I thank the gods that I’ve never fallen for someone the way he has for Kate. But though I applaud my good sense in managing my love life, something in me feels almost jealous of the deepness of feeling Vincent has for her. Besides the fierce loyalty I feel for Vincent and my kindred, I’ve never felt that much emotion for anyone. And secretly, I’m glad Kate’s no longer around because something in me fears that I, too, would have become more attached.
I don’t know what to do for my friend, so I just make sure I’m as present as possible. Not like he notices that I, or anyone else, is around. But I want to be there in case he ever decides he needs me.
The only thing that breaks the fog of sadness hanging over La Maison is Charles’s erratic behavior. He disappears for long periods of time, and even his twin doesn’t know what he’s up to.
So Charlotte and I trail him and discover that he’s stalking a human. For hours every day, following around this woman who turns out to be the mother of the child who died in the boat accident. The one he couldn’t save. He watches where she goes, and slips into her building to leave anonymous flowers and gifts in front of her door.
His sense of guilt outweighs his self-control, and though Charlotte, Ambrose, and I each speak to him individually—trying to talk some sense into him—he’s sliding down a slippery slope and about to hurtle face-first into danger.
The last straw for Charlotte is when Charles attends the child’s funeral. She tells JB. After JB puts him on probation, Charles flips out. He yells at everyone that he’s had enough—he wants out. And then he takes off. We search for him the next few days, but we can’t locate him, even with the help of the rest of Paris’s kindred.
It’s about then that Charlotte overhears Kate’s sister and grandmother at a café and discovers that Kate’s apparently taking the breakup as hard as Vincent is, and her family is worried.
She sits across from me on my green couch in my studio, sipping carefully at the steaming mug of tea I’ve made for her. “Georgia even mentioned returning to New York,” she sums up.
Why does my heart skip a beat when she says that? Kate a whole ocean away? That’ll just about kill Vincent, I think. And then I realize that it’s not just concern for my friend that I’m feeling. I don’t want Kate to go. I want her to come back to us, even if it means that she’ll always be at a distance from me—friends, no more than that, I remind myself. But I do care about her. I even . . . I push the next thought aside and say, “We’ve got to tell Vincent.”
“Well, that’s what I initially thought. But what can he actually do about it?” she says, concern furrowing her forehead.
“He’s got to do something,” I reply. “The only reason he’s not fighting to keep her is that he has this misguided view that she’s better off without him. Which may, in fact, be true. But he has a right to know that she’s suffering as much as he is.”
We leave my studio and zigzag down a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, past medieval wooden beam-and-plaster buildings that are so old that they’re leaning. Charlotte slips her arm through mine and we walk companionably toward the river.
“Where do you think he could be?” Charlotte asks me after moments of silence. I know automatically who she’s referring to.
“I think Charles is here. In Paris. Hiding out. Needing some time to himself.”
Charlotte nods. “I wish he had never met Madeleine,” she mutters. “But he hasn’t fallen in love since her, and it’s been sixty years. I know it’s stupid to think there’s only one right boy or girl out there for each of us, but doesn’t it seem . . .” She trails off, leaving her question unasked.
“You still love Ambrose,” I say, knowing the answer.
Charlotte bites her lip. Her emerald-green eyes match the topiary labyrinths in the H?tel de Sens’s garden. As we pass, Charlotte looks out over the medieval palace’s manicured hedges, and sighs.
“Have you ever been in love, Jules? I mean, I know you haven’t since I met you. But was there someone before?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. And as I say it, Kate’s face comes to mind—her beautiful rose-petal pale skin and deep-as-lakes aquamarine eyes. I push the image from my mind and reach over to ruffle Charlotte’s cropped blond hair, then put my arm around her shoulder for a side hug. “No, Char, I’ve never been in love.”
Vincent opens his bedroom door, and Charlotte pauses before carefully wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him a supportive hug. “Vincent, you can’t hole up in your room like this. You have to eat. You look awful.”
She’s right. Vincent’s face is drawn. He looks haggard. In the last two weeks he has lost weight, and there are dark circles under his eyes.