soul mates. He seemed confused by it,” Russell says, watching my reaction.
“I’m part angel now,” I point out. “Maybe if I was still entirely human, then it would be different.”
“But, that stil l doesn’t account for you takin’ this mission,” he says.
“I wish I knew, Russell, but I’m in the dark just as much as you are,” I reply.
“I just…if I did somethin’ to you…somethin’ that made you have to get away…I’m sorry,” Russell says, his voice sounding strained.
“Don’t…we don’t know what happened. I’m sure it’s not you—it couldn’t be you,” I say, feeling awful.
“I don’t remember anythin’ ‘bout Paradise…I remember the life before this one,” he says.
“You do?” I ask, seein g the lightning outside illuminate his face. He’s starting to look a little better, not as swollen as he was earlier.
“Uh huh, it was sorta tragic…we were French,” he says with a grin.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, smiling at his remark. “Don’t tell me that we went to the guillotine together,” I add, playing along.
“Naw… I ’m not sure what happened to you …I was a soldier…I swear, I ’ve spent most of my lives fightin’ ,” he says with a sad twist of his lips. “I was young— twenty-one and World War O ne was eruptin’ in Europe. It was the summer of nineteen fourteen . I’d been in love with you sinc e the first time I saw you . Y ou were a few years younger than me . You r brother, Miche l, introduced us when I came home with him for a holiday from University the year before ,” he says distantly, his slow smile at the memory brings lightness to his face. “The firs t time I saw you , y ou were sittin’ in the music room of you r house, playin’ the piano for a room full of you r b eaus…you were aw ful, the worst Bach I had ever heard,” h e grins , his brown eyes dancing.
“Nice to know that nothing has changed,” I reply with a smirk.
“ Naw, nothin’ has changed, ‘cuz it was all an act,” he smiles , shaking his head. “Y ou could play flawlessly and when they all left and y ou thought you were alone, you p layed like you wrote the piece you rself.”
“That doe s kind of sound like me,” I say , smiling . “ Did you tell me I should join a band?” I ask, knowing what a smart ass he can be .
“Standin’ in the doorway of the room, I a sked you how you managed to enchant the very air around you with just the soft touch of you r fingers,” he says as the lightning illuminates one side of his face. “But, t o be honest, it wasn’t just the music…it was seein’ you that took my breath away.”
“So , what happened?” I ask , not being able to help myself.
“Well, w hen I went back to school, I l ived for the letters you sent me,” he admits , glancing at me with a touch of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “ I married you in the spring of nineteen fourteen . It was a smaller wedding than you should’ve had…y ou were the daughter of a promine nt lawyer in you r town,” he says , “but everythin’ was bein’ hoarded at that time so it was hard to get anythin’.”
“What wa s your name?” I ask , trying to picture the life he’s describing.
“Nicolas …Pierpont and you were Simone… Vassar ,” he says, the names rolling off his tongue as if a true Frenchman spoke them . “Y ou were…L ord, I can’t even describe you ‘ cuz there aren ’t words for you r kind of beauty. I guess you’ r e just gonna have to look in the mirror. Y ou were a little different…smaller…with hair the color of chocolate and you r eyes were dark…smoky…but you look the same somehow — same face. ”
“Simone,” I whisper the name, closing my eyes and trying to s ee if I can remember being her.
“ We d idn’t have enough time together before I ha d to leave you ,” he says , the look of pain on his face makes me aware that he’s seeing it al l again .
“Did you die …in the war?” I ask when he does n’t
“I’m part angel now,” I point out. “Maybe if I was still entirely human, then it would be different.”
“But, that stil l doesn’t account for you takin’ this mission,” he says.
“I wish I knew, Russell, but I’m in the dark just as much as you are,” I reply.
“I just…if I did somethin’ to you…somethin’ that made you have to get away…I’m sorry,” Russell says, his voice sounding strained.
“Don’t…we don’t know what happened. I’m sure it’s not you—it couldn’t be you,” I say, feeling awful.
“I don’t remember anythin’ ‘bout Paradise…I remember the life before this one,” he says.
“You do?” I ask, seein g the lightning outside illuminate his face. He’s starting to look a little better, not as swollen as he was earlier.
“Uh huh, it was sorta tragic…we were French,” he says with a grin.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, smiling at his remark. “Don’t tell me that we went to the guillotine together,” I add, playing along.
“Naw… I ’m not sure what happened to you …I was a soldier…I swear, I ’ve spent most of my lives fightin’ ,” he says with a sad twist of his lips. “I was young— twenty-one and World War O ne was eruptin’ in Europe. It was the summer of nineteen fourteen . I’d been in love with you sinc e the first time I saw you . Y ou were a few years younger than me . You r brother, Miche l, introduced us when I came home with him for a holiday from University the year before ,” he says distantly, his slow smile at the memory brings lightness to his face. “The firs t time I saw you , y ou were sittin’ in the music room of you r house, playin’ the piano for a room full of you r b eaus…you were aw ful, the worst Bach I had ever heard,” h e grins , his brown eyes dancing.
“Nice to know that nothing has changed,” I reply with a smirk.
“ Naw, nothin’ has changed, ‘cuz it was all an act,” he smiles , shaking his head. “Y ou could play flawlessly and when they all left and y ou thought you were alone, you p layed like you wrote the piece you rself.”
“That doe s kind of sound like me,” I say , smiling . “ Did you tell me I should join a band?” I ask, knowing what a smart ass he can be .
“Standin’ in the doorway of the room, I a sked you how you managed to enchant the very air around you with just the soft touch of you r fingers,” he says as the lightning illuminates one side of his face. “But, t o be honest, it wasn’t just the music…it was seein’ you that took my breath away.”
“So , what happened?” I ask , not being able to help myself.
“Well, w hen I went back to school, I l ived for the letters you sent me,” he admits , glancing at me with a touch of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “ I married you in the spring of nineteen fourteen . It was a smaller wedding than you should’ve had…y ou were the daughter of a promine nt lawyer in you r town,” he says , “but everythin’ was bein’ hoarded at that time so it was hard to get anythin’.”
“What wa s your name?” I ask , trying to picture the life he’s describing.
“Nicolas …Pierpont and you were Simone… Vassar ,” he says, the names rolling off his tongue as if a true Frenchman spoke them . “Y ou were…L ord, I can’t even describe you ‘ cuz there aren ’t words for you r kind of beauty. I guess you’ r e just gonna have to look in the mirror. Y ou were a little different…smaller…with hair the color of chocolate and you r eyes were dark…smoky…but you look the same somehow — same face. ”
“Simone,” I whisper the name, closing my eyes and trying to s ee if I can remember being her.
“ We d idn’t have enough time together before I ha d to leave you ,” he says , the look of pain on his face makes me aware that he’s seeing it al l again .
“Did you die …in the war?” I ask when he does n’t
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