In Spain he would have found a church some where, a little chapel, a shack, and he would have had the same thoughts, the same excruciating pain too, but in the simplicity of his life there, there would have been comfort. Here, there was nothing, except strangers in a vast cathedral and cold gray stone, not unlike the cold gray stone of the mansion he now shared with his dying father. And as he stood up slowly, he knew he would not stay long in the States. He wanted to get back to Spain before much longer. He was needed there. He wasn't needed in New York, except by lawyers and bankers, and he cared nothing for that. He never had. If anything, he cared less now than he had years before. He had never become the “respectable man” his father-in-law had dreamed of. He smiled at the thought, as he remembered his in-laws, they were dead now too. Everyone was. At thirty-five, Charles Delauney felt as though he had already lived ten lifetimes.

He stood for a long time, looking at the statue of the Madonna and child…remembering them…and then he walked slowly back the way he had come, feeling worse than he had before, instead of better. He wanted to feel close to Andre again, wanted to feel him close to him, the delicious warmth of his flesh, the softness of his cheek, the tiny hand that had always held his so tightly.

Charles was blinded by tears as he walked slowly back toward the main door of the cathedral. The leg seemed to pain him more, and the wind was whistling through the church, as something happened to him which hadn't happened in a long time. But it used to happen frequently. Sometimes even on the battlefield, he imagined he saw her.

He saw her in the distance now, swathed in furs, walking past him, like a ghost, going toward something he couldn't see, unable to see him. He stood for a long moment, watching her, aching for her again, as he hadn't in so long, a memory come to life, as he stared, and then he realized it was no ghost, it was a woman who looked just like her. She was tall and thin and serious, and very beautiful. She was wearing a somber black dress covered by a sable coat that almost swept the floor and seemed to frame her face with softness. A hat tried to conceal all but one eye, but even with so little of her visible, it was as though he sensed her, the way she moved, the way she looked, the way she quietly took off one black glove, and then sank to her knees at another small altar. She was as graceful as she had ever been, as long and lean, except now she seemed so much thinner. She covered her face with graceful hands, and for a long time she seemed to be praying. He knew why. They had both come here for the same reason. It was Marielle, he realized as he stared at her, unable to believe it.

It seemed an eternity before she turned and looked at him, but when she did, it was obvious that she hadn't seen him. She lit four candles, and slipped some money into the collection box, and then she stood and stared at the altar again, and there were tears on her cheeks too. And then, head bowed, she pulled the fur coat more tightly around her. She began to walk slowly between the pews, as though her whole body ached, and her soul with it. She was only inches from him, when he gently reached out a hand and stopped her. She looked startled when he did, and she glanced up at him with a look of astonishment, as though she had been wakened from a distant dream. But as she looked into his eyes, she gasped and stared at him. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes brimmed with the tears she had shed at the altar.

“Oh my God…” It couldn't be. But it was. She hadn't seen him in almost seven years. It was impossible to believe it.

He touched her hand without making a sound, and as he did, without hesitating she melted into him, without a thought, without a word, and he put his arms around her. It seemed right that they had both come here, that they should be together today, and they clung to each other in the church like two drowning people. It was a long time before she pulled away, and looked up at him. He looked older than he had before, more battle worn, more weary in many ways. There were small scars on his face, a bad one she couldn't see on his arm, the leg of course, and gray in his hair, and yet as she looked at him, she felt eighteen, and her heart pounded as it had when she was a girl in Paris. She had known for years that there was a part of her that would never release Charles Delauney. She had known that for a long time, and she had come to live with it. It was something she had to accept, like pain, like the leg he had to drag at times, or that irked him so much when the weather was cold or damp. It was a pain like the others she had learned to carry. “I don't know what to say,” she smiled sadly at him, wiping her own tears away, “after all this time, 'how are you?' seems so stupid.” It did, but what else was there to say? She had heard echoes of him from time to time, but nothing in many years now. She had known for some time that his father was ill. Her own parents had died, within months of each other, before she'd come home from Europe. But Charles knew that.

“You look incredible.” He could only stare at her. At thirty, she was even more beautiful than she'd been at eighteen when they were married. It was as though her promise had been fulfilled, and yet her eyes were still so sad. It hurt him just to see them. “Are you all right?” He meant it in a thousand ways, and as she always had before, she understood him. Eventually, they had become like one dance, one song, one movement. He would have half a thought and she could finish it without saying a word. They just knew each other so well. It was as though they were the identical halves of a single person. But no more, they were two halves now… or were they whole? He wondered as he watched her. She was expensively dressed, and the sable coat was incredible. The hat had been done for her by Lily Dache, and made quite an effect the way she wore it. She was certainly more sophisticated than she had been as a young girl. Like this, she might have frightened him then, he smiled to himself, or perhaps not appealed to him in the same way. But she didn't frighten him now, she tore at his heart, as she had for years. Why had she been so damn stubborn the last time he saw her?

“You look so serious, Marielle.” His eyes seemed to bore into hers, wanting the answers to a thousand questions.

She tried to smile, and turned away before she looked at him again. “It's a difficult day…for both of us…” If it were otherwise, they wouldn't have been there. It still seemed remarkable to her that they were standing here together, after all these years, in Saint Patrick's Cathedral. “Have you come home for good?” She was curious about him. He looked bigger and stronger than he had before, more powerful, and as though he would tolerate even less nonsense. And difficult as it was to believe, his nerves seemed even closer to the surface.

He shook his head, wishing they could slip into a pew and talk all day. “I don't think I could stand it here. I've been back for three weeks, and I'm already itching to go back to Spain.”

“Spain?” She raised an eyebrow. His life seemed so integrally interwoven with Paris and their memories there; it was hard to imagine him somewhere else now.

“The war there. I've been there for two years.”

She nodded then. It made perfect sense. “I wondered once if you were there.” It was his kind of battle. “Somehow I had a feeling you would go.” She'd been right, and he had no reason not to. Nothing to lose. Nothing to gain. Nothing to stay home for.

“And you?” He looked pointedly at her. It was odd asking each other for news here, and yet they each wanted to know what the other had been doing.

It was a long moment before she spoke, and then she answered him very softly. “I'm married.”

He nodded, trying not to look as though she had caused him pain, although in truth she had run a dagger into a wound that had long festered. “Anyone I know?” It was unlikely, as he had lived abroad for the last seventeen years, but she looked as though she were married to at least an Astor.

“I don't know.” But she knew that her husband had been a friend of his father's. Her husband was twenty-five years her senior. “Malcolm Patterson.” There was no joy in her eyes as she said his name, no pride, and suddenly the hat concealed her expression from him completely. He sensed something he didn't like, and she looked anything but happy. So this was what she'd done with the past seven years. He didn't look impressed. He looked annoyed. Very much so.

“I know the name,” Charles said coolly, and then waited to look her in the eye again. “And are you happy?” Was it worth refusing to come back to him? It was obvious to him that it wasn't.

She wasn't sure what to say to him. There were things about her marriage that she cherished. Malcolm had promised to take care of her, at a time in her life when she needed that desperately and he had done that. He had never let her down. He was always kind. But she hadn't realized at first how cool he would be, how aloof, and how busy. And yet, in some ways, he was the perfect husband. Polite, intelligent, chivalrous, charming. But he was not Charles…he was not the flame and passion of her youth…he wasn't the face she dreamt of when she hovered between life and death… or the name she called…and they both knew he never would be. “I'm at peace, Charles. That means a great deal.” There had been no peace with Charles…there was only joy, and excitement, and love, and passion…and eventually despair. As great as the joy had been, so had the sorrow.

“I saw you… in Spain…when I was shot…” he said almost dreamily.

…And I saw you every night for years…she wanted to tell him, but knew she couldn't. Instead, she only smiled. “We all have ghosts, Charles.” Some were just more painful than others.

“Is that it then? Are we ghosts? Nothing more?”

“Maybe.” It had taken her two years in a sanatorium to understand that it was over, to live with the pain, to be able to go on after what had happened. She couldn't jeopardize that now, not even for him, especially not for him. She couldn't allow herself to step back, no matter how much she thought she still loved him. She touched his hand and then his cheek, and he bent to kiss her, but she turned her head just a fraction. He kissed her cheek, just near her lips, and she closed her eyes for a long moment as he held her.

“I love you… I will always love you…” His eyes were blazing with the passion she knew so well, as he said it. It was not the passion born of desire, but of believing and wanting and caring so much it almost kills you. Charles cared about everything that way, and she knew that one day it would kill him. She had barely survived his flame, and now she knew that she could no longer risk it. He had his scars, and she had her own, no less fierce because they hadn't been won in battle.

“I love you too,” she whispered, knowing that she shouldn't say those words to him. But it was a whisper from the past, a salute to all that had been and had died with Andre.

“Will you see me before I leave for Spain again?” It was so like him to pressure her, to make her feel responsible for him once he went into battle. She smiled at him, but she shook her head this time.

“I can't, Charles. I'm married.”

“Does he know about me?” Slowly, with a look of agony, she shook her head in answer.

“No, he doesn't. He thinks I went a little wild one summer on the Grand Tour, and got a little out of hand, as I think my father described it to his friends. That's what my father said years ago, something about a little romance.' And that's all Malcolm knows. He has never allowed me to discuss it. Malcolm has no idea we were ever married.” It was so like her father to tell people that. He had never told people of her life with Charles and their staying in Europe had made it easier for him. All he cared about were appearances, and reputation. He had lied to protect her, and told everyone she had stayed in Europe to study. He had to save face at all costs, and he had wanted to save Marielle from her “terrible mistake” when she married Charles Delauney. And now, Marielle's husband still believed the lie, because she let him.

Charles couldn't believe she had never told her husband the truth. They had told each other everything. They had shared all their secrets. But at eighteen, what was there to hide? At thirty, it was different.

“He knows none of it, Charles. Why tell him?” Why tell him she had spent twenty-six months in a sanatorium, wanting to die…that she had tried to slash her wrists…take pills…drown herself in the bathtub…why tell him any of that? Charles knew, he had paid the bills…and she had recovered.