Beautiful Secret Read online

At once, Michel stopped dancing, taking her elbow with his hand. “We go outside to the terrace then, cousine. Some air for you, yes?”

  “Sounds great,” she told him and followed him away from the crowded dance floor.

  * * *

  “It feels so good out here,” Tate said to Michel as they slipped away from the party through the French doors at the back of the Hôtel Moulin-Labotte. Sweaty from dancing and flushed from too much wine, Tate was grateful to cloak herself between the sprawling oaks, amidst a gentle summer breeze.

  The thought of being alone and surrounded by dark woods with Michel both frightened and excited Tate. She found it strange that her feelings for him vacillated so constantly from nervy desire to comfortable friendliness. At some moments, Tate’s attraction to Michel overwhelmed her to the point that she felt she’d die if he didn’t touch her somewhere, anywhere. This strange fire scared her; she’d never before experienced such bare longing. Other times, she wanted to just be next to him, to wrap herself up in his broken English, his forward foreign charm. She desired to laugh with him and share secrets as if they’d been friends for a lifetime.

  Earlier, as they’d traveled away from quaint Revin and deep into the heavily forested landscape of the town of Haybes, Tate had loosened up. The arm that Michel had draped around her shoulders in the Mercedes went from being tempestuous to comfortable, and by the time the two graced the party, Tate found she could be next to Michel and at least breathe with a fair amount of ease.

  Now, standing with Michel outside the rustic venue of Chanson’s birthday party, Tate took the opportunity to observe the lodge all lit up in the dark of evening.

  Situated in the heart of the Ardennais forest, the Hôtel Moulin-Labotte was once a nineteenth-century train station that had been repurposed into a bed and breakfast. At least, that was what Zio had explained as he’d taken her from room to room, spilling history and culture onto Tate—in Italian, as usual. Inside, the Moulin-Labotte had the feel of a grand lodge with heavy wooden beams stretched across high ceilings and stone hearth fireplaces lining its dark papered walls. Tate imagined how lovely a setting the Moulin-Labotte would be at Christmastime with crackling fires and candelabra-lit tables.

  “Does our family have a history with this place?” she asked Michel, staring at the tall mahogany pillars that stood at either side of the back porch, imagining the array of secrets the weathered wood kept sealed beneath its aged surface.

  “My family likes to come to the Moulin-Labotte for occasions, yes,” he told her, sauntering deeper into the forest, his back to her. Tate followed him through the brush, smooth leaves catching against her cheek and twigs crunching under her heels. “The restaurant is very…gastronomique.”

  “You mean gourmet?”

  He sighed. “Like this, but no. The chef cooks the special fruits of the season, whatever is most ripe.” As Michel spoke this last phrase, the p sound lingered, then popped on his lips. He turned and leaned against the outside wall of a wooden gazebo that was planted along the trail, his face only half-lit by the moon, his eyes digging into Tate’s.

  She cleared her throat and stopped walking two steps ahead of where Michel stood watching her. Even in silence, his look spoke volumes of hunger, loud and somehow clear. She trembled, at once both feverishly turned on and uncomfortable.

  “Come, cousine,” Michel held a hand out to her. “I will tell you the legend of Labotte.”

  A legend, she thought. Michel looked stunningly legendary in his jet black suit and crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal sparse waves of hair on his broad chest. She set her purse down on the porch before moving toward him and letting her hand find his. A closed current of craving circled between his fingers and hers.

  “A long time ago,” Michel began, “there was a man who lived with his wife in Vieilles Forges, a town close to here. His name was Labotte, and his job was to build the roofs of houses.” Michel led Tate along onto the trail, walking in the opposite direction of the party. “Labotte was married, but he fell in love with a…” He paused, obviously searching for the right word. “A… How do you say soeur?”

  “His sister?” Tate asked loudly, appalled at the direction Michel’s legend was taking. This subject matter bothered her on a few different levels.

  “No, no,” Michel said, laughing. “Not his sister, Tatiana, a sister of the Church.”

  “Oh, a nun,” Tate said, realizing her mistake and thanking God it was too dark to see the red fingers of a blush she could feel crawling up her cheeks.

  “Yes, a nun,” Michel agreed. “This is the correct word.”

  They continued along the narrow path beyond the gazebo, hand in hand, the earthy scents of moss and wet bark mingling in Tate’s nose, the only sounds the chirp of crickets and Michel’s voice rough and steady in her ears.

  “So, Labotte and his sister—”

  “The nun,” Tate interrupted.

  “Yes. Her name is Elodie. They have a rendezvous every time Labotte comes to work on the roof of the abbey at Molhain. Their love affair, it is, how to say it…? Passionate, yes?”

  “Okay,” Tatiana said, wondering where the story was going, and wondering, also, where this path was leading them.

  “The affair lasts for several months, and Elodie becomes with child.”

  “Oh man,” Tate said. “Bet that didn’t go over too well with the Reverend Mother.”

  Michel looked strangely at her, betraying his lack of fluency in English.

  “I mean she probably got into trouble with the Church.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “It was a scandal for Elodie. The abbey turned her out, but she keeps the secret of Labotte. Elodie never revealed whose child she was carrying in her womb.”

  “Did he leave his wife?” Tate asked.

  Michel snorted. “No, Tatiana. A man in these days did not do such frivolous things.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Elodie gives up the child. She finds work as a maid at Château de Hierges, a grand castle on the Belgian border. The lovers continue to meet there in secret, sharing hidden moments in forgotten chambers and empty wine cellars. Until one day, when Labotte visits Elodie, the Château is attacked by revolutionaries. This wing, where they are making love, it is destroyed. Their bodies burn in the fire.”

  Tate was, once again, shocked and appalled. “What an awful story.”

  “Yes, it is, but it is legend here. You see.” Michel raised his hand in front of him and gestured toward an opening in the trees. Tate’s eyes began to detect the distinct outline of a vast building. Turrets. A stone wall.

  “Oh my God,” she said, her words coming out on a breath of disbelief. “Is that—”

  “Château de Hierges, Tatiana,” Michel said. “What is left of it.”

  The full moon seemed to sit just atop a high tower on the far eastern wing of the Château, lighting the medieval structure enough for her to take it in from afar. “I’ve never seen a real castle before,” she told him, thinking how different this looked from the Disney version she’d toured as a child. “It’s really beautiful.”

  “People say that the spirits of Labotte and his Elodie are here still,” Michel told her, rubbing his thumb back and forth along the inside of Tate’s wrist. She quivered, not so much at the idea that ghostly lovers could be traveling among them as at his touch. “They say that the two are happy phantoms, making love in the forest at Château de Hierges, free in death to love each other as they never could in life.”

  Michel’s forbidden love story felt close to home in Tate’s mind, and when she glanced from the castle back at him, she couldn’t help but feel naked inside his stare.

  She looked away.

  “Shall we walk back?” he asked her.

  The quiet in his voice told her he wanted her to say no, wanted her to tell him she’d rather spend more time alone in the moonlit backdrop of a medieval castle, holding his hand.

  “They’re probably missing us by now,” she
said.

  He nodded, turning back toward the path.

  They walked in silence, their pinky fingers latched, until they reached the little gazebo.

  It was there that Tate lost herself. Taking her hand from his, she walked decisively to the rickety wooden structure and then turned to face him, daring him with her eyes. She leaned back, resting the back of her head on the wood and stared directly at Michel, wordlessly inviting him in, begging his comprehension. Her chest heaved with a breathlessness she could no longer hide. Night sounds danced around them on heavy air.

  Michel said nothing as he approached her but pinned his eyes to her face, making a study of it, it seemed. When the space between them finally vanished, Tate closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of him, the salty sweat and musk she so badly wanted to taste.

  His lips crashed into her with tidal force then, ripping away her need for virtue, all at once satisfying and deepening her hunger. She responded, arching into him, kissing him back with almost as much fervor. Tate’s fingers dug into his curls, playing among their soft tufts as she explored his mouth with her own. When her hands found his face, she ran them along the rough stubble of his cheeks, his chin, relishing the burn the bristles left on her own skin.

  “Tatiana,” he sighed into her mouth, sending a shockwave of heat to her center. She answered him not with words but with her body, bringing one leg up and wrapping it around him, encouraging his hand to land on her back. With her raised leg, she pulled him closer still—close enough that she could feel every solid curve of him.

  Michel’s lips danced along her neck, and Tate let her head hang back, aware of only sensation, of pleasure. As his fingers brushed across her cleavage, a song rang out from beyond the thick trees, pulling the two from their seemingly timeless interlude back to the reality of the present.

  Joyful voices singing. Cheering. The tinny tone of party horns.

  Tate froze, the tune of her sins invading her fantasy. Ruefully, she let her leg slide slowly down Michel’s calf until her foot reached the mossy ground, then placed her open palms flat on his hard chest.

  She exhaled deeply and looked down. “We should get back inside.”

  Michel took her chin into his hand and lifted her face, forcing her to look up at him. He smiled playfully, then slowly kissed her again, more softly this time, his tongue just barely teasing hers. Michel sucked gently at her upper lip, then closed his mouth into a sweet, hot pucker over Tate’s. When he pulled his face from hers, his smile was hazy.

  “We turn back to the party now, Tatiana?” He asked in a voice that lingered between carefulness and teasing. The tone drove her crazy. “Have you had enough air to cool off a little bit?”

  She shook her head in silent laughter at his boldness. Enough air? She didn’t know how she would ever cool down after that last kiss.

  “Yes, Michel. Plenty of air for one night,” Tate said, sidestepping around his broad body. As an afterthought, she spun back to face him. Reaching out to finger the lapel of his suit jacket, she stared into his eyes, two wide oceans of blue whose waters beckoned her.

  Tonight, she’d skimmed the surface of this sea of temptation, allowing an awakening of the sensuality she’d forgotten she possessed. She longed to dive right in, to step past the waves of indecision that flowed over her feet and chance the depths beyond. Could her conscience handle such a feat? What if she ended up drowning in an undertow of remorse?

  Standing in the dim light, Tate found herself wondering if Michel had considered these questions. He didn’t seem to have a problem playing along her lips—lips that technically belonged to another man. Maybe he was as wrapped up as she was, tangled in a web of feelings he couldn’t get his head around. Unable to gather his senses before his flesh took hold of the decision.

  Then again, maybe this was just the French way—to not think twice about the pleasures destiny provides, to just be in the moment.

  Frustration kindled in her, and as Tate pondered Michel’s intentions, his hand once again dusted the side of her cheek. She couldn’t help but smile.

  “Good night, Michel,” Tate said to him softly, the flavor of his lips an aftertaste on her tongue. She turned and began heading slowly back toward the veranda of the Moulin-Labotte with the sound of his footsteps behind her.

  Tate decided that tonight’s interlude had been a fateful gift, a gift she would never regret—as long as she rewrapped it and promised to never open it again.

  In two days’ time, she would be leaving for Calabria with Zia and Colette, leaving Michel and the allure of his eyes behind. She could control herself around him for the two days that were left—or at least avoid being alone with him.

  What felt like a heavy stone took its foothold in the back of Tate’s throat. Forcing herself to swallow it, she imagined the weight of good-bye landing solidly in her belly, then pushed away the thought with every ounce of righteousness she could muster. It was time for this flirtation—or whatever it was—to come to an end. If she put a stop to it now, she could leave for Italy with no regrets, guilt free—for the most part.

  This beautiful night would become a treasured memory, and she would go on to experience the faces and places of her grandmother’s story. That was what she’d traveled halfway across the world for: the chance to bring an ember of Nana back to life.

  Wasn’t it?

  Before climbing the back steps of the Moulin-Labotte, Tate glanced once more over her shoulder at Michel. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on her.

  She grinned at him then, satisfied with the secret they shared, with the decision she’d come to. At the base of the mahogany pillars, Tate bent to retrieve the purse she’d left when she and Michel had first ventured outside.

  She couldn’t help herself from wondering if Michel was staring at her long, tanned legs.

  Suddenly, Tate felt the vibration of her phone buzzing inside her purse. Unlocking the screen, Tate noticed a series of texts from Suri.

  Have fun tonight!

  Remember…BOUNDARIES!!!

  I want dirt though!

  Tate bit her lip. Tonight, lines hadn’t simply been crossed. She and Michel had all but crossed them out. But somehow, despite the fact that she’d cheated on her husband and made out with her second cousin, she didn’t feel dirty.

  She felt redeemed.

  And beautiful.

  And alive.

  And the fact that she didn’t want to share it with anyone, not even Suri, had nothing to do with shame or remorse. It had everything to do with the memory of Michel’s lips. That memory was all hers, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  Chapter 13

  Maria

  It was early September, and the sticky heat was making everyone cranky. I was an overripe tomato, sweaty beneath the relentless Nicotera sun. My feet no longer fit inside my shoes, and my fingers were like thick, plump cigars. The sisters had lent me some clothing, but I could hardly stand to wear it, could hardly stand to wear anything. It was just too hot.

  “Oh!” I cried, one afternoon as hot liquid gushed down my legs, drenching my underwear and feet, leaving a small puddle on the courtyard stones.

  “Jesu, Maria, is the baby coming?”

  “I think so, Luisa.”

  I could feel the paleness descend over my face, a materialization of spongy white fear. Wincing, I couldn’t help but double over, the pain slicing through my middle, halving me.

  “Breathe, Maria.” Luisa’s hands landed on my shoulders, and from far away I heard her call for someone to get Sister Diana.

  As the fierceness faded from my midsection, I was once again able to stand, to speak.

  “No,” I whispered. “I don’t want Sister Diana.”

  Luisa looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “You’ll need help, Maria. You can’t just deliver the baby on your—”

  “No,” I said, and pushed past her and the other onlookers, waddling toward the refuge of my small dormitory room with a protesting Luisa at my
heels.

  Up until that first contraction, I’d hardly thought of what it would be like to give birth. I knew there would be pain. I’d tended to more than one birthing animal on our farm, and the way of childbirth was not a secret to me. But until that moment, I hadn’t really thought about how it would be for me. In fact, since my arrival at Santa Genoveffa, I’d managed to keep my mind mostly off of the reason I was there. With Luisa’s help, I’d managed to focus more on our budding friendship, her jokes and anecdotes. In a way, I’d reveled in the last delights of girlhood, knowing in the back of my mind that my days of youth were lifting slowly away like fog from the sea in late morning.

  When I lost my waters, my mind had no choice but to open up to the story my body was trying to tell. In mere hours, I would be a mother. In mere hours, they would take away my child.

  Luisa and I slipped into my bedroom and slammed the door.

  “Maria, it will be okay. Maybe they will give you something to make you sleep through all of it. You won’t feel anything.”

  I finally looked at her, ready to beg her to help me escape, to get out of this lifeless place before it was too late, as if getting away from the convent could somehow change my situation. But before I could say anything, another wave crashed through me, sending me to my knees. Panting, heaving, I clutched at my center for fear that my insides might squeeze right out of me.

  From on my knees on the cold hard floor, I first heard the swish of their robes. Air burst from my lungs in heaves and gasps as I failed dismally at holding my breath, illogically hoping they’d pass by my room and leave me to my own ruin.

  Suddenly, black and white whisked in. Sister Benjamin and Sister Mary Claire silently hoisted me off the floor, their cold, wrinkled hands under my sweaty armpits. I found myself wishing for the relative gentleness of Sister Diana as these two harsher nuns brought me to my feet and out into the hallway.

  “I’m coming with—” Luisa started.

  A sharp crack echoed as one of the sisters whacked her hard across the face, cutting her words off before she could finish. I watched helplessly as they shoved Luisa into her own room and locked the door. A river of muffled French rushed from the crack beneath her door, following me until it stilled into the distance between us.