Page 11 of Frankly, My Dear

“Au contraire, it was unnecessary for you to defend me against my father, but it was charming nonetheless. I don’t think anyone has ever done so before.” He tapped his fingertips pensively on the tabletop as he studied her.

How about Etienne’s mother? Didn’t she care? “I can’t believe you told your father we’re engaged,” she said nervously, trying to fill the void of silence. “I thought he’d swallow his teeth. And Victor almost had a heart attack.”

“You have a most unusual manner of speaking. New York, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he said, seeming to come to some decision, “since your prospects with Raffine seem dead, perhaps you should take the next steamboat back to New York. Do you have enough money to buy a fare?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Selene said, opening her makeup case, which sat near her feet on the floor. She pulled out her wallet. “Three hundred dollars. Will that be enough?”

“What is this?” James asked, picking up one of the bills.

“What do you mean? It’s a twenty-dollar bill.”

“It most definitely is not.” He shook his head and reached into a pocket of his pants. He shoved several pieces of paper in front of her. They looked like old bank notes she’d seen once in a museum exhibit.

He was examining her money more carefully, then inhaled sharply. “Why is Andrew Jackson on your money? And why do I see the year 1996? Is this a joke someone is playing on me?”

“No, I’ve been trying to tell you—” Selene stopped abruptly when a bunch of crumbs flew in her face from a nearby table where a young black waiter was ineptly shaking out a tablecloth. “Ouch,” she cried when a hard crumb hit her eye. She tried to rub it out with a napkin, to no avail. It was the dumb contact lenses that were causing the problem. Reaching down, she grabbed a small compact from her case, opened it mirror side up on the table, and deftly removed the two dark lenses.

She blinked several times to test, then sighed with relief. “That’s better.”

“Who in the name of God are you?” James was staring at her in horror. “Mon Dieu! Your eyes are green, not black. How can that be?”

“Oh.” Now she understood. “These are just contact lenses. The designer of this gown wanted all the models in the photo shoot to have dark eyes. And my eyes are hazel, not green.”

“Hazel? Like the nut? Your eyes are hazelnuts?” he choked out, then shook his head in exasperation at the ridiculousness of his own statements. He pointed to the lenses on the table as if they were something repulsive. “Those…those things…are they or are they not pieces of your eyes?”

“Give me a break. How silly.”

“Of course, how silly of me,” he remarked dryly, then slapped several of his antique bills on the table. In the blink of an eye, he stood and walked out of the restaurant, leaving her behind.

Selene stared after James’s rigid back. Stunned, she tried to comprehend what had just happened. Bottom line, she concluded, “the most beautiful face in America” was being dumped by a man. Worse, she was being dumped in 1845 by an arrogant, brooding, infuriating man she probably wouldn’t look at twice in the twentieth century.

But the thought of drifting alone, without James, in this nightmare or time-travel or voodoo curse or whatever the hell it was threw her into a sudden panic. She wasn’t sure why his presence was suddenly so important to her. It just was.

Seizing her makeup case, she hurried after him in her high heels. He was halfway down the street before she finally caught up.

“Wait. I’ve got a tic in my side.”

He said something rude under his breath about where he’d like to put her tic and continued with his long strides.

“Listen,” she called after him as she jogged to keep pace, “let’s make a deal here. You help me get out of this mess, and I’ll—”

“What? Pop out another body part? Spit frogs? Piss smoke?”

Her nostrils flared indignantly. “Don’t be so vulgar. I’ve done nothing to prompt such contempt.”

“No?” He grabbed her by the upper arms and shook her, then stopped immediately when he noticed her jiggling breasts. “Bloody hell!” he muttered, turning away. When he looked at her again, he spoke calmly and with forced patience. “Lady, I don’t know who you are, but they used to burn people at the stake for stunts like you performed back at the restaurant.”

“Oh, really, don’t exaggerate. Besides, I’m not a witch.”

“What, then? A voodoo priestess? If so, I might just light the flame myself. I’ve had all the Damballa nonsense I can stand for one lifetime.”

She started to speak, but he put up a hand to halt her words.

“Giselle…my dead wife…fancied herself a voodoo priestess,” he said angrily. “If I never hear another drumbeat in my life, it will be too soon. And I don’t ever want to see another dead chicken in my bed, or snake eggs in my soup, or eyeballs on my dinner table.” For emphasis on his last words, he jabbed her in the chest with a forefinger.