Chapter 8: Secrets of the Locket
2261words
My heart quickened as I approached the door. In my original timeline, my grandmother had passed away when I was thirty-two. Now, here she was, alive again—though for her, we'd never lost those years. The strange paradox of my situation struck me anew.
Before I could knock, the door swung open. Eleanor Bennett stood framed in the doorway, elegant as ever in a simple blue dress, her silver hair swept into a loose chignon. At seventy-five, she carried herself with the same artistic grace that had defined her youth.
"Lily," she said, her eyes bright with emotion. "I knew you'd come today. I felt it."
She embraced me tightly, and I breathed in her familiar scent of lavender and oil paint. When we separated, her keen eyes studied my face with unsettling perception.
"You've changed," she said simply. "It's in your eyes."
I swallowed hard. If anyone would understand my impossible situation, it would be her. "I have so much to tell you, Grand-mère."
She nodded, as if she'd expected nothing less. "Come in. I've made tea."
---
The sitting room was exactly as I remembered—walls lined with bookshelves, paintings stacked in corners, a battered easel by the window overlooking the small garden. My grandmother had never stopped creating, even when arthritis began to twist her fingers.
"Your letter mentioned the Durands," I began carefully, watching her reaction as she poured tea into delicate cups.
Her hand trembled slightly, the only indication that the name affected her. "Yes. Alexandre Durand. Henri's grandson, I presume?"
"Yes. He's my publisher now."
She set down the teapot, her expression thoughtful. "History has a strange way of circling back on itself." Her eyes dropped to the locket visible at my neckline. "Especially when that's involved."
I touched the pendant instinctively. "Grand-mère, what is this locket? Really? Your letter hinted at family legends, but I need to know the truth."
"The truth," she repeated softly. "Such a simple word for such a complicated thing." She settled into her armchair, teacup balanced on her knee. "What do you already know, Lily? Or perhaps I should ask—what have you already experienced?"
The directness of her question startled me. I hesitated, then decided on complete honesty. "I was thirty-five," I said quietly. "Married to a banker named Tom Harrington. Living in Connecticut. I'd stopped painting years before—just decorative pieces for friends' homes, nothing real." I took a deep breath. "We argued on our anniversary. I drove off in a storm, lost control of the car on a coastal road. The last thing I remember was the locket burning against my skin as the car went over the edge."
I expected shock, disbelief. Instead, my grandmother nodded calmly. "And then you woke up here, fifteen years earlier. Back in Paris."
"You believe me?" I whispered, tears springing to my eyes.
"Of course I believe you." She reached across to take my hand. "You're not the first Bennett woman to be given a second chance."
Relief flooded through me—the profound relief of being understood, of not being alone in my impossible experience. "The locket did this?"
"The locket is merely the vessel," she explained. "The power comes from something older, something tied to our family line." She touched her own neck, where I knew she'd once worn the same pendant. "It's been passed down for generations, always with the same purpose—to give a second chance to a woman who has lost her true path."
"But how? Why?"
My grandmother rose and moved to an antique secretary desk in the corner. From a hidden drawer, she withdrew a small leather-bound book. "This journal belonged to Elise Bennett—your great-great-grandmother. She was the first in our family to experience what you're experiencing now."
She handed me the journal, its leather soft with age. "Elise was married to an English diplomat in 1870. She'd abandoned her artistic dreams to become the perfect diplomatic wife. During the siege of Paris, she was separated from her husband. The locket came to her through a French soldier who found her sheltering in an abandoned building. The next morning, she woke up ten years earlier, before she'd met her husband."
I ran my fingers over the journal's worn cover. "And she changed her path?"
"She stayed in Paris, became a painter of some renown. Never married the diplomat." My grandmother smiled slightly. "She was my father's grandmother. Without her choice to remain in Paris, I would never have existed."
"And you?" I asked softly. "Did you also...?"
"Yes." Her eyes grew distant with memory. "I was working at Durand Publishing in 1954. Henri Durand was..." she hesitated, "...important to me. When things ended badly between us, I returned to England, married your grandfather, and tried to forget Paris." She sighed. "In 1968, during a protest I was covering as a journalist, I was struck by a police baton. The locket burned against my skin, and I woke up in 1954 again."
"What did you change?"
"Not what you might think," she said with a sad smile. "I still left Paris. I still married your grandfather. But I never stopped painting, never surrendered my artistic voice. That was my true regret—not losing Henri, but losing myself."
I absorbed this revelation slowly. "The locket doesn't change who we love? It changes how we live?"
"The locket doesn't dictate the change, Lily. It simply offers the opportunity. Each woman must discover her own deepest regret." She leaned forward. "What was yours?"
"Abandoning my art," I said without hesitation. "Choosing security over truth. Becoming someone I didn't recognize."
She nodded. "And now you have the chance to choose differently."
"But why?" I pressed. "Why does this happen to the women in our family?"
My grandmother's expression grew solemn. "The original locket belonged to Isabelle Fournier, a painter in 18th century Paris. The story goes that she made a bargain with... something not entirely of this world. Her greatest regret was never completing her masterpiece before she died. The entity granted her wish—a second chance—but with a condition: the gift would pass through her bloodline, offering the same opportunity to her female descendants who lost their true path."
"That sounds like a fairy tale," I said skeptically.
"Perhaps. But you're living it, aren't you?" She touched the locket at my throat. "There are rules, Lily. Things you should know."
"What rules?"
"The second chance is singular—you cannot go back again. Whatever choices you make now, you must live with them." Her eyes held mine intently. "And the locket's power is finite. Once you've fully embraced your new path, made the crucial choice that addresses your deepest regret, the magic fades. The locket becomes simply a beautiful antique."
"How will I know when that happens?"
"You'll feel it," she said simply. "The warmth will fade. The connection will quiet."
I thought of how the locket had pulsed with heat when I rejected Tom's invitation, when I chose my artistic integrity over the safer path. "I think it's already happening."
"Then you're making the right choices." She hesitated, then added, "There's one more thing you should know. About Henri Durand and why I left Paris."
I leaned forward, eager to finally understand the mystery. "What happened between you?"
"I was illustrating a special edition of French poetry for Durand Publishing. Henri and I... we fell in love. It was inappropriate—he was married, though unhappily—but we believed our connection transcended convention." Her eyes grew distant with memory. "I wore the locket always. One day, Henri noticed it and became obsessed with it. He recognized it from an old family portrait—a painting of Isabelle Fournier wearing the same pendant."
"Why would that matter to him?"
"Because Henri was Isabelle's descendant through her husband's line. The Fourniers became the Durands two generations later." She sighed. "Henri believed the locket contained some power. He wanted to study it, understand it. When I refused to surrender it, he became... difficult. Possessive. He claimed it belonged rightfully to his family."
"And that's why you left?"
"I left because I realized Henri loved the idea of me—the artistic muse, the passionate affair—more than he loved me as a person. The locket was just the final revelation." She looked at me intently. "Be careful with Alexandre, Lily. The Durand men have always been drawn to artistic women, but they can be possessive of what they consider theirs—talent, beauty, legacy."
"Alexandre isn't like that," I protested, though doubt crept in. His reaction to my locket, his evasiveness about family history...
"Perhaps not," she conceded. "But the locket will call to him, just as it called to Henri. It's part of his family history too, though he may not know it yet."
I touched the pendant thoughtfully. "Should I tell him the truth? About the locket? About me?"
"That's for you to decide." She closed her hand over mine. "But remember—your second chance wasn't given to you for someone else's benefit. It was given so you could reclaim your own path, your own voice."
---
On the Eurostar back to Paris, I read Elise's journal from cover to cover. Her words echoed across time—the disorientation of waking in her younger body, the determination to use her second chance wisely, her gradual embrace of an authentic artistic life.
One passage particularly resonated: *"The strangest aspect of this miracle is not the return to youth, but the clarity with which I now see my choices. What seemed impossible before now appears as the only true path. I paint not for acclaim or security, but because to do otherwise would be to die while still breathing."*
The locket rested warm against my skin as the French countryside blurred past the window. I understood now that its magic wasn't just in the impossible return through time, but in the clarity it brought—the ability to recognize the authentic path I'd abandoned once before.
By the time the train pulled into Gare du Nord, I felt transformed—lighter yet somehow more substantial, as if understanding the locket's purpose had anchored me more firmly in this second life.
Alexandre was waiting on the platform, tall and distinguished among the crowd of travelers. My heart quickened at the sight of him. Whatever complicated history existed between our families, my feelings for him were becoming impossible to deny.
"Welcome back," he said, taking my small suitcase. "How was your grandmother?"
"Illuminating," I replied honestly. "She told me about her time at Durand Publishing. About your grandfather."
Alexandre's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Did she?"
"She said there was a... disagreement. About a family heirloom."
We walked in silence toward the taxi stand, tension building between us. Finally, Alexandre spoke. "My grandfather was not always an honorable man, especially where beautiful women were concerned." He glanced at me. "But that's ancient history. It has nothing to do with us."
"Doesn't it?" I stopped walking, forcing him to face me. "You recognized my locket the first time you saw it. You've been evasive about the connection between our families ever since."
Alexandre sighed, running a hand through his hair in a rare gesture of frustration. "There's a portrait in my family home—a woman from the 18th century wearing that exact pendant. My grandfather was obsessed with finding it. He believed it held some secret power." His eyes met mine. "I always thought it was nonsense. Until I saw it around your neck and felt..."
"Felt what?" I pressed when he hesitated.
"A connection," he admitted reluctantly. "Something I can't explain."
The locket warmed against my skin, as if responding to his words. I made a decision in that moment—not complete honesty, not yet, but a step toward truth.
"This locket has been in my family for generations," I said carefully. "It's important to me in ways I can't fully explain either. But I promise you, Alexandre, I'm not here because of some ancient family dispute. I'm here because of my art, because of the opportunity you've given me."
His expression softened. "You've changed since you went to London. There's something different about you—a certainty that wasn't there before."
"I understand myself better now," I said simply. "What I want. What matters to me."
"And what is that?" he asked, his voice low.
"To create work that speaks truth. To live without compromise." I met his gaze steadily. "To follow the path I was always meant to walk."
Something shifted in Alexandre's eyes—respect, admiration, and something deeper that made my heart race. "Then we want the same things," he said quietly.
As we continued toward the taxi, his hand found the small of my back—a gesture both protective and possessive. The locket pulsed warmly against my skin, neither warning nor encouraging, simply acknowledging the path I was choosing with open eyes and full awareness of its complexities.
Whatever history existed between the Bennetts and the Durands, whatever power the locket held, I understood now that my second chance wasn't about avoiding mistakes—it was about making choices with complete clarity about who I truly was and what I truly wanted.
And as Alexandre's hand remained steady against my back, as the locket warmed against my skin, I embraced the uncertainty of this new path with a confidence my first life had never known.
