Page 22 of Sex, Love & Lingerie

CHAPTER 14

Gloria

Where was I? Billowy clouds surrounded me and the sun, so big and close, looked like the star it was, its spokes intersecting the sky and bathing it in a soft pink glow. A distant, familiar song faintly filtered into my ears. “Gloria.” A muted chorus was singing my name, but it was more like a quiet hymn and not the blasting, fast-paced Laura Branigan song that had always been my signature. As I took in my strange surroundings, winged angels rose from the clouds. And then it dawned on me. Of course. I was in the middle of a Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show. But wait—these angels weren’t supermodels. They were ordinary people, every shape, every color, every age. Clad in white gossamer robes that sprouted broad wings of feathers, they looked ethereal as they danced among the white puffs of air. The sun’s rays beamed down upon them, creating golden halos around their heads.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“Bienvenue, ma chérie.”

I gasped. That husky, accented voice. I recognized it instantly. It was my beloved mentor. Madame Paulette.

My unblinking eyes stayed as wide as saucers as she broke away from the dancing pack of angels and floated toward me. I raced toward her as fast as I could, my bare feet skimming across the cloud. I was stepping on air.

“Madame!” I cried out, tears brimming.

I met her halfway and wrapped my arms around her. Expecting to feel her frail bones, I felt nothing. Not even a heartbeat. It was as if I was hugging the air I breathed.

I held her in my gaze. She was as stunning as ever to me. Perhaps even more stunning. Her cappuccino eyes twinkled likes celestial stars and her loose waist-length silver hair cascaded over one shoulder like a comet’s tail. She looked different to me. In a beautiful, good way. While she’d been alive, there’d always been a haunting sadness to her. A hardness in her face that complemented the tight chignon she always wore. But now serenity washed over her ageless, strong features. She looked angelic.

And then it hit me. Like a meteor crashing to Earth. “I’m in heaven with you?” I gasped.

She stroked my face with her hands, but I couldn’t feel her touch. Panic mixed with disbelief. She nodded and then held my hands. Again, no feeling.

Before I could utter a word, she whispered, “Ma chérie, I want you to meet someone.”

I followed her gaze as she turned her head. Gliding toward us was an extremely handsome man in his early twenties—with a strong, sturdy build, even features, and a headful of golden curls. As he neared us, his emerald eyes met mine, and a smile curled on his full lips.

“This eez Henri.” Madame’s raspy voice was soft but full of pride and passion.

Henri Lévy. Of course, Madame’s beloved husband, the French Resistance fighter, whom she’d lost in World War II. The man she’d been buried next to in Paris.

He held out his hand. It was badly scarred, but the scars did not mar the beauty of his long, graceful fingers. Perhaps, once upon a time long ago they had played the piano.

“Enchanté,” he said warmly, taking my hand in his.

“Enchantée,” I repeated, shocked that I couldn’t feel his hand in mine either.

“Paulette has told me so much about you. You are like zee daughter we never had.”

His words struck a harsh chord inside me. Another bolt of panic assaulted me. What about my daughter? My son? My husband? Tearfully, I asked the inevitable: “So, I’m in heaven with both of you?”

Madame smoothed my hair. “Ma chérie, only if you choose to die.”

My heart skipped a beat. And at that very moment, I realized—I still had a heart. It was beating. I was alive!

“What do you mean?” My voice quivered.

Madame responded. “You have a choice. You can choose to fight and live on Earth, or you can give up and live with us.”

“How do I make that choice?” I felt so weak, so exhausted, so unable to battle the fate I’d been given.

Madame turned her head and I followed her gaze. It led to an angel, whose face I couldn’t see, who was painting clouds. The sky was his canvas and his fingers were his magic paintbrush. I watched him, mesmerized. My mind flashed back to that fateful day at Jaime’s beachfront property when he’d first declared his love for me. A cloud just like the one this angel was creating had magically appeared above us. A heart.

The angel finished his painting and turned to face us. My jaw crashed opened. Perhaps as far down as Earth. Floating our way was a magnificent man—about six-foot three, all lean and muscled, with sparkling eyes as blue as the sky. Oh my God! It was my Jaime. Had he somehow gone to heaven too? Tears fell from my eyes as I uttered his name.

“Jai—”

Madame cut me short. “No, Gloria. Eet eez Payton. Jaime’s papa.”

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