Danielle Steel - Zoya

He shook hands with Zoya as she stood beside the cab, and he watched her long and hard as he drove away, thinking of what an incredible woman she was. He wanted to know everything about her now, how she had escaped, how she had survived, what her favorite color was, her dog's name, her worst fears when she'd been a child. It seemed crazy to him, but in the space of one short afternoon, he knew he had fallen in love with the woman of his dreams. It had taken him forty years, but on an afternoon in Paris, three thousand miles from home, he had found her.

CHAPTER

36

Zoya saw their trip come to an end with regret. They had had a good time, and on their last night, they had dinner at the Cordon Bleu, and strolled slowly back to the hotel, as Axelle urged her to get a good night's sleep, and thanked her for all her help in selecting the fall line for the shop. She was still stunned at the story Zoya had told at lunch at the George V with Simon Hirsch several days before. It gave her fresh respect for Zoya's courage.

They hadn't run into him again, and Zoya wondered if he was still there. She had dropped him a note, thanking him for lunch, and wishing him luck on the rest of his trip, and they had been busy finishing their own business after that. They had bought the rest of the hats, and finally some of the jewelry at Chanel, and on the last day, Zoya had gone shopping for the children. She had actually found the red dress Sasha wanted, and she bought Nicholas a beautiful jacket, and a coat, some books in French, which he spoke beautifully, and a little gold watch at Cartier, which had reminded her of Clayton's. And she bought Sasha a lovely French doll, and a pretty little gold bracelet. Her bags were laden down with the things she'd bought for them, and already packed, in preparation for the trip back to Le Havre the next morning. But there was something she was planning to do that night, which she didn't tell Axelle. The next day was Russian Easter, and she had decided, after much debate, to go to midnight mass at the Russian cathedral of St. Alexander Nevsky. It was a decision that had been painful to make. She had gone there in the past with Clayton and Vladimir, and Evgenia. But she knew she couldn't leave Paris without going back once more. It was as though part of her was still there, and she wouldn't be free until she went back and faced it. She would never go home again, St. Petersburg was long gone for her, but this last piece of what her life had been had to be touched, and held, and felt one last time, before she could go back to New York and her children.

She bid Axelle good night, and at eleven-thirty, she was downstairs, and hailed a taxi. She gave the driver the address on the rue Daru, and when she saw it, she caught her breath … it was still the same … nothing had changed since that Christmas Eve long ago when she had gone there with her grandmother and Clayton.

The service was as lovely as she remembered it, as she stood solemnly with die other Russians, singing and taking part in the service, holding her candle high as she cried silently, missing all of them again, yet feeling them close to her. She felt sad, but strangely at peace as she stood in the cathedral afterward, and watched the others, chatting quietly outside, and then suddenly she saw a familiar face, much aged, and worn, but she was sure it was Vladimir's daughter, Yelena. She didn't speak to her as she left, she only walked quietly down the steps, and looked up into the night sky with a smile, wishing them well, the souls who had once been part of her life. … She hailed a taxi, and went back to the hotel, feeling older than she had in a long time, and when she went to bed she cried, but they were the clean tears of grief that time had healed, and was now only sometimes remembered.

In the morning, she said nothing to Axelle, and they took the train to Le Havre, and boarded the Queen Mary. Their cabins were the same as when they'd come, and Zoya watched as they set sail, remembering when she had gone to the States on the Paris , with Clayton.

“You look so sad …” The voice just beside her made her jump, and she turned to see Simon looking down at her gently. Axelle had stayed downstairs to get unpacked, and she had gone upstairs alone with her own thoughts. She looked at him with a shy smile. His hair was blowing in the wind, and he looked more rugged than ever.

“Not sad, just remembering.”

“You've had an interesting life, I suspect even more so than you told us at lunch.”

“The rest doesn't matter anymore.” She looked out to sea without looking at him, and he longed to touch her hand, to make her smile, to make her feel happy and young. She was so serious, and just then, almost solemn. “The past is only worth what it makes of us, Mr. Hirsch. It was difficult to come back here, but I'm glad I did it. Paris is full of memories for me.” He nodded, wishing he knew more about her life than the little she had told him.

“It must have been rough here during the war. I wanted to go too, but my father wouldn't let me. I finally enlisted but it was too late. I never left the States. I wound up in a factory in Georgia. A textile mill, of course,” he smiled ruefully, “I seem to be destined never to escape the rag trade.” His eyes grew serious again then. “But it must have been hard for you here.”

“It was. But our fate was easier than those who stayed in Russia.” She was thinking of Mashka and the others, and he was afraid to pry. He didn't want to frighten her away, and she looked so beautiful as she stood lost in her own thoughts and then smiled up at him. “None of that is important now. Did you have a successful trip?”

“I did. And you?”

“Excellent. I think Axelle is pleased with everything we ordered.” She made as though to leave him then, and he wanted to physically pull her back to him before she could run away again.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“I'll have to ask Axelle what she'd like to do. But thank you very much, I'll extend your invitation to her.” She wanted to make it clear to him that she was not available. She liked him very much but he made her vaguely uncomfortable. There was something so intense about his eyes, his handshake was so strong, even the arm with which he guided her as the ship began to roll seemed too powerful to resist, and she had every intention of resisting him. She was almost sorry they were on the same ship. She wasn't sure she wanted to see that much of him. But when she mentioned his invitation to Axelle, she seemed thrilled.

“By all means, accept. Ill drop him a note myself.” She did, and then horrified Zoya by announcing at the last minute that she felt ill from the rolling ship, and left Zoya alone with him in the dining room, which was not what she wanted. But within minutes, she had forgotten her hesitation, and found herself enjoying him. He was describing his year in Georgia, in the textile mill, he claimed that he couldn't understand anything they said with their heavy southern drawl, and finally, in revenge, he spoke Yiddish to them. She laughed at the thought, and she listened as he told her about his family. His mother sounded almost as tyrannical as her own, although they came from very different backgrounds.

“Maybe all Russian women are the same,” she teased, “although actually my mother was German. And thank God my grandmother wasn't like that. She was incredibly kind and tolerant and strong. I owe my life to her, in a great many ways. I think you would have liked her very much,” she said over dessert.

“I'm sure I would.” And then, unable to restrain himself, “You're an amazing woman. I wish I'd met you a long time ago.”

She laughed at the thought. “Perhaps you wouldn't have liked me as much. Adversity has a way of humbling one, maybe I was too spoiled then,” she was thinking of her days of ease on Sutton Place, “the last seven years have taught me a great deal. I always thought, during the war, that if my life ever got comfortable again, I'd never take it for granted again, but I did. Now, I appreciate everything … the shop … my job … my children … all of it.” He smiled, each moment more in love with her.