#frolivia

And when she turned to face him, her blue doe eyes lit with recognition and surprise and maybe even a little fear. And those eyes were all Francis needed. He broke into a grin; she’d always had a way of making him smile. He crossed the little village road that stood between them. She watched him, keeping one eye on a young child hiding behind her skirts.

“Francis,” Olivia said in a voice that Francis couldn’t quite discern. She was hesitant and surprised and hopeful, those big blue eyes always drifting to the ground, refusing to hold his gaze for longer than a heartbeat.

“Olivia,” he said again, and said it softer, almost like he was trying to coax a scared animal out of its hiding place. “I scarcely believed it was you. I thought for a moment—”

She dipped her head. “I have to go.” And, turning away, she grabbed the tiny hand of the small child and retreated, her eyes trained on the ground.

“Wait! Olivia, wait.” He touched her arm and she glanced at his hand, flinching. “Who is—who is this?” he asked, gesturing to the small boy clutching Olivia’s hand.

She softened a bit. Almost imperceptibly, but it was there. A tiny upward curve of the lips, a slackened back, the swing of her body toward Francis. Her pride for the child was evident, as was the affection she had for him. “This is Louis.” She rested a hand on his mousy brown hair and looked at the boy proudly. “He’s my son.”

Francis’s eyes widened, and he could feel a smile slinking back onto his face. “Hello, Louis,” he said to the boy. Turning back to Olivia, he asked, “How old is he?”

“ Five this December.”

“My God.” Francis grinned, and Olivia returned it, and this time she held his gaze longer, only breaking it when she looked down, stroked her stomach, and said, “I’ve got another on the way.”

He stared wordlessly at her, marveling at her belly. “I’d never have known it. I didn’t even notice.”

She laughed, and it was like a rusty bell ringing in Francis’s ear. It’d been a long time since he’d heard that laugh, and he’d forgotten how he liked it.

“I’ve got a daughter at home, too. Claire. She’s nearly three. I wish she’d come out; I’ve been told she looks like me,” Olivia prattled, completely comfortable now. It was as if nothing had changed. It was as if they were a few years younger and they were still fooling around and having fun and telling stories over too many bottles of wine. Except that something had changed, it obviously had, because here was Olivia boasting about her children. And a small part of Francis wilted at that, because someone who’d once needed him fiercely, wanted him fiercely, had moved on and never thought to stop or look back for him. But it was gone in a flash; he didn’t need Olivia’s love or her lust. Not like he used to.

“So you’ve a husband now?” Francis asked, remembering that it takes two to make a child.

She dimpled, running her fingers absentmindedly through her son’s hair. “Yes. Alexander. We married five summers ago. You’d like him. He’s very…” She paused. “He’s a good man.”

Francis smiled and congratulated her. And for a moment—just a moment, a tiny, tiny moment—he felt a stab of jealousy, a keen loss, that he wasn’t the father of her children, wasn’t the one she watched coming home every night, that he’d lost this beautiful girl long ago, when they were children. He felt an odd possessiveness over the fact that he’d been with Olivia long before this Alexander, like he had a stronger claim over her.

But it was a tiny moment, drowned out in the sea of Life, drowned out when he remembered whose children he was the father of. “You know, Mary and I have a daughter,” he offered.

Amusement glimmered in Olivia’s eyes, and Francis got the feeling that she was restraining a laugh. “Really?”

“Her name’s Anne. She’s a beautiful girl.”

“I’m sure she is.”

Francis grinned mischievously. “I’ll bet she’s prettier than your Claire.”

She raised a teasing eyebrow. “Oh, you do? I don’t think so. You’ve never seen my Claire.”

“You’ve never seen my Anne,” he shot back.

They laughed, delighted in re-discovering each other, in re-discovering that little, tiny piece of soulmate they’d found in each other years and years ago. They stood and talked, for so long a time that Louis felt compelled to sit on the dusty ground. Olivia barely noticed.

When the sun was high in the sky, Francis knew he’d be wise to leave, before he started inviting Olivia and her family to stay in the castle, before Olivia started opening her doors to him. Mary would be wondering where he’d gotten off to, and Anne would be disappointed if he didn’t return to the castle in time to go riding with her.

“I’d better be going, then,” Francis said, smiling ruefully. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Olivia nodded, and—was it Francis’s imagination?—her smile faltered. Her eyes—those beautiful blue eyes—brimmed with the memories of two wild children’s antics, and a silent, desperate plea to stay a while longer, to recount all those antics. An offer of friendship, of a comfortable seat by the fire, of a good bottle of wine and a hearty loaf of bread, of plenty of laughter and promises to keep in touch.

But while Francis truly was glad he’d seen her today, he was finished accepting offers from Olivia. So he smiled apologetically, said, “Goodbye, Olivia,” and tried to ignore the shadow of disappointment in her eyes. As he climbed atop his horse and began to ride away, he swiveled in his saddle, waving a hand, and yelled, “I’ve missed you!”

Her smile regained its former strength, and she lifted a hand high, waving vigorously. Her boy beside her imitated her movements, flashing a gap-toothed smile. As Francis rode on and they became two small figures fading in the dust, he thought he heard a faint, “So have I!”

But there was really no way to be sure.