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Wow. She lived in Paris.
Energized, Elena turned to the task of figuring out just who Elena Gilbert was in this new future. She rifled through her drawers, read her own papers, sorted through the mail. Rummaging through the cupboards and refrigerator, she devoured the chewy bread, soft cheese, and crisp fruit she found inside.
By the time a couple of hours had passed, she knew that she worked at an art gallery. She had an undergraduate degree in art history, from the Université de Paris. Apparently, Elena had come to Paris for a junior year abroad from the University of Virginia—not Dalcrest College—and never left, finishing her education here.
She had lived alone in this apartment for two years, according to her lease. There were notes from friends in both English and French—and it was a relief to realize that she could read French much more fluently than she had been able to in her old life. Elena smiled over a gossipy birthday card from Aunt Judith that made it clear that she and Robert and Margaret were just as happy in this life as in Elena’s previous one.
There was no sign of any romance. Elena’s heart ached a little at that. But who could she have loved after the Salvatore brothers?
Just as Elena was sweeping papers back into her desk drawers, there was a tapping at her front door.
Leaping up, Elena rushed toward it. It was Bonnie, she was sure of it, or Meredith. She could picture them here. Meredith probably had helped Elena pick out the chic outfits. Bonnie must have cast a protection spell over the whole apartment.
She flung open the door.
“Elena!” said the dark-haired girl on the other side, her arms full of shopping bags. Elena had never seen her before. She kissed Elena enthusiastically on each cheek in greeting. “Can I leave these here? Come on, we’ll be late.”
She said it all in French, very fast, and Elena was relieved to realize she spoke and understood French as well as she read it.
A name popped into Elena’s head, along with a remembered warm affection. “Veronique,” she greeted her friend. “Where are we going?”
Veronique made a little moue of pretended offense. “You forgot our Sunday lunch?” she asked. “The others are probably already there.”
The restaurant at which they had lunch was as stylish and tasteful as the rest of Elena’s new life. The two friends waiting for them there were as lovely as Veronique was. They jumped to their feet and kissed Veronique and Elena on both cheeks, laughing. Elena laughed with them, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that these were people she loved.
She just wished she could remember them properly.
After a few minutes she got them all straight. Veronique was talkative and bossy, with a quick, good-humored smile. She was a stockbroker, and she and Elena had been roommates in college. Elena had a flash of memory: Veronique, softer and younger, her hair tied up in a sloppy bun, hollow-eyed from staying up late studying for exams.
Lina was quieter and more soft-spoken, with huge dreamy eyes and long light-brown hair. She worked at the gallery with Elena and was the niece of the owner.
And Manon, sharp-witted and sarcastic with very short, very pale blonde hair, was a graduate student at the Sorbonne, doing a joint degree in art history and law. She had gone to university with Elena and Veronique.
“If you want to get further with art history,” she was advising Elena, “you should come back to school. The museums will never hire someone with only an undergraduate degree.”
“Perhaps,” Elena said, sipping her wine. She hadn’t found school particularly interesting back in the life she remembered. There had been too much else to do: monsters to fight, the ongoing drama of her love life to manage.
Maybe here, studying something she loved, with the idea that it would actually help her get a particular job … She felt excitement blossom in her chest. She could te
ll from the way Manon was talking that the Elena these girls knew was serious about her career.
Lina began to describe a show she and Elena were organizing at the gallery to the other girls, and Elena listened, eyes wide.
“It was Elena who suggested arranging the pieces by the models instead of chronologically,” Lina said. “A very interesting effect. He used the same models over and over, for years, and you can see the women growing older, just as his art developed.”
Elena felt a flush of pride. Even though she didn’t remember it, apparently she was good at her job.
“Let’s talk about something more interesting than art,” Veronique said eventually. “Elena. Are you going to go out with Hugo again?”
Hugo? Elena tried to prompt the memory that had given her the names of her friends, but came up blank. “I don’t know,” she said slowly.
In unison, all three girls sighed.
“He’s such a nice man,” Lina said, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear. “And he’s crazy about you.”
“I will take him off your hands if you don’t want him,” Manon said. “That lovely man, just going to waste.” She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, laughing.
“Obviously, you shouldn’t date anyone you don’t want,” Veronique added, “but it seems like you’re never even open to the idea of love.”
