble statue stood watch over them.

“Do you remember when I told you their love story must have ended more than seventy years ago?”

She nodded.

“Well, I can admit when I’m wrong.” He smiled and turned, taking her hand and walking slowly down the steps of the portico. “Are you ready for the best part?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

April 28, 1950

Paris, France

A
dele?” The young woman spoke directly into her ear, the hint of a smile in her voice.

Adele’s eyes popped open.

She sat in her little music shop, the wonderfully worn old building with the tall, street-facing windows and the sun streaming in to warm the aged walnut floors. She lowered the violin and bow to her lap and turned, spying her assistant just behind her with a mock scold on her face and eyes that were bright even from behind dark-rimmed glasses.

Young Mariette leaned against the baby grand and tapped the toe of her spectator heel against the hardwood.

Adele summoned the courage to ask, “What time is it?”

The bow had touched strings, and Adele had found herself lost in the magic lull of her beloved music. She’d only meant to play for a moment, but what had begun as a few chords between appointments had morphed into a trip of memories . . . Her eyes had simply closed on their own, and her hands? They’d played without knowing.

“It’s nearly noon.”

“Noon?” Adele’s attention was ripped from the music. She
rested the violin across her lap. “It can’t be . . . ,” she uttered as she checked her wristwatch. Sure enough. Ten minutes till. She was going to be late. Again.

Flustered, Adele replaced her violin in its case and began the task of shoving haphazard sheets of music down into her canvas satchel.

“Here. Let me.” Mariette took a stack out of her hands and began evening out the pages. Adele smiled, knowing her assistant’s methodical nature couldn’t stand for paper to be stuffed in a bag when there were at least thirty good seconds that could be used to right them. “I shouldn’t have let you play so long.”

“No,” Adele said, shaking her head. “Mariette, it’s not your fault. A teacher should be on time without her younger but much wiser employee having to constantly check up on her. I don’t know what came over me.”

Mariette looked at her with a softness as warm as the sun outside. “You were there again, weren’t you?”

Adele gave a slight nod. She’d told her assistant just enough for her to know she’d been in Auschwitz, but the rest she’d buried in the recesses of her heart. It was far too soon to talk of such things. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to.

“Yes.”

When Adele played, she always went back to the same place—to Auschwitz. To her chair in the front row of the orchestra, with Omara at her side and Alma Rosé standing in front, leading their group through another one of the Germans’ marches.

“Well. You’re talking to a fellow musician.” Mariette’s shoulders lifted in a shrug as she continued flattening the sheet music. “No explanation necessary. Just go.” She nodded toward the door. “Get your things while I do this.”

“What do I need?” Adele sailed around the small studio, looking for her handbag. She found it discarded by a vase of flowers and stack of books on the sideboard in the entry. She snatched up
the yellow leather purse and after rooting around for a moment plucked out a compact mirror and tube of poppy red lipstick. She set about quickly perking up her appearance.

She pinched her cheeks for color.

After she decided her face was as good as it was going to get in the one-minute window she’d left herself to get ready, she replaced the lipstick and compact back inside her purse.

“Food?”

Mariette brought the satchel that now had a stack of impeccably ordered sheet music inside, right next to the brown paper bag with her lunch, and swung it over her shoulder.

Adele’s hands flew up to her brow. “Hat?”

Mariette shook her head. “Not today.” She untied the pin-dot blue kerchief from round her neck and tossed it in Adele’s direction. “Here.” The light fabric caught the air and danced down to her waiting palms. “Wear this. It brings out your eyes.”

Adele raised the dainty cloth up and, after balancing it over her blond, shoulder-length barrel curls, tied it in a knot atop her head. She turned round to glance in the floor-length mirror against the wall. Black-and-white striped blouse, a springy A-line skirt, and patent red flats. The outfit was Paris-perfect.

“Mariette, I know you don’t have any lessons until tomorrow morning, and I hate to even ask, but do you think you could—”

“Sure.” Mariette winked and turned the kerchief round until the knot was hidden at Adele’s nape. “I’ll take your afternoon lessons.”

Adele grabbed her friend by the shoulders. “Really? Oh! You sweet thing!” She wrapped the girl in a quick embrace.

The smile melted on Mariette’s face and made her freckles dance. “You honestly think I’m going to tell my boss to hurry back from her noon appointment?” She turned and looked out the sun-drenched front windows. “On a Paris day like this? Now scoot,” she ordered, swatting the small of her back to usher her
toward the door. “Get out of here. You don’t want all the good sunlight to go to waste.”