The Other Side of Forever

Josette OSB King

Description

Every French woman knows about 'le coup de foudre', the thunderbolt of love at first sight that changes your life forever. But romance is the last thing on the mind of Jacqueline Maréchal when the young Parisian woman arrives in Cologne in 1963, during the days leading to Carnival. All she wants is relief from her rigid family environment, and to bide her time while she devises a plan to escape even farther, all the way to America. Until she meets Rainer Heinrich.

A self-professed cynic, German student Rainer Heinrich doesn't believe in love. He is content to observe its ravages from afar and relish his own carefree life. Until he meets Jacqueline Maréchal. With the fearless innocence of young love, they trust that the intensity of their feelings will overcome national borders and centuries-old prejudices. Yet the forever happiness they promise each other is not meant to be. The opposition of her parents soon forces them apart. But they never forget.

When their paths cross again two decades later, they finally confront the youthful fantasies that shaped their lives. From historic Boston suburbs to glamorous European cities, they must face The Other Side of Forever.

Sujets

• Romance contemporaine
• Fiction
• Romance
• Contemporary

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456605308
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Other Side of Forever
 
(A Novel)
by
Josette King
 
 
 
Copyright 2011 Josette King,
All rights reserved.
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0530-8
 
Although portions of this novel are derived from real events, all characters are fictional, a composite drawing from several individuals and from imagination. Any resemblance with persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
 


 
 
To Doris, Kathleen, Lee and Paul whose unfailing enthusiasm and support made this story come to life…
 
Prologue
Cassis, France. September 1989
“Take la Route des Crêtes toward La Ciotat,” the woman in the flower shop said in the singsong accent of the natives of Provence. “About ten minutes up the road you’ll see a lane branching to the left. It’s le Chemin des Dames. I am not sure there’ll be a sign, but it’s the only road to veer off for quite awhile, so you can’t miss it.”
She deftly wrapped a single yellow long-stem rose without losing eye contact with her customer, her hands repeating motions practiced a thousand times. “I think the house you seek is halfway up the lane; possibly the one with the blue door,” she added, handing him with a flourish the perfect bloom now artistically encased in rustling crystal paper.
 
She watched him walk across the street toward a top-of-the-line Peugeot dull with the grime of a long drive. “Un bel homme,” she thought approvingly. A handsome man indeed, possibly younger than his gray hair and furrowed face suggested. She wouldn’t mind him showing up at her door with a rose. But then, she always was a pushover for tall men with blue eyes and suntanned faces; and this one was especially attractive with his fluent French embellished by a strong Anglo-Saxon accent. No doubt he was looking for the Figuieris’ house, where the four women had been staying for the past couple of weeks.
They were hardly seen around town, other than when they came to the market every couple of days, but rumor had it they were foreigners. The past two Friday nights, they had gone to Romano’s for dinner. It showed discriminating taste, picking the best restaurant in town from the horde of inviting tourist traps that lined the harbor. Her friend Mireille, who still worked there although the season was almost over, reported they had ordered good wine, quite a bit of it, and had lots of laughs in several languages. At the end of the evening, they had asked her to call a cab. They must have come down for their car early the next morning because it was no longer there by the time Mireille went back to work. Last Friday, they had come in a taxi.
She wondered what they were up to, these forty-something women who seemed to have such a good time with no men around. None of their neighbors knew anything, other than they didn’t cause any trouble and hadn’t had any visitors since they arrived. As soon as the sunburned Scandinavians and the families from Paris went home in September, Cassis became a village again, where nothing went unnoticed.
The Peugeot drove off. Which one of the women would get the rose, she wondered; and what did it mean? There must be a special meaning to it, the way he had carefully selected on this one flower open to perfection. Men who wanted to impress brought large bouquets of roses. Men who merely came for dinner left it up to her to put together a tasteful arrangement. One single yellow rose? It had to be a lovers’ code.
She’d never know. With an unconscious shrug, she turned her attention back to the novel she had reluctantly put down when the blue-eyed man came in.
Part One
Chapter 1
Cologne, Germany. January 1963
The burgundy velvet drapes slid across the picture window, banishing in one smooth stroke the bleak January dusk. The aura of yellowed silk lampshades filled the room with a creamy glow, adding to the warmth that had just begun to radiate from the recently lit coal stove in the far corner of the room.
Jacqueline Maréchal smoothed a heavy fold of the well-worn material over the pull rope. She paused for a circular glance, taking in the thin Oriental rug in jewel tones mellowed by age and the pair of inviting overstuffed armchairs by the stove. The table was set for coffee with gleaming silver and frail gold-rimmed china. She felt at peace here, free from the anxiety that had been choking her back home. Frau Brandt came in, a coffee pot swathed in an elaborately quilted robe in one hand and a plate of neat slices of golden pound cake in the other. She was a short, plump woman with tightly curled gray hair that always looked like it had just come out of the hands of an overzealous hairdresser. She pushed the door shut with a practiced elbow.
“I love this room,” Jacqueline said in her precise, French-accented German. “It speaks of gentle times.” She had spoken softly, more like thinking out loud.
Greta Brandt set down the coffee pot a little too hard, startled once again by the girl’s uncanny perception of the world around her. She almost forgot herself; almost told Jacqueline that her husband too had loved this room. He had spent the last months of his life a virtual recluse in it, comforted by its apparent serenity. And she, his frightened, exhausted wife, had sat with him, helplessly watching while the cancer slowly ate him away; until she was horrified to find herself wishing the end would hurry. She had hated the room for years afterward; now she was merely immune to it. She sucked in her breath. What was the matter with her? These were not memories to be shared with a nineteen-year-old! Although she was certain this girl would understand.
 
Greta recalled the first time Jacqueline had come to visit six years ago. She was little more than a child then, yet already more mature than Erika’s other friends. It was the year after Willy’s death. Erika had just begun learning French. One day she had come home chirping with excitement. She wanted to participate in the language exchange program at school. She’d be matched with a pen pal. They’d write each other, then the girl from France would visit during Easter vacation, and she, Erika, would go to Paris for two weeks during the summer in return. Imagine! Erika Brandt standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower. And walking down the Champs Elysées, where fashion was born. And visiting the Impressionist masters at the Musée du Jeu de Paume! Greta had recoiled at the thought of another thirteen-year-old underfoot for two weeks, but she had hoped it would be good for her daughter, after the endless gloom of her father’s illness. It had been. The two girls became fast friends, their visits between Cologne and Paris a yearly ritual. Through the years, Greta had become fond of Jacqueline, to the point of looking forward to her annual visits.
Even then, the girl from Paris had been a well-mannered young lady. Her conversation, however restricted by the barriers of language, already hinted at maturity beyond her years. Greta remembered wishing her demeanor would rub off on her abrasive daughter, but she no longer did. Jacqueline had changed much recently. She seemed despondent. Although her German was fluent by now, she had said little since Erika had met her at the train yesterday. However challenging Erika’s open hostility was on a daily basis, it was probably healthier in the long run.
 
The doorbell jolted both women out of their private musings. Danie, a long-time friend of Erika’s, breezed in, flushed from her walk in the bitter cold. Greta immediately invited her to join them for coffee.
“Nein, Danke, Frau Brandt. I need to get home. I am singing at Stadtwald tonight. I only stopped for a quick hello on my way back from the hairdresser’s. Perhaps Jacqueline would like to come home with me until Erika gets home from school? My father can drive her back in time for dinner.”
Jacqueline hesitated, unsure of the proper etiquette in this case, but greatly tempted by the diversion. Aside from a short visit to the neighborhood shops with Frau Brandt this morning, she had been idle all day, and Erika wouldn’t be home until six-thirty. She was only too glad to hear Frau Brandt insist that she should go and have a good time.
Daniela Wagner was a slender brunette with an angelic face and a smile permanently dancing in her large brown eyes. The daughter of a reputed local musician and, some gossips would be quick to imply, the likely cause of his marriage to a much younger operetta singer, Danie had the aplomb born of a lifetime of impunity. She spoke in the slightly breathless voice of someone in a hurry to get on with her next exciting adventure. Having inherited her mother’s vocal abilities, she often sang with her father’s band on weekends.
Ten minutes after leaving Greta to her now solitary coffee ritual, the girls were in Danie’s room. Jacqueline’s eyes popped in wonder. This was like one of those teenagers’ rooms in American movies! The bed was overflowing with stuffed animals, the walls were covered with posters of Rock ’n’ Roll stars and record jackets. A Spanish guitar was propped up against the open door of a closet overflowing with clothes. Unsteady piles of books and records were scattered around the bright yellow carpet. It was the sort of place where you could just… be! Not like her own bedroom where starched dotted Swiss curtains matched the neatly flounced skirt of the dressing table and the hardwood floor was polished to a cold shine. Even the collection of dolls started for her when she was a tot was lined up behind the glass of a display case. These fuzzy animals, you could hug them to sleep!
Danie removed the silk scarf covering her hair to reveal a romantic tumble of ri