Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [101]
“It probably can’t happen all at once,” he said. “I thought maybe it could. You know what it’s like when you go over and over something in your mind, till it’s all worked out and seems so clear and obvious? And then you mention it to someone who hasn’t been thinking about it at all, and you can’t understand why they don’t accept it instantly.”
“Oh, I’ve been thinking about it,” Lydie said. Her heart raced. Michael had been working this out in his mind? And what had he decided?
“I’m sorry for what I did to you,” he said. “I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry for … Anne Dumas.”
Even the sound of her name on his lips made Lydie feel cold. But she saw such regret in his eyes that she forgave him. “I know you’re sorry,” she said. “I can tell.”
“You can?”
“Yes. Your voice is shaking. And you look a little afraid—as if you think I’m going to hit you.”
“You should hit me,” Michael said. “But that’s not what I’m afraid of.” He made a move toward her, as if he wanted to touch her, but he held back. “I’m afraid I hurt you so badly you won’t have me back.”
I’ll have you back, Lydie wanted to say but couldn’t quite get the words out. He had hurt her badly. She felt not at all confused, but she wasn’t quite ready to start over. She needed time to catch up, to do some of the thinking Michael had done, and, now that she had forgiven him, to forgive herself a little. Instead she said, “It wasn’t all your fault. I know life with me hasn’t been a trip to the beach.”
“That’s exactly what it’s been,” Michael said. Now he did touch her. First he put his hand on her shoulder, and she looked him straight in the eye, daring him to hug her. He did. “A trip to the beach. Some days are clear and fine, and then you have a tropical storm.”
“A hurricane,” Lydie said.
“A whopper,” Michael said. “Hurricane Gloria.”
And wasn’t it interesting, that he would name this personal, romantic hurricane “Gloria”? “Gloria,” to Lydie, sounded so hopeful, exuberant, even exultant. She wondered: was this the eye of the storm? Or had it moved out to sea, blown itself out over water?
“It’s been a little wild,” she said.
“A little,” Michael said, watching her.
“Would you mind if we lie down for a minute?” Lydie asked. “I’m feeling a bit light-headed.”
“We wouldn’t want you to faint,” Michael said. They walked toward their bedroom. Lydie did feel slightly dizzy, as it occurred to her, unbelievably, that in all the times she had walked with Michael into their Paris bedroom, this was the happiest she had felt.
“Much better,” she said, lying back on the pillow. Her hair must have fanned out above her head because Michael was touching it, tucking it behind her ears. His touch sent a tingle down her spine. She closed her eyes, and the next second he was kissing her.
“Are you still light-headed?” he whispered.
“Much more so,” she whispered back.
They lay there holding each other. Lydie kept her eyes closed some of the time. When she opened them, there was Michael, watching her. They touched each other’s necks, wrists, hair. She stroked his back, feeling the rough texture of his cotton shirt. Something kept them from taking off their clothes. She felt content, and so did Michael, to just lie still, next to each other. It was perfect, really.
After a long time, when it had grown dark and the pastel lights of the tour boats shimmered along their walls, Michael hitched himself up on his elbows. “Time to go?” he asked.
“I guess so,” Lydie said. It was true that she loved him but wasn’t ready for him to move back home. That it was his home she had no doubt. But she wanted to catch up with her feelings of love—they had come on so strong and suddenly after all that had happened.
“Is there something you want to ask me?” Michael asked.
Lydie considered. “Everything. But nothing in particular right now.”
“Maybe I should have said, ‘Is there anything you want to ask me to?’ ”
She grinned. “The ball,” she said.
He regarded her, saying nothing, waiting for her to go on.
“Will you come with me?” Lydie asked.