He continued to hold her hand as they exited the courthouse. His hand was chilly from his poor circulation, but it was almost reassuring the way he held her little hand in his large one - squeezing it now and then, his thumb rubbing circles over her skin.
She wasn't quite sure what to say to him, but he didn't seem to mind the silence as they walked down the sidewalk together. He kept grinning as though the best thing in the world had just happened, instead of just a few exchanged words and two signatures on a paper.
He paused, turning to her, squeezing her hand again like he wanted to convince himself she was really there with him.
"Christine," he said warmly, his whole face glowing even with the mask. "I love you so very much."
Her eyes widened at his confession, and suddenly he seemed to realize what he'd just said. He let her hand slide out of his.
"I won't say those words to you again, Christine, I promise," he told her, his tone somber now. "Not if you don't want me to."
She felt the sting of tears bubbling up again. He loved her so much, and while she did care about him, they both knew what she felt was nowhere close to his feelings.
"Erik-" she started, despairing.
She had given him so very little, and yet he contented himself with scraps and crumbs and behaved as if she'd given him the world. Their wedding had lasted not even ten minutes, and now it was over. She couldn't help but feel that deep down, he really had wanted more, but had been too afraid to ask for it.
He might insist that this was only a business deal, but she was painfully aware that it was much, much more to him.
She glanced helplessly about, spying a bakery not too far away.
"Do you want to get some cake?" she asked, placing a hand on his arm.
"Cake?"
He looked confused.
"Wedding cake," she smiled. "It's a tradition, isn't it?"
She pointed out the bakery and he brightened up.
"Yes, of course!"
She smiled a little as he cheerfully grinned at her. This was the very least she could do for him - they wouldn't have a reception, or dance, she wouldn't wear a fancy dress, there would be no wedding night - but they could have a slice of cake together. She could do that for him.
It wasn't so incredibly terrible, she supposed, this business of being married. She'd been a wife now for almost twenty minutes, and the sky had yet to fall in on her. Her husband hadn't turned into a demanding brute. She could get through six months of this, she thought.
Erik was still grinning stupidly as they entered the bakery. The cashier greeted them, but seemed slightly unsettled.
"Can I help you?" the cashier asked.
"We just got married!" Erik blurted out, still grinning.
Christine looked away, embarrassed.
"Congratulations," the cashier raised an eyebrow. "Now, how can I help you?"
"We want to get some slices of cake," Christine said.
They looked for a few moments at the available choices, Erik eventually picking a white cake with a lemon filling for them. He paid for them and they took their plates outside to eat at a table on the little patio.
The cake was a perfect mixture of sweet with a hint of sour. She couldn't help but giggle to see how Erik ate his - first separating the frosting from the cake and then picking the filling out, eating all three separately.
"Is that how you always eat cake?"
"It's the ideal way of eating it, so yes."
"How do you figure that?"
"Christine, when you get to be my age, you don't question what works, you just go with it."
She ducked her head and chuckled.
They were quiet a little while, finishing the last pieces.
"You can say it," she said at last, quietly.
"Say what?"
"You can say that you love me, if you want."
He kept his eyes trained on his plate, pushing a few crumbs around with his fork.
"You don't like it, when I say it," he said simply.
"That doesn't mean you can't say it..."
He only smiled sadly at her.
"There's an opera playing in Paris," he told her, changing the subject. "I had hoped we could go, but it turns out that Tuesday is the last day it's playing."
"Oh. I might still be working."
"Indeed. Have you ever been to the opera?"
"No," she shook her head, then smiled wryly. "But don't let the jeweler know that."
He laughed sheepishly, thinking of fabricated story of their first meeting.
"I would love to take you to the opera, Christine," he said wistfully. "The Paris opera house is so beautiful. There's nothing quite like it."
"What's playing?"
"Madame Butterfly."
"Oh. Well, I'll see on Monday what my boss says."
Their little celebratory lunch over, he began to look troubled, as though he was afraid she'd be leaving too soon, even though she was content to sit a while longer.
"Would you like to see my apartment?" he asked suddenly.
She paused a moment.
"Okay."
They walked to his apartment, making fairly comfortable small talk on the way. He seemed to grow eager as they approached the apartment building he lived in, a three story red brick building that looked to probably contain a dozen different apartments inside. In the middle was a stairwell that led up to all three floors, from where the residents could reach their respective homes.
He led her up to his door on the second floor, unlocking it before swinging it wide open and ushering her inside.
The walls were painted a deep red, and what few windows there were were covered in heavy black curtains. The furniture looked ornate and intricate, like something from a hundred years ago. She wondered if they were all antiques.
"This is your apartment too, now," he said nervously as he gestured to the room. "I have an extra key, you should take it."
She nodded, still taking in his interesting golden decor.
It did not escape her notice, however, that while he had assumed his apartment was her and had offered her a key, he hadn't made any mention of her own apartment and it's belonging to him, nor did he ask for a key to it.
"Would you like something to drink? Some wine, maybe?" he asked, heading towards what she assumed would be the kitchen.
She smiled a little, and before she had a chance to think through what she was about to say, the teasing words were already out.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?"
He swiftly reappeared, looking hurt.
"No," his tone was nearly a whine. "No."
Her smile vanished.
"I'm sorry, Erik- I didn't mean- I'm sorry."
He cleared his throat, not looking at her.
"Would you like a tour?" he murmured.
"I would!"
He showed her the living room, the kitchen, his library, his bedroom, the balcony, what he called his 'office', and then he took her down a hallway and to a spiral staircase leading to the down to the ground floor.
She furrowed her brow as they descended. This was an awfully large apartment... Had he combined two apartments, somehow?
"Is this just one apartment that's all yours?"
He paused.
"The whole building is mine," he said with a shrug, as though it were common knowledge. "Anyway, this is my recording studio in here."
They entered a spacious room now, still red and black and gold. Her eyes widened as she looked around. He really had made an entire recording studio for himself.
"There's manuals for how to use all this," he gestured to the equipment. "But of course, if you find it difficult, I can put you in touch with a contact who can help. I figured you might want to make use of this place after... If you want to sing and record, perhaps."
"Oh," she breathed.
"This is where I recorded all of my albums," he told her, cautiously coming to stand near her. "This is where I recorded Don Juan Triumphant."
Her breath stuck in her throat. She'd never believed she'd ever be standing here, of all places. She turned to look at him, finding he was studying her closely.
"This is amazing," she said, her voice quiet and reverent.
"Would you like to see some of my sheet music?" he asked, hopeful.
"Oh, yes!"
He swiftly began to search for it in a file cabinet.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the little studio, looking at his handwriting scores, and as she listened to him talk she forgot all about their unusual situation. Nothing mattered but Erik, and music. To her absolute joy, he offered to play for her on the condition that she sing for him.
He offered corrections here and there, which she listened eagerly to and tried to implement. He found himself pleased with her work ethic, and at his suggestion they recorded a few songs that she sang.
She felt dazzled as she looked at the reels of tape that now contained his music and voice with her voice too. Christine and Charles Carrière, a duet.
"You know," he said, a little wistful, a little nostalgic. "In another life, we would have made an excellent pair in the music world."
"Do you think so?"
Her cheeks were pink, and she wanted to hope that it wasn't all flattery on his part.
"Indeed. It almost makes me reconsider wanting to leave... We could just stay here and sing and make music for the rest of my days. But- alas."
"We'll still sing sometimes as we travel," she reminded him.
"Hmm, true. Well, my dear, can I interest you in some dinner? I think I might have some food lying around somewhere."
"Dinner?"
Her brow crinkled and she looked towards the clock. It was nearly six in the evening, and she gasped. She'd spent almost five hours in the studio with him and hadn't even realized.
He chuckled at her reaction.
"Yes, studio time seems to go faster, doesn't it? I swear one time I spent two weeks straight in here, not even stopping once."
She smiled politely at his story as they made their way up to the kitchen, not bothering to correct him on the fact that two weeks of working on anything without taking a break of some kind was impossible.
The kitchen had marble countertops and golden sink faucets and numerous dark wooden cabinets. She took the opportunity to glance at the kinds of foods he kept while he was looking for something to make, and to his credit he did appear to be sticking to his new diet.
He ended up cooking a simple dish for them, a pasta with a white cream sauce. It tasted far better than its simple ingredients would have led her to believe, and she remarked on this during dinner.
He laughed at this.
"Because, my dear - it was prepared with love."
He smiled warmly at her and she blushed.
The little dinner seemed to teeter on the edge of fully casual and oddly intimate, the conversation veering from light subjects to deep topics, all illuminated by the numerous thick white candles on the gold candelabra in the middle of the table and from the tiny chandelier above.
"It's strange, really," he mused. "Thinking about what all - and what little - I'm leaving behind. At least you'll have something nice at your disposal, and I'll have left one good thing behind in the world - you being able to live in comfort."
She shook her head.
"Oh, Erik- you've done more than that. Your music-"
"Hmph," he rolled his eyes.
"No, really-" she hesitated. "Your music touched my life in ways nothing else ever has. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. That's a legacy right there, Erik - your music will last forever."
Erik said nothing. The topic changed soon enough, mortality too heavy a subject for him to focus on for very long.
Dinner was finished, and she insisted on helping him take the plates to the kitchen. She wasn't certain if she'd ever get used to the opulence of his apartment, even if she did end up living in it.
"I think it's time to call a cab for you," he said gently after the dishes were done.
"Oh?"
She was slightly surprised, and glanced at her watch. It was eight o'clock. It was late. She hadn't even realized, losing track of time with him yet again at the table. Would the entire six months go by like this? It made her a little wistful and sad.
After the call was made, they chatted a little longer about some of his furniture. He escorted her to the cab, opening the car door for her once again, and the surprised her by getting in the cab himself.
They were both quiet on the drive, but he broke the silence as he walked her up to her door.
She fidgeted with her key in her purse, a little uncertain as to if he expected to be invited inside.
"Christine-"
She looked up, freezing.
"Thank you for wearing white," he murmured, looking down at her dress. "You were lovely, as always. And thank you for the cake, afterwards. You didn't have to, but I appreciated it very much."
"Of course," she whispered. "And- I mean it, too. You can tell me you love me, if you want. I won't stop you."
He shook his head.
"Do you want me to tell you?"
She looked away, pressing her lips together, thankful for the darkness that hid the tears in her eyes that threatened to spill over. He took her silence as an answer.
"I can't imagine a reason why I would do something you didn't want," he told her.
"Because," her voice wavered. "Maybe you want it, even if I don't. And I'm your wife, and you have a right to."
A tear rolled down her cheek.
"And maybe what the wife wants doesn't matter as much as compared to what the husband wants," she continued.
Erik only stared quietly at her for a long moment.
"That's not what love is like at all, Christine," he murmured at last.
She looked up at him, surprised.
He raised a hand to instinctively wipe her tear away, but he stopped himself at the last moment. She was grateful that he hadn't touched her, because that gentle gesture would have certainly undone her, and she'd end up sobbing in his arms. It wasn't fair - life was not fair to bring him such struggles and deny him, even in his final months, the simple grace of having someone who reciprocated the kind of love he felt for her. She'd give up the fortune and the properties if she could somehow gain the ability to be truly in love with him - but it wasn't possible, and it wasn't fair.
"Call me tomorrow after you know when work will let you off, okay?" he said.
"Okay."
"Goodnight, Christine," he said warmly, and realization hit her like a punch in the gut - he would never again say he loved her in those words, but she knew that from then on she would hear the ghost of that sentiment in everything he said and did, regardless.
"Goodnight," she said, turning and unlocking her door, pausing just a moment longer before going inside and closing the door.
From her window she watched as he walked back to the cab, and as it drove him back to his home. She'd almost expected he'd ask to come in her apartment - she'd half feared that he would, with the expectation that he could stay the night. But that seemed so unrealistic, now. He refused to even say that he loved her because he thought it upset her - how would a man like that ever make requests or demands of his husbandly rights from her?
The phone rang, and she picked up the one in her living room.
"Hello?"
"Christine, I've been calling all night - where were you?"
Raoul sounded petulant and frustrated. She blinked.
"I was with Erik."
"I figured. Doing what with Erik?"
She frowned now.
"Talking. And he cooked me dinner. And then he brought me back here."
"The ceremony was at noon. It's eight-thirty now. You talked for seven hours?"
Her face flushed.
"We did, actually."
There was silence on the end of the line.
"Are you sure?"
"Raoul!" she cried.
"Is he there right now?"
"No! You're being ridiculous!"
"I'm not being ridiculous for being worried over you when you've disappeared for over seven hours and I can't get ahold of you!"
"Disapp- really! I'm fine, we talked, he brought me home, and that's all that happened!"
"I want to keep in closer contact, Lotte," he nearly begged. "I want to know what's going on, please."
"You already know what's going on, Raoul - nothing that you have to worry about."
"Can you check in with me twice a day, maybe? And let me know where you're going and what you're doing?"
She kicked off her shoes, taking her frustration out on them instead.
"There's only one man I owe that kind of report to - my husband - and you're not him," she reminded him.
"I'm almost your-"
"Almost doesn't count!"
Raoul was silent but she could almost hear him seething.
She sat down hard on the couch and rubbed at her temples, sighing. She wiggled her now-bare toes in the orange shag rug in front of her couch, trying to distract herself from the conversation and the accusations boiling just under the surface.
"Look, I'll keep you informed, but you know I'm busy. I won't have time to check in so often, but I will let you know my plans, okay?"
"Okay," he sullenly agreed.
"I love you," she said, hoping it would soothe him.
"Love you too," he muttered after a long moment of silence, then suddenly added- "Did you tell him you love him?"
She was stock still for a brief second, his question - and its implications - registering in her mind.
"Goodnight, Raoul," she said evenly. "I'll call you tomorrow."
She quickly hung up the phone, not waiting for a response. She'd thought she'd forgiven him, but somehow he'd found a way to irritate her all over again. She could just picture him calling her apartment every five minutes for the last five hours.
She sighed deeply. She'd been in Erik's home with him, all alone together, for nearly an entire day, and the most he'd done was kiss her hands at the courthouse. Raoul, she knew, would have had one thing on his mind for the entire day. But Erik-
It was puzzling, almost. He really hadn't touched her in any capacity after he'd stopped holding her hand on their walk, not even an accidental brush of his hand against hers as they'd cooked and done dishes.
Her mind wandered over it all as she got ready for bed, and then again in the morning as she got ready for work. She almost forgot to put her ring on before leaving, so unused to ever wearing one.
Her day went normally enough, and on her lunch break she sought out her boss to ask for a leave of absence.
"I'm afraid we really can't let you go at the moment," he said apologetically.
Her polite smile faltered.
"Oh, but- but I really do need off," she told him.
"I just don't feel it's good time."
Her lips were set in a firm line. A good time?
"I work on the floor every weekday, I know how busy we are - or rather, how not busy. Cecile can pick up another shift, and I already spoke to Meg and she said we should be fine."
He shook his head.
"No, I don't think so," he said easily enough. "Maybe in a few months, though."
Erik would be dead in another few months. She fiddled with her ring, looking down at it. She was loath to explain the situation of why she needed off, but-
"My husband wants me to take the time off, actually," she told him. "Would you like to talk to him?"
He paused, uncertain.
"I can call him, if you'd like," she gestured to the phone.
"What's his number?"
She told him the number, and he dialed it.
"Hello, this is- ah, your wife Christine gave me this number, that's how... Yes, she's fine, I assure you, nothing's happened... She's telling me that you wanted her to take six months off from work, is this correct, Monsieur?... I see... I understand. We'll see what we can do for you, Monsieur. Have a good day."
He hung up.
"I'll see you in six months, Christine. Enjoy your vacation, it starts tomorrow," he smiled at her and reached his hand out to shake hers.
"Thank you!" she squeaked, surprised that it had worked.
She told each nurse she worked with, and all of them were just as surprised. There were hugs all around, and the promise of postcards. Cecile even shed a tear or two.
"I wish you'd given us more time, Christine," Sorelli said as they were leaving that night. "We would have thrown a party for you!"
"I'll be back soon enough," she shrugged a little. "It's okay."
They all hugged one last time, and soon the sounds of Meg and Cecile and Sorelli and a handful of other nurses bidding her farewell echoed into silence as they left down the hall. Christine lingered behind, savoring the silence around the buzz of the lights in the locker room one last time. It would be a while before she heard it again, and she when she came back, she wouldn't be the same person, she knew.
At last she walked down that hall one last time, trying to memorize it. It was oddly bittersweet, those flecked grey and white tiles and off-white walls. She was looking forward to seeing some color in her surroundings on her trips.
Her first call when she arrived home was to Erik.
"Did you bribe him?" she asked as soon as he answered.
He laughed.
"Christine! What ever makes you think so?"
"Erik," she whined. "Tell me what you did."
"I merely told him that as your husband I wished for you to have some time off," he said simply.
She narrowed her eyes at the wall. She wanted to believe he secretly had bribed him, because the other option was that her boss was willing to let her have time off when her husband asked for it but not when she had asked for it.
"Well, I'm off starting tomorrow. Didn't you say there was an opera you wanted to see? We could go see it, now."
He paused.
"You want to go to the opera with me?"
His tone was disbelieving and yet hopeful.
"I married you, Erik, I would think seeing an opera together is less of a commitment than that," she teased.
"Yes, of course - I'll be by in the afternoon to pick you up, we can make a day of it."
"Okay," she said.
She could practically hear the smile in his voice.
"Okay," he repeated. "Sleep well, my dear."
She rang up Raoul next, to let him know what had happened.
"You're off already?"
He sounded a little panicked.
"Erik said he wanted to leave about a week after I got off," she said. "So yeah, it's happening pretty fast."
"Well- can we go out to dinner tomorrow night?"
She twisted the cord around her finger.
"I actually had plans for tomorrow night," she said quietly.
"Can't you change them?"
He was nearly whining now.
"I'm sorry."
"We can go out to dinner at least once before you leave, right?"
"I'm sure of it, Raoul. Listen, it's late, and I've got a lot of stuff to do, so I gotta go."
"Okay... Wait, are you having dinner with him tomorrow?" he asked, annoyed.
She quickly hung up, pretending she hadn't heard the last part he'd tacked on at the end.