Sometimes you just might have to die to live again.
*****
When art historian Reine Baldwin meets Gabe Moran, a charming journalist, she has no idea their blossoming love will sha...
"Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us
I can live only wholly with you or not at all
Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you, and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the land of spirits
Yes, unhappily it must be so
You will be the more contained since you know my fidelity to you. No one else can ever possess my heart
never
never
Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves."
- Ludwig van Beethoven, 1812 (Excerpt from the Immortal Beloved Letters)
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Reine clutched her broken hand to her chest and repeatedly tapped the 'Door Close' button with the other. Her fingers throbbed, but the pain would be gone soon.
Hopefully it would be soon enough.
As the shiny elevator door slid into place, she looked back out into the hotel's sleek, modern lobby. Thankfully, it was still deserted. This wasn't unusual given the wintry weather and the late hour, but it wouldn't last for long.
He was there, not too far behind.
She couldn't let him catch up. He couldn't see her. Not just yet.
With a small jolt, the elevator moved upward. She looked at her hand again. It was shaking, but as she flexed her fingers, the last signs of bruising – and of the pain – disappeared.
That still didn't make her happy.
For the second time in two weeks, she had almost inadvertently revealed her secret. A secret her life depended on.
She should have just ended the conversation when she fumbled to answer a simple question: "Are you married?" She didn't, and that was mistake number one. The blunder was a warning sign, and she ignored it. She had uncharacteristically let her guard down.
Who wouldn't have, if they had looked into those eyes or had seen that smile? Her heart would be her downfall, and that's why she had avoided listening to it for so long. Until tonight.
And that's when she made the second mistake: getting injured.
It was all because of that darned blackout. She'd left her room, carefully navigating down five flights of pitch, black stairs to ask the night manager about the situation. After hearing the electrical crews were "working on it," she was about to head back upstairs when laughter from an odd trio drew her attention.
She recognized the two women in the group. Just like her, they were there for the Northeastern Society of Art History's conference the next day. Totally captivated by a man young enough to be their son, they hung on his every word and giggled like schoolgirls at the story he was telling.
