“I’m weak," he says, his voice filled with pain. Then he takes my face in his hands, his fingers tangling in my hair and he leans down and kisses me. His lips press mine apart, and the brief wetness as his tongue touches mine makes something surge inside of me. Without knowing I've done so, I slip my arms around his neck, pressing my body against him, and for a moment, the kiss intensifies and a jolt of desire spreads through me from my chest to my belly. I'm feeling his desire as well and it's so intense, I can barely breathe. Then he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against mine.
"I never wanted you to ever have to know," he whispers. "I thought this time I could let you go for good, but I can't. I justcan't."
Finally, he lets go of me and turns, walking to the pathway, scrambling up through the rocks to the field that leads back to the cottage.
I follow him but stop at the top of the path.
"Who am I to you?"
He stops as if considering. Finally, he steps closer still and touches my cheek with the backs of his fingers.
"We were lovers."
Disbelief floods through me, my knees feeling suddenly weak.
"Lovers?" I say, shaking my head. "I'd know if we were lovers…"
"No, you lost everything."
My mind's numb. I shake my head and step away from him, then I turn and start back towards the pathway to the cottage.
He follows me.
"Eve," he says when he reaches my side. "You don't have to fear me. I'd never hurt you."
"This is too much," I say and shake my head, holding my hand up to stop him.
He grabs my arm and when he touches me, my anxiety and fear dissipates. I just stand there, waiting, not feeling anything.
"Eve," he says. "I know you don't remember me, but we were lovers. I have photographs to prove it." He reaches into a pocket and removes a wallet. Inside are two small photographs. One is of me as a young girl, waiting in the wings before a recital, my hair up in a bun, my eyes unfocused. The other is a picture of me standing with his arms around me, my forehead pressed against his. It looks real enough, but I'm no fool.
"That's a manipulation for all I know."
"It's real," he says, sighing. "It was taken by a security camera in the warehouse where we lived for a while. Before the bombing."
"Look," I say. "I don't remember you. You could be anyone with a picture of me that's been manipulated telling me you and I were lovers. How can I know it's true if I have no memory? Even if you prove to me it's true, I don't remember!"
"Your foster parents will tell you. And when they do, and when you know the truth, you can come to me. My cottage is up on the cliff about a mile down towards Rockport Bay. 21 Oceanside Drive." He's silent for a moment. "You loved me, Eve. It was the last thing you said to me before the bomb."
Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there like a zombie, not knowing what to believe.
Chapter 28
“The greatest happiness of life is our conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.”
Victor Hugo
THE COTTAGE IS FANTASTIC, WITH HUGE WINDOWS on three sides and a large wrap-around cedar deck. I peer inside the window and the space is rustic, with comfortable couches and a large flagstone fireplace. The door is open and so I knock and step inside.
"Michel?"
There's no answer so I enter and go up the stairs to the living room. In the corner of the room sits a huge Steinway piano - a monster. Concert grand. I walk over and touch a few keys. Sheets of music litter the stand - some of it old and curling - Some works by Chopin.
He walks in and stands in the doorway, watching me.
“You play?” I say.
“Yes.”