Epilogue

CAMILLE

Paul Laurent’s fifth (but who can really be sure?) marriage took place on a rainy June morning in Paris in the living room of Isabelle’s apartment. The entire family was present for the occasion, with Flora serving as the flower girl, and Antoine as the officiant.

The vows were long and handwritten, and Camille managed not to roll her eyes, cough into her hand, or even object, because Papa and his bride had already legally married at town hall earlier that day, and because she liked Nadine, who seemed sensible and wise and acutely aware of the exact type of man she marrying.

“I can’t believe that I’m saying this,” Camille said after meeting the happy couple one weekend in May on a long overdue trip to Paris for Flora, “but I think that Papa has finally met his match.”

“And I think,” Isabelle said with a knowing look, “that you have, too.”

It was true, and perhaps the real reason why, when Papa slipped the ring onto Nadine’s finger, Camille felt her eyes tear up not with fury, but with another emotion, one that could only be described as hope, because there, across the makeshift aisle, serving as one of the best men to balance out the bridesmaids, was her other half, her better half, the yin to her yang, the lid to her pot, as all those sayings she never used to believe in went.

“You have to admit that it was a beautiful wedding,” Isabelle said afterward while she and Camille retrieved the champagne from the fridge.

“Only because you planned every detail,” Camille remarked, but she exchanged a rueful look with her sister. They both knew that it was a touching ceremony and that it had nothing to do with the stunning floral arrangements and everything to do with the people who were there.

All of Paul’s daughters were in one room. And all of their newfound loves, too.

“Almost enough to make you want to get married,” Sophie said, breezing into the kitchen in a lovely soft pink dress that brought out the color of her cheeks. Since moving to Paris full-time she had a permanent glow about her, one that Camille noticed each time she visited, and the two times that Sophie had come to England.

“Are you and Gabriel already talking about marriage?” Camille whispered.

“Not yet,” Sophie remarked, but it was clear by the light in her eyes that it was possible. Someday. “I was talking about you.”

“Please. You know that Rupert and I don’t need a piece of paper to confirm how we feel about each other. We’re fine just as we are.”

And they were. They were the same happy family that they’d always been, just a little more official now that they were all living under the same roof seven days a week. Rupert had given up the apartment in town, and the cottage was now home to the three of them, as it always really had been.

“But…” She leaned against the counter, wondering if she should tell her sisters and then deciding that she had no reason to hold back anymore. She never did. “Just because we don’t need to make it official doesn’t mean we won’t.”

“You mean you’re getting married?” Sophie squealed, then slapped a hand to her mouth, realizing it might be a surprise.

Camille nodded. “At the end of summer. You’re all invited, of course.”

“Oh, Camille.” Isabelle’s eyes filled with tears as she and Sophie leaned in to hug her. When she pulled back, she wiped her eyes. “I’m afraid that if you expect me to be a bridesmaid, you may have to alter my dress by September.”

Camille stared at her sister for a moment, trying to understand what she meant, until understanding unfolded. “Do you mean?”

Isabelle nodded excitedly, biting her lip. “It’s early days. Very early. I just took the test, yesterday. I know it’s a little scandalous, what with my divorce so fresh, but I’m not getting any younger, and Antoine and I didn’t see a reason to waste any time.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” Camille said. “You’re in love. With someone who loves you back. And with someone who wants to share the life you want to live. Oh, Isabelle. I’m so happy for you.”

“Of course, that won’t stop me from running the gallery,” Isabelle said. “As you all know, I have a very important opening in a few weeks…”

Camille groaned. “Is it too late to back out?”

“Don’t you dare,” Isabelle said. She pulled up her phone and flipped to the photos of the paintings that Camille had sent her, the preliminary work of her first collection. A series of family portraits, starting with early days, light and happy, leaning into darker, cloudier pieces, and then, her later canvases again showing bold, bright colors. “It’s brilliant, Camille. You’re brilliant.” She looked her in the eye until Camille had to look away.

“I wouldn’t have had the courage to do it without you,” she said.

“I wouldn’t be where I am without all of you,” Isabelle said, placing a hand on her stomach.

“And I wouldn’t have just sent off a first draft of my very first book to my old boss without either of you,” Sophie said with a shy smile.

“You didn’t!” Isabelle cried.

Sophie nodded, laughing. “I did. I really did it. I made it happen.”

“Just like Paris,” Camille said proudly. She reached for the champagne. “This calls for a toast.”

“What are we drinking to?” Sophie asked as Isabelle filled her own glass with water.

Camille handed Sophie a flute and then poured herself a glass. They raised their arms in a toast and paused for a moment.

“To Papa,” she said. “Who taught us to follow our hearts, and who never stopped looking for love. Because thanks to him, we all finally found it.”

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