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“Wow,” Zoë said. “That makes my hair stand on edge.”
“When your mother thought you might marry him, she hit him with a rock, and…” Amy said.
“Watched him fall to the bottom,” Zoë said. “It’s a good thing you went back.”
“Yeah,” Faith said. “A very good thing. You want to know something even more strange? After I left town, and after she saved his life, my mother and Ty became friends. He introduced her to his mother and when his construction company got going, he built them a new house, and I paid to furnish it. The two women lived together until my mother died. And Ty’s friendship with Eddie stayed strong. He was a pallbearer at Eddie’s funeral, and, yes, I was there too.”
Faith looked at her watch. “I don’t know about you young people, but I’m exhausted. I have a plane to catch tomorrow.”
“Me, too,” Zoë and Amy said in unison, then the three of them laughed.
Zoë turned her pad of paper around and showed what she’d drawn. It was Faith and Amy laughing together, glasses of wine in their hands. They looked as though they were the best friends in the world.
“Wonderful,” Amy said. “Could I have a copy?”
“I’ll have it framed and send it to you. We do plan to exchange addresses, don’t we? I mean our new addresses.”
“Mine’s the same,” Amy said, then looked away before she saw a look of sympathy cross their faces. She bid them good night and went to her bedroom.
As she showered, she thought about going home. It would be exactly the same, but Amy knew that she wasn’t the same. She tried not to let it hurt her feelings, but the fact that neither Faith nor Zoë had said thank you to her for taking them back to the eighteenth century did hurt. If Amy hadn’t insisted that they go back with her, Faith wouldn’t have the seeds for her multimillion-dollar cosmetics company. And Zoë wouldn’t have found her husband—and her backbone, Amy thought. It had taken a lot to make Zoë able to stand up to her bully of a sister.
But they hadn’t said a word to Amy. That’s all right, she thought. If they wanted to be selfish, let them. Amy had nothing to complain about. Tomorrow she was going to go home to her husband and sons, and she was going to be as happy as she had always been.
“I don’t even know why I bothered to come here,” she said as she got into bed. “Except that I saved Tristan. I did what I wanted to and that’s what was important.”
In spite of three glasses of wine, she had a difficult time going to sleep.
“She doesn’t know a thing, does she?” Zoë whispered to Faith in the bathroom they shared.
“Nothing,” Faith said, “and I felt bad for not telling her. She deserves to know.”
“She’ll find out, but I think her husband should tell her, not us.”
“I’m sure you’re right. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t have agreed to keep my mouth shut.”
Zoë dried her hands on the towel. “By the way, you were brilliant at not giving anything away. ‘When did you get so good at stories?’” she said in a mocking tone. “I nearly lost it then.”
“Quiet,” Faith said. “She’ll hear you. If you’d dealt with as many big shots in the business world as I have, you’d be good at lying too. We just have to remember to not give anything away tomorrow. We’ll have a few hours together in the morning, then she belongs to her husband.”
“Who knows nothing,” Zoë said. “Didn’t you find it unsettling that no one remembered what had happened? I asked my sister several questions about when I was in the hospital, but she just thought I was crazy.”
“I feel sorry for Jeanne. This time around, she didn’t have you and me as patients. I didn’t hit my mother-in-law at the funeral of her son, and you didn’t set fire to a car.”
“No, this time it was all about Amy. Jeanne lent this summerhouse to a world-famous—” Zoë broke off at the look from Faith and lowered her voice. “Do you think Amy went to bed with Tristan?” Zoë whispered.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know that,” Faith said, “and I don’t think it’s any of our business.”
“Faith,” Zoë said, “I know that Madame Zoya said that we weren’t allowed to contact each other until we came here, but…”
“But what?”
“When I saw Amy’s name, I couldn’t help it. I sent her a gift.”
“What kind of gift? No, wait, don’t tell me. A picture of someone.”
“Yes,” Zoë said. “You don’t think that will mess up anything, do you?”
“It doesn’t seem to have. The truth is that I had to work hard not to contact her—and you. I wanted to jump up and down and say ‘I know her’ whenever I saw one of your paintings. I saw that you married a man named Russell, but I had no idea that he was a descendant of—”
