In conversation and in bed, there was an openness, a complete trust, that she’d never known before Jean-Christian. It scared her, yes, but it would scare her so much more to lose whatever was growing between them. That said, there were so many details and decisions that would require their attention if they intended to make their relationship last forever.
They still needed to come clean with étienne and Kate, though, when she considered Kate’s personality, she felt strongly that her best friend would come around. Kate wanted for Libitz to be as happily settled as she—and to be sisters-in-law with her best friend? There was a sweetness to the notion that appealed to Libitz as it occurred to her. She’d not only be Noelle’s godmother but her aunt too. Family, bound to Kate’s child through both God and marriage.
There was the matter of where they lived: Jean-Christian in Philadelphia, near his siblings and gallery, and Libitz in New York, near her parents and gallery. Luckily Philadelphia and New York were only a two-hour ride away, but she wrinkled her nose as she applied her makeup in the bathroom mirror. She didn’t like the idea of a long-distance relationship with Jean-Christian, even if the distance wasn’t terrible. Would she consider moving to Philadelphia to be closer to him? Would it be forward to even mention it?
They were different people, to be sure: both raised in comfort, but Jean-Christian’s wealth was stratospheric compared with hers, and their religions were, as they’d observed, different. Would that become an issue if they stayed together?
But as she closed up her makeup pouch and walked back into the hotel room to pull on some black linen shorts and a black-and-white striped silk shell, her own words returned to her: It’s not a predetermined thing like your blood type or eye color. It’s a choice. It’s a choice to love someone and be faithful to them and do the work. We’re all capable of that.
And that’s really all that mattered when contemplating forever, wasn’t it? Nothing was guaranteed if they stayed together. There would be good times and hard times, bad and easy. They could have all the money in the world but lose a child. They could discover, as life went on, that their interests diverged. They could fall out of love. But at every upset, every intersection, they could take each other’s hand and choose to do the work. Together. And if he was the person with whom she wanted to do that work? Then he was the man for her. No matter what.
As she slipped into black high-heeled sandals, the door to their room opened, and there he was: a little color in his cheeks, his green eyes sparkling with tenderness and promise, his lips tilted up into a smile just because he was looking at her.
I love you, she thought. I’m going to love you forever.
He crossed the room quickly and cupped her cheeks, kissing her gently. “Good rest?”
She nodded. “Thanks for the note.”
“Didn’t want you to think I’d run off.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that,” she answered, smiling up at him.
His eyes flared with heat. “What makes you trust me like you do?”
“You’re my person,” she said simply. “On Wednesday, at your hotel, you told me that whether I liked it or not, I belonged to you.”
He nodded.
“And you belong to me,” she said. “That’s just the way it is.”
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and she closed her eyes, letting herself be held by him, letting her words surround them, letting them be the truth that they wanted and needed.
When he finally drew away, his eyes were warm and his smile blinding. “Are you ready to find out about C.T., my darling Elsa?”
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her out the door.
***
“Madame Comtois, pouvez-vous m’entendre?”
Her caregiver, a young nurse named Lizette, smiled up at them from where she crouched beside Madame Comtois’ wheelchair.
“Her listen is…not, hm, so good,” she said in heavily accented English. “Madame?”
Slowly, so slowly Libitz could see the immense effort it took, Sylvia Comtois lifted her head, the scattered snow-white curls bobbing as she tried to look up. “Simone?”
“Non, madame,” said Lizette in French. “C’est moi. Lizette.” She stood up and turned to Libitz and Jean-Christian. “The name of her sister is Simone. She, ah, she die two year ago.”
Libitz reached for Jean-Christian’s hand. “Maybe we should go?”
He sighed, giving her a pained look. “Let me try.”
Kneeling down on the floor beside Madame Comtois’ chair, he took her weathered, wrinkled, delicate hand in his and kissed it. “Madame Comtois, je suis Jean-Christian Rousseau.”
“J-Jean-Christian?” she repeated, lifting her head just a little to look into his eyes. “Je vous connais?”
“Non, madame.”
“She ask, ah, if she know him,” whispered Lizette, leaning closer to Libitz.
“Où est Simone?”
“Elle dort maintenant,” he answered softly, gently petting her hand in his.
“He says zat, hm, her sister is sleep…ah, sleeping, right now.”
Libitz nodded. “Thank you.”
“Madame,” said Jean-Christian, his voice warm and smooth as honey in the sun. “Vous souvenez-vous de la jeune fille juive?”