Danielle Steel - Zoya

“May I help you carry that, mademoiselle?” She felt someone tug at the baguette under her arm, and she turned with angry words on the tip of her tongue, ready to kill for the food she had, or to defend herself against an amorous soldier. Not everyone in Paris wanted to be kissed by an excited boy in uniform, she thought to herself as she swung around, her hands in fists, and gasped as she dropped the prized baguette and he pulled her to him.

“Oh … oh …” Tears sprang to her eyes instantly as she melted into his arms with relief. He was alive … oh, God … he was alive … it was as though they were the only two people left … the only survivors of a lost world, as she clung passionately to Clayton.

“Now that's better!” He looked down at her from his great height, his field uniform stained and wrinkled, his face rough from the beard stubble he hadn't been able to shave in days. He had just arrived in Paris and had come straight to find her. He had already seen Evgenia, and she had told him Zoya was out buying some food and he had rushed back down the stairs to meet her in the street.

“Are you all right?” She was laughing and crying all at once and he kissed her again and again, as relieved as she was that they had both survived.

It seemed miraculous now, in the face of everything, and he didn't tell her how close he had come more than once to being killed on the Marne. It didn't matter now. He was alive, and she was safe, and he silently thanked whatever guardian angels they had as they made their way through the crowds back to the apartment.

He was billeted in a small hotel on the Left Bank this time, along with dozens of other officers. Pershing was back in the Mills house himself, and it was difficult for them to be alone anywhere, but they stole what private moments they could, and one night they even dared to make love quietly in Antoine's old room, long after Evgenia had gone to sleep. She was so tired now, and she slept so much of the time. Zoya had been worried about her for months, but even those fears seemed to dim in the light of being reunited with Clayton.

They talked about Nicholas late one night, and he admitted to her that he had always feared it might come to that. And she shared her fears with him about the others.

“The Russian newspaper said they had been moved to safety … but where? I've written to Mashka five times, and I still have no answer.”

“Botkin may not be able to get the letters out anymore. It may not mean anything, little one. You just have to have faith,” he said quietly, hiding his own fears from her.

“You sound like Grandmama,” she whispered to him in the dark room as they lay pressed close together.

“Sometimes I feel as old.” He had noticed how frail the old woman had become since July. She didn't look well, and he sensed that Zoya knew it too. She was almost eighty-four years old now, and the past two years had been hard for all of them. It was remarkable that she had survived at all. But they both forgot their concerns for her as their bodies meshed again as one, and they made love until he tiptoed stealthily down the stairs before morning.

They spent as much time as possible together in the next few weeks, but on December 10, almost exactly a month after the end of the war, he came to her with a heavy heart. They were sending him back to the States at the end of the week, but more important than that, he had made a painful decision about her.

She heard him say he was leaving as though in a dream. It seemed impossible to believe. He couldn't be. The moment she had never faced, the day she had thought would never come, was finally upon them.

“When?” she asked, her heart like a stone in her chest.

“In two days.” His eyes never left hers, there was still more to say. And he still wondered if he'd have the courage to say it.

“They don't give us much time for good-byes, do they?” Zoya said sadly. They were in her tiny, bleak living room, and it was a gray day, as Evgenia slept peacefully in their room, as she did most of the time now. Zoya was back at work again, but her grandmother didn't seem to notice.

“Will you be coming back to Paris again?” Zoya asked him as though he were a stranger, feeling separate from him now, preparing herself for what was to come. There had already been too many good-byes in her life, and she wasn't sure she would survive this one.

“I don't know.”

‘There's something you're not telling me.” Maybe he was married and had ten children in New York. Anything was possible now. Life had already betrayed her too often, not that Clayton ever had. But she was even angry at him now.

“Zoya … I know it won't make sense to you, but I've been thinking a great deal … about us.” She waited, blinded by pain. It was amazing that just when one thought there couldn't be any more pain, there was. It seemed to be endless. “I want to set you free, to lead your own life here. I thought about taking you to New York with me … I wanted to very badly. But I don't think the Countess could make the trip, and … Zoya,” he seemed to choke on the words, he had been thinking about it for days, “Zoya, I'm too old for you. I've told you that before. It's not fair. When you're thirty, I'll be almost sixty.”

“What difference does that make?” She had never shared his fears about their ages, and she looked at him angrily now, her hurt at his going making her resentful toward him, especially now. “What you're saying is that you don't love me.”

“I'm saying that I love you too much to burden you with an old man. I'm forty-six years old and you're nineteen. That's not fair to you. You deserve someone young and alive, and after everything settles down here, you'll find someone else to love. You've never had a chance. You were a child when you left Russia two years ago, you'd been protected there, and you came here, during the war, with barely more than the clothes on your back. One day, life will be normal again, and you'll meet someone more your age. Zoya,” he sounded suddenly firm and almost like Konstantin, “it would be wrong to take you to New York. It would be selfish on my part. I'm thinking of you now, not myself.” But she didn't understand that as she glared at him and tears sprang to her eyes.

“It was all a game for you, wasn't it?” She was being cruel but she wanted to be. She wanted to hurt him as much as he was hurting her. “That's all it was. A wartime romance. A little ballerina to play with while you were in Paris.”

He wanted to slap her but he restrained himself. “Listen to me. It was never like that. Don't be a fool, Zoya. I'm more than twice your age. You deserve better than that.”

“Ahh … I see,” the green eyes flashed, “like the happy life I have here. I've waited out half of this war for you, barely breathing for fear you'd be killed, and now you get on a ship and go back to New York. It's easy for you, isn't it?”

“No, it's not.” He turned so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was better if she was angry at him. She wouldn't pine for him when he was gone, as he would for her. “I love you very much.” He turned to face her quietly, as she strode purposefully to the door and yanked it open.

“Get out.” He looked stunned. “Why wait two more days? Why not just end it now?”

“I'd like to say good-bye to your grandmother.”

“She's asleep, and I doubt if she'd want to say goodbye to you. She never liked you anyway.” She just wanted him to leave, so she could cry her heart out in peace.

“Zoya, please …” He wanted to take her in his arms again, but he knew it wasn't fair. It was better to let her feel she had ended it, to leave her with some pride. Better if he was the one with a broken heart. He hated himself as he walked slowly down the stairs, the sound of the door slamming behind him ringing in his ears. Hated himself for getting involved with her. He had always known she would get hurt, he just hadn't realized that it would hurt him as much. But he was certain he was doing the right thing. There was no turning back. He was too old for her, and even if it hurt her now, she was better off free of him, to find a man her own age, and make a new life for herself. He had a heavy heart for the next two days, and the day before he left, he got a bank draft for five thousand dollars. He enclosed it in a letter to her grandmother, begging her to keep it, and to let him know if there was anything he could do for them later on. He assured her that he would always be their friend, and that he would love her granddaughter for the rest of his life.