Midnight Train to Paris (21 page)

Blinking my tear-stained lashes, I feel my heart simultaneously
overflow with love for Samuel and breaks with sorrow over the possible loss of
my sister.

“I don’t want to live another moment without you either,” I
say to him.

Samuel cups my chin in his hands and presses his lips to
mine. Losing myself in the comfort of his safe embrace, in the passion of his
warm, sweet kiss, I place my left hand over his heart. Within seconds, a heated
spark ignites underneath the emerald. Warmth builds around my hand, spreading
over Samuel’s chest, but we don’t break our kiss.

And if it were up to me, I would stay here, wrapped in his
arms forever.

December 31, 1937

Paris, France

The view of the passing scenery from inside our toasty
Orient Express cabin has changed from the frost-covered countryside to the
unbelievable, enchanting sights of 1930s Paris.

Elegant French apartment buildings line the
streets, and sophisticated French women stroll down the narrow cobblestone
sidewalks. Their slim figures are adorned with dark-colored vintage coats that
stretch to their calves, and their short, wavy haircuts are covered with
dainty, old-fashioned hats.

But as we near the train station, some of the narrow
rues
we pass are not so enchanting. A cluster of shivering families lined up
outside a shabby old building catches my eye. My heart breaks for them as I
realize they must be waiting in line for bread. And then I remember, we are in
the thirties, in the middle of the depression that has plagued France for most
of the decade…and which will ultimately take France and its people straight
into World War II, and into the Nazi occupation of France.

Before I have time to ponder the tragic events
of history—which for Samuel and me are now the
future—
Rosie’s excited
voice travels into our sleeping compartment.

“We’ll be there in two minutes,” she says, and I
can tell by the way she is squeezing that cherry-red suitcase of hers and
bopping from side to side that Rosie Delaney has never been more excited in all
her life.

The wounds on her face have faded to mere
scratches, and despite the horror she lived through only one week ago, her
stunning sapphire eyes are still sparkling brightly with hope. Rosie is a
vision of 1930s elegance and style, but even more so, she is a brave survivor
with a kind heart and an incredible will to live.

I am honored to have gotten the chance to know
her ... and even more so, to have helped in saving her life.

My feet carry me to her, and we hug one last
time. We don’t speak, but the way we hang onto each other after this wild storm
has swept through and taken so much from us, says it all.

Before I’m ready to let go, this luxurious old train slows
to a stop.

Rosie pulls away from me, squeezing my hands one final time
before she skips down the corridor, down the stairs, and out onto the platform,
searching for her man.

Hand in hand, Samuel and I follow closely behind. Just as we
step onto the platform, a light snow begins to flutter down from the wintry
Paris sky…and there, through the sparkling white flakes, stands my grandfather.

Dressed impeccably in his crisp navy-blue
uniform, Jacques shoots Rosie a smile so warm, it could melt the thick layer of
snow collecting beside us on the tracks. The two lovers break into a sprint,
meeting underneath the big round clock, which at this exact moment reads
thirty-seven minutes past the hour.

Jacques pulls Rosie into his arms, spinning her around and
showering her sweet face with kisses. Tears stream down Rosie’s cheeks as
Jacques brushes the hair out of her eyes, holds her face in his hands, and
pulls her into another long, adoring kiss.

As Samuel and I stand underneath the flurry of
snow in the middle of this bustling Parisian train station, the tender,
emotional moment playing out before us leaves no question in my mind that
this
was how it was always supposed to happen.

Rosie and Jacques were meant to be together, and
whatever is to happen after this moment
will
lead to a better future…hopefully,
for all of us.

Finally, the two lovebirds surface for air, and Rosie turns,
motioning for us to come meet Jacques.

As I come face to face with my
young
grandfather, I
am immediately struck by how much he resembles Isla—the violet specks in his
eyes, the chestnut color of his hair, the boldness of his smile.

“Jacques, meet Jillian and Samuel Kelly, the couple who
saved my life,” Rosie says in French.

Jacques takes not one but both of my hands in his. As he
gazes down at me, his eyes fill with tears of gratitude, and so do mine.

“Thank you, Jillian. Thank you for saving my Rosie,” Jacques
says, squeezing my hands. Then he turns to Samuel. “And Samuel, thank you. You
have no idea…” His voice cracks as he brings his gaze back to mine, continuing
to squeeze my hands.

Suddenly, beneath the emerald that still shines brightly on
my left ring finger, I feel a spark of energy. It pools around my hand, around
our
hands, growing stronger and more powerful until all I can see is Jacques,
blinking back at me with love, pride, and appreciation.

He nods at me, letting me know that he feels it too.

And as quickly as it swooped in, the heat surrounding our
hands flies away, and Jacques lets go.

Then, grinning his charming grin, my young, dapper
grandfather turns to Rosie and gets down on one knee.

Rosie lifts her hand to her heart, furiously blinking back
the fresh tears springing to her eyes.

Jacques pulls a tiny red velvet box from his uniform pocket,
then raises it to Rosie.

“Rosie, my sweet, my angel. I never want to spend another
day on this earth without you by my side. Will you marry me?”

Jacques flips the box open, and tucked inside, all shiny and
new, is the gorgeous emerald ring that Samuel placed on my finger when we first
stepped onto the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express train in 2012.

My gaze shoots down to my left hand, only to find—as I
expected—that the ring is gone.

Rosie accepts Jacques’ proposal, and as he takes off her
dainty white glove and slips the emerald onto her ring finger, I turn to
Samuel, knowing in my heart that this is it.

This
is our moment.

Samuel grasps my hands, pulling me closer to him. He knows
too.

The sounds of the crowds bustling past us on
this snowy platform, of Rosie and Jacques kissing and laughing beside us, of
the giant clock ticking overhead, fade to only a whisper of chilly air brushing
past my cheeks.

The final noise that breaks through this quiet
pillow of air is the blast of the train whistle as the Orient Express chugs
faster and faster at our backs.

Swirls of shimmering snowflakes mix with the
emerald in Samuel’s loving gaze as we hold onto each other.

Come with me,
I plead with my eyes.
Please,
Samuel. Stay with me.

Suddenly a force of energy surges beneath
our feet, and the snow, the emerald, the train, Samuel—all of it disappears in
a flash of blinding darkness.

I don’t feel Samuel’s hands any longer. I don’t
feel his presence by my side.

It is Isla who is here with me now, her shining
violet eyes radiating through the blackness.

“Jilly! Come on!” Isla calls impatiently, her
voice young and naïve, like a little girl who hasn’t a care in the world.
“Grandpa Jacques and Grandma Rosie are here. Hurry up!”

January 1…

Paris, France

A loud whistle shoots through my ears, startling me from a
deep, dreamless sleep. I blink my eyes open, but it’s difficult to focus on the
passing scenery because everything is moving so quickly.

A slow glance around my surroundings reveals a
luxurious train cabin, a little black carry-on bag, and a folded newspaper
tucked in my lap. Confused as to what I am doing alone on this fancy train, I
lift my gaze back to the rolling images outside the steamy train window.

At first, the glare of the morning sun blocks my
vision, but soon, the unmistakable—and
breathtaking
—sights of Paris come
into focus. Rows upon rows of lovely French apartment buildings pass by, their
black iron balconies filled with frosty, empty flower boxes, waiting for spring
to arrive. A woman dressed in a black pea coat and a beautiful lavender scarf
strolls down the chilly Parisian boulevard, smoking a cigarette and talking on
her cell phone. Miniature cars and fast scooters buzz through stoplights;
charming cafés and
boulangeries
dot the sidewalks. Even in the winter,
this gorgeous city is bursting with life.

A sudden and distinct feeling of relief washes
over me. I made it to Paris.
Finally.

But where did I travel from? And why do I
feel as if the voyage I’ve just taken was the longest of my life?

Stifling the pressing questions that are popping
up every second, I realize that the modern sights whizzing past the train
window seem oddly out of place to me…but I’m not quite sure why. Wondering
why I feel so utterly confused, I lift up the newspaper hoping that it will
give me a little more clarity as to what I am doing in the magnificent City of
Light.

The date at the top of
Le Figaro
catches
my eye immediately:
January 1, 2013.

It’s my twenty-ninth birthday…and
Isla’s.

Just as a picture is forming in my mind—a
picture of Isla and me, blowing out the candles on our thirteenth birthday
cake, surrounded by family and friends who look only vaguely familiar—the train
rolls to a stop, and the conductor announces our arrival.

“Paris, Gare de l’Est.”

 Tucking the newspaper under my arm, I grab my
little rolling suitcase and follow the line of passengers down the elegant
corridor. Just as I am about to step off the train, a gloved hand lands on my
arm.

“
Mademoiselle Chambord?
” It’s the
conductor, dressed in a royal-blue uniform trimmed in gold. He smiles warmly at
me as he hands me an envelope. “You left your lifetime pass to the Orient
Express in your sleeping compartment,” he says in French. “Please don’t
ever
lose this, Mademoiselle. It is irreplaceable.”

A vague memory of a
different
Orient
Express conductor handing me this same lifetime pass flashes through my mind.
But as quickly as the vision shoots through my brain, it is gone.

“
Merci, Monsieur
,” I tell the kind
conductor before I tuck the pass and the newspaper into the front pocket of my
suitcase and step off the train.

The crisp winter air brushes past my cheeks as
my feet hit the platform. Travelers bustle around me, but I stand still, taking
it all in. The rolling suitcases, the modern clothing, the cell phones. I glance
to my left and catch the time on the giant ticking clock overhead.

It is 9:37
A.M.

Isla’s time of birth.

Just as I am thinking about how bizarre that is, a whiff of
familiar perfume drifts past my nose.

I turn, knowing exactly who that perfume belongs to.

“
Isla.
”

The minute her name passes through my lips, the minute I see
her shining violet eyes, her silky chestnut hair, her high cheekbones and long,
curvy lashes, I remember.

I remember
everything.

Dropping my suitcase, I run to my beautiful twin sister,
wrapping her up in my arms.

“Jilly,” she says. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, Isla. You have no idea.”

I pull back to get a better look at the sister I thought I’d
lost forever, the sister I traveled so far to save, and am surprised to see
that she doesn’t have a single bruise or scratch on that beautiful pale skin of
hers.

And something else is different about her. She is still just
as stunningly beautiful as she always was, but the shape of her face has
changed slightly—it is more of a heart shape, friendlier, sweeter. She is
wearing less make-up than she usually does—with only a pale pink lip gloss
lining her lips and a light coat of mascara brushing her lashes.

I run a hand down her long, wavy hair and look deep into her
striking violet eyes—
those
haven’t changed a bit.

“Isla, you’re here. You’re
alive
,” I whisper. “How?”

A knowing expression passes over her delicate features as
tears rim her eyelids. “You changed everything, Jilly.
Everything.
”

Isla takes my hand and places it over her abdomen, and my
tears match hers the minute I feel the growing baby bump and the tiny kick
beneath my hand.

“You saved us, Jilly. Me—
and
the baby,” Isla says. “I
knew you were there with me the whole time. I felt you—the way we’ve always
been able to feel each other. I knew you would figure out a way to save me. And
a few times—in the nursery, in the woods, and in the castle—I actually saw you.
But that last time, just as you were going for Hélène, something happened—a
strange flash, then everything went dark. When I woke up, I was in this
beautiful Parisian apartment, pregnant, and engaged to Christophe.” Isla
gestures to three people chatting over by the escalator.

A handsome man with prominent dark eyes and wavy dark brown
hair turns and smiles warmly at Isla, then at me. I recognize him as the man
who painted that seductive portrait of Isla—
Christophe Mercier.

A cute, older couple stands next to Christophe, waving and
grinning at me. I focus in on them, noticing how the woman’s heart-shaped face
looks
exactly
like Isla’s. She even has specks of violet in her bright
blue eyes. The man’s smile is kind, fun-loving, and sweet, and as he gazes at
Isla and me, pride fills his eyes.

I squeeze Isla’s hand, wondering if I should trust the gut
instinct that is telling me—beyond all reason—
those
are my parents.

I wave and smile back at them, and just as I am preparing to
ask my twin a million and one questions, a burst of new, vivid memories flood
into my consciousness. The mother who plagued our original childhood with
nothing but trauma and heartbreak is now barely even a distant recollection.
The father who left us when we were only little girls has vanished.

In their place are the two loving, wonderful people who are
now walking in my direction.

Leaning into my ear, Isla whispers, “No one else remembers
the way it happened the
first
time around. I can barely even remember
myself. It’s all new now, Jilly. You changed our entire past.” Then, just
before they reach us, she nudges me in the side. “Just go with the flow, okay?
The
new
memories will come to you, just like they did for me.”

I smile at my beautiful, vibrant sister, overcome with
gratitude that we have all been given a second chance at life…and most of
all, that I didn’t lose her.

“Jillian, sweetie, happy birthday!” my mom says as she pulls
me into her petite frame. Wrapped in her loving, motherly embrace, I breathe in
my mom’s sweet, flowery scent, and just like Isla said they would, a flood of
new memories comes rushing in.

I remember my mom—who I know now is named
Marion
—strolling
down the Seine while Isla and I skipped along at her side, two little girls
having a ball growing up in Paris with their kind, elegant French mother.

More happy images speckle my mind as my mom kisses me
lightly on the forehead. “Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, realizing how amazing it
feels to say those words.

Next comes my dad—the tall, burly American who fell in love
with the petite, sophisticated French woman so many years ago and has never
looked back. He leans in, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Only one more year
until the big 3-0, Jilly Bean,” he says with a chuckle.

“Don’t remind me, Andrew!” our mom says, slapping him on the
arm. “That only means
we’re
getting old!”

“See what you’re in for, Christophe?” Dad says, giving Christophe
a friendly nudge. “A lifetime of making your wife feel better about her age.
I’ve found it’s best to just nod and smile most of the time.”

Christophe laughs before pulling me in for a hug. “It’s nice
to have you back in Paris, Jillian,” he says in a thick accent. “Isla really
missed you.”

Isla shoots me a wink as she rubs her firm belly.

“I missed her too,” I say.

Feeling immeasurably blessed as I gaze around at this new,
loving family of mine, I realize that I am still missing the most important
person—
Samuel.

The last time I saw him was at this very train station, when
snowflakes were falling from the sky and Rosie and Jacques were in the middle
of their emotional, heart-warming reunion…in
1937
.

But where is Samuel now?

A stab of panic soars through my chest as I comb the
bustling platform, searching for the rugged, handsome face and the penetrating
emerald eyes of the man I
cannot
and
will not
live without.

Isla’s hand wraps around mine. “Jilly, what is it?”

“Samuel,” I whisper, praying Isla won’t tell me
that in this new version of our past, where we grew up in Paris, and
not
in
Washington, D.C., that Samuel and I never even crossed paths.

The corners of Isla’s glossy pink lips turn up
into a grin as she nods toward the large ticking clock just behind my head.

And when I flip around, there he is.

Samuel’s dark five o’clock shadow and his full,
sexy grin lure me straight to him.

When we meet underneath the clock in this modern
day version of the train station we stood in only seventy-five-years and a few
moments ago, Samuel swoops me into his arms and pummels me with kisses.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” I
whisper in Samuel’s ear as I revel in the feeling of his strong hands wrapped
tightly around my waist, his warm breath on my cheek, his lips finding mine
over and over again.

“I promised you I would never leave you, Jill,”
he says. “Do you actually think a time-traveling train would stop me?”

A relieved giggle passes through my lips as
Samuel weaves his fingers into mine and turns to face my family.

“Now if that wasn’t the kiss to end all train
station kisses, I don’t know what was!” my dad says with a hearty laugh.

Mom slaps him again on the arm, then raises a
flirty brow. “I think we’ve had our fair share of passionate train station
kisses over the years, haven’t we, honey?”

Dad wraps his arm around Mom’s teeny waist and
kisses her on the cheek. “Of course we have. I just don’t want to make the kids
jealous, you know?”

“I don’t think
any
of you can top Grandma Rosie and Grandpa
Jacques,” Isla says. “Even at ninety-five years old, those two can really put
on a show.”

My mom’s pretty blue-violet eyes crinkle as she
laughs. “Speaking of Grandma Rosie and Grandpa Jacques, they’re waiting for us
with breakfast back at our apartment. You know how Grandpa likes his
pain au
chocolat.
He won’t be able to wait much longer, so we better get going.”

As we take off through the train station
together, Isla leans over my shoulder once more.

“Grandma Rosie and Grandpa Jacques are mom’s parents.
First they had the twins, our Aunt Madeleine and Uncle Georges. Ten years
later, they had mom.”

“And they’re ninety-five years old now?” I
whisper back. “Meaning Grandpa Jacques never went off to World War II?”