CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

Stéphane.

Stéphane de Fonblanque.

That was his name.

Actually, it was

Stéphane de Vallier de Fonblanque, duc de Beauville,

if you wanted to get technical about it. He never had been; in fact, the whole nobility thing embarrassed him. He used to roll his eyes every time she’d mock bow before him and ask if he had a ring he wanted her to kiss.

Funny how she remembered that long, unwieldy name, even after all those years.

She sighed with wistfulness at the thought. Talk about a

Sliding Doors

moment—one of those small, seemingly insignificant moments in time that completely changed the trajectory of one’s life. For Gwyneth Paltrow, missing a subway train had completely altered her life’s direction.

Maybe missing that trip to France when Diana was twenty-two had been

her

moment. The moment when everything veered away from the path she was meant to be on, the one of ultimate happiness and satisfaction. Maybe she’d made a mistake.

After far too much wine, Diana tottered off to bed, lost in her memories. She pulled down the fluffy comforter of the much-too-big king she’d shared with Evan for twenty-eight years and nestled under the covers. Though she knew she could stretch out in the bed any way she liked, she still maintained her small sliver of the right side: her part.

There was that time, when she was a student at NYU working hard to graduate honorably with a dual major in Marketing and Business, when every part of her had been free. Completely unencumbered. Diana had had so many bright and exciting goals for her future, but number one on her list? Travel. Anywhere, really.

Enter Stéphane, who had shaped that dream, given it wings, made the goal more than just a goal. He’d transformed it into a

passion

.

It was his fault she became some enamored with idea of spending an indefinite amount of time meandering about the world, especially Europe. He’d shown up in her Microeconomics class, senior year, on a year-long exchange program. From Nantes, he was descendant of French nobility—his ancestors had served in the court of Louis XIV—and he had that lovely, melodic French accent.

Not to mention, he was brilliant, kind, and adorable with his horn-rimmed glasses and the forever misbehaving cowlick at the very top of his head. He also had the sexiest sideburns, which worked on him. He was used to doing that—going his own way.

She’d been paired with him for the final project but quickly found out that while he was majoring in business, he had the heart of a romantic. They’d spend mere moments on the project, and forever, just talking. He’d tell her, day after day, about different little-known spots around his home—the

Palais de Tokyo, Sainte-Chapelle, Le Marché de Belleville.

He said his favorite thing to do on a rainy afternoon was walk around the many museums, especially

Musée Picasso.

He brought every bit of Paris—the museums, the culture, the architecture—alive for her. But even better than that, he’d read her French poetry—Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine, and Hugo—and oh, how beautiful it sounded.

She was, for the first time in her life, in love. How could one not hear a beautiful man speak the words

Ne te verrai-je plus que dans l’éternité?, Shall I see you again, only in eternity?

by Baudelaire, and

not

be in love?

“Promise me,” he’d said before he left, right at the end of her senior year, a day when she thought she’d die from misery. “Promise me you will come to the ball with me. The Versailles masquerade ball. It is next month, and my family has never missed a ball at the palace since they began having them. These days it is silly. You dress in a period costume and parade around like a peacock for show, but it will be fun. Especially with you there, on my arm. You will make me the proudest peacock of them all.”

At that moment, she’d been a puppet on a string. “Yes. Of course,” she’d told him. “I’ll come.”

“For a year,” he’d said.

She’d blinked, confused, “For an entire year? Is that how long the ball lasts?”

He’d laughed. “No. The ball is just the start of it. I want you to take the whole year and spend it with me. We’ll see all of Europe, starting with Paris. Together. Just the two of us.”

“You’ve seen all of Europe already.”

“I have. But it will be different with you.”

Then he’d taken her hands in his and whispered in her ear, something she later learned was a line from Hugo: “

Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.” I cannot stay far from you any longer.

She’d pretty much swooned, and they’d shared a passionate kiss at the airport before he turned and headed to his gate. A few moments later, he turned and announced loudly for the whole concourse to hear: “

Je t'adore, mi amor. We will be together again in Paris!”

As she watched him walk away, tears in her eyes, she’d promised herself that they would not be far apart for much longer, no matter what she had to do.

That was probably the first—and last—time her life had resembled anything from a movie.

They’d written to each other almost every day; their letters often crossing in the mail.

But then her New York City Dream Job—a marketing manager position at Elizabeth Arden—fell right in her lap.

She hadn’t really even been looking. She’d applied on a whim, mostly to keep her parents off her back. But then she’d gotten it and was told she needed to report to work on June 19, which was the same night as the ball.

She’d tried to finagle it. She thought she could go and perhaps start a week later, but her new boss said it was impossible.

It was one of the hardest things she ever had to do, but she wrote to him, declining. She sent him a letter, saying she loved him, but “Maybe I can come out this summer?” He’d responded with great understanding, suggesting they spend a week in Paris, maybe in August.

But then she’d gotten too busy with the job. She was working fourteen-hour days at that time, trying to impress the powers-that-be, and could barely take the time to breathe, much less write a long letter to her boyfriend.

So she’d declined again.

His letters became less and less frequent, more and more detached.

I cannot stay far from you any longer?

Turned out, they

could

. And maybe the next time they saw each other, it

would

be in eternity because months later, she stopped running to the mailbox for them.

She’d met Evan a few months later at an alumni get-together at the college. He was in his first year of med school. Originally, she hadn’t been too serious about him. Yes, he was kind and handsome and obviously had a good career ahead of him. But he was no Stéphane; that much was obvious. No man on the continent was.

More things interceded. Her friends told her she was an idiot to treat a pre-med rich, good-looking man like Evan as a placeholder for a silly French pipe dream. Her student loan bill came in, and it was astronomical, making thoughts of travel seem silly when financial disaster was around the corner. Her parents kept reminding her how lucky she was to have found a good job when many recent graduates would’ve killed to get one, and how she needed to stay in her supervisor’s good graces. She simply couldn’t tell her employer her intention to traipse off to France a couple months after being hired.

After a while, the letters from Stéphane stopped altogether. He quietly faded into the background, leaving Evan front-and-center.

And the rest was history.

Shivering, she reached into the deep drawer of her night table. Under photo albums and greeting cards, she found it . . . the single letter he’d sent her on rich, creamy stock. It was folded and falling apart at the creases, but when she held it to her nose and inhaled, she remembered the scent of his aftershave, which she imagined she could still smell, even though it had long since disappeared.

She unfolded the letter and pulled her covers up to her chest, remembering Stéphane’s warm, heart-melting brown eyes. He could be so boy-next-door one moment, smolderingly romantic the next. And

ooh la la

, that accent! As she read it, she imagined him speaking to her, in that sexy way of his:

My dearest Diana, I can’t tell you how much I have missed you in these weeks. With every breath I think of you and await the moment I can have you in my arms again. I feel in my soul that you and I are destined for one another, and I hope you feel the same. Versailles is the home to many treasures, though when you are within its walls, none will be as beautiful or more precious as you. They will pale to you, my love.

He always knew exactly what to say. Never before and never since had she gotten a letter so romantic, so dripping with love and absolute adoration. It made her heart thump wildly, even now, as she read the words.

She had to wonder how different her life would’ve been if she’d told Elizabeth Arden to get lost. Would she be living in a flat outside of Paris now, the wife of some romantic French aristocrat, living a totally different, exotic life overseas, the envy of all her friends and family?

Maybe.

Maybe she and Stéphane were destined. Maybe there never was supposed to be another lover for either of them. If soul mates did truly exist, then they never truly stopped looking for one another, did they? Maybe, had they married, she and Stéphane would walk the streets of Paris, hand in hand, every day . . . still in love, even now?

Maybe, even after all those interceding years, their love still burned just as hot as before.

Did they even still have that Versailles ball? Head growing fuzzier by the moment from the wine, she grabbed her phone and googled,

Versailles Masquerade Ball.

A number of results came up. The first one said,

Once a year, around midsummer, you can live like royalty at The Grand Masked Ball in Versailles. Grab your gown and waistcoat, and join us as we relive the opulent masquerade balls and luxurious parties held by the Sun King, Louis XIV in his Palace of Versailles. Yes, THE actual Versailles, the most beautiful and extravagant palace in all the world! Get ready to dance all night—the ball starts at 11:30pm and finishes at dawn! This year’s grand event is on June 19! Tickets are on sale now! You don’t want to miss the most royal event of the entire year!

For a moment, she imagined herself being swept across the dance floor of a gilded ballroom by an adorable Frenchman in horn-rimmed glasses, who gazed at her like the only woman in the room and whispered French nothings in her ear.

She sighed.

I’ve been drinking too much. I have so much going on here. My marketing department can barely breathe without my help. Like I could ever just drop everything and head to France for some silly ball. Especially one that’s—

She studied the date, then looked at her calendar.

Oh . . . only four days away.

That

wouldn’t be a problem at all.

Then she thought of Evan. They’d weathered a lot of storms together. When all their circle of friends were getting divorced after a couple of years, Diana and Evan had been solid. Unshakeable. Her friends had been jealous, saying,

How do you two make it work so effortlessly?

Through twenty-eight years of wedded bliss, everyone always called them steady. Stable. Not likely to fly off the handle, ruffle feathers, or do anything out of the ordinary.

Boring, really.

But look at Evan now,

she thought.

And why shouldn’t he? He was a grown adult. What was wrong with being a little reckless and doing the things that would bring him joy? Mid-life crisis or whatever it was called . . . people were allowed to make mistakes. Try new things. It was his life, after all. He didn’t need permission from anyone.

And neither do I.

She stared at the photograph on the website of beautiful Versailles with its gorgeous gardens and shimmering fountains, stretching out into the distance, studded with flowers and Roman statues. The white columns of the building itself, in the distance, seemed to go on and on forever out of the range of the camera. It was like something out of a dream. Even when she’d gotten the invitation, she’d never actually imagined being there among those gorgeous gardens and statues, a part of it all.

Why shouldn’t I be a little reckless, too?

She was pulled away from her fantasies by a sudden text from Lily, her oldest:

I think somebody’s totally lost their marbles!

Definitely.

Diana was

definitely

no longer in control of her marbles. Really, traveling halfway around the world on a whim to go to a masked ball? What did she think this was, a fairy tale?

She stared at the message, about to respond when another one came through:

Are you going to talk some sense into him?

Oh. Lily had meant Evan, the wayward husband.

But how did Lily expect her to talk sense into anyone? She wasn’t sure she had any of her own left to spare.

And maybe it was time to shake things up a little—just to make life a little more interesting.