Chapter 39
39
18 DECEMBER
The next day, I’m up late after a long evening writing. The words spilled out of me, almost as if the heroine was writing the story herself, and I was merely the conduit transcribing for her. That doesn’t happen very often, so I’m counting it as a win, as if the romance gods are on my side and want me to succeed after suffering a block that I thought I’d never recover from.
I make myself a coffee, smiling when I see Manon’s found some literary mugs. Half-asleep still, I follow a noise and find Manon behind the reception desk, hanging a string of fairy lights across the front that cascade down in pretty loops.
‘What’s this?’ A pretty Christmas gift box wrapped in silver ribbon sits on the counter. ‘Papillote Christmas chocolates. For you.’
My heart expands. There’s a whole story about how Papillote chocolates came to be. As it goes, in the city of Lyon in the late eighteenth century, there was a shy apprentice who loved a girl but didn’t have the courage to tell her. Instead, he pilfered some chocolate from the confiseur and wrapped it in a love note to gift to the girl he hoped to make his sweetheart. The love-struck thief was caught by his boss, Mr Papillote, who thought the idea was genius, and so the Papillote Christmas chocolates were born, and they’re still popular today during the festive season.
‘When did Noah drop them off? I should thank him.’ It’s such a fitting gift after we’ve been surrounded by secret letters from the past.
Manon finishes tacking the last loop of Christmas lights. ‘I’m not sure if they’re from Noah. They were out the front when I opened the doors for the tradespeople. There’s a card under the box with your name on it.’
‘ Merci .’
I take the box and envelope along with my coffee back to the kitchen. I open the card and it reads:
Christmas chocolate and a love note, what could be sweeter? Would you like to go to a Christmas concert at Sainte-Chapelle this evening? Send me a love note back. Noah
I grin. It’s a sweet and utterly romantic gift and he’s put a lot of thought into it. I open one of the chocolates, a rich dark chocolate delight that melts on my tongue while I think of a reply.
I find a piece of notepaper in a drawer, not as fancy as Noah’s card, but needs must, and write:
Merci beaucoup for the Christmas chocolates, they are my favourite. I’d love to go to Sainte-Chapelle this evening. Herewith is your chosen chocolate. I hope you like hazelnut. Anais.
I wrap the note around the chocolate.
‘Manon!’ I yell. ‘Can you deliver this to Noah?’
‘Now I’m UberEats?’
I laugh, picturing Manon on a vespa ferrying food all over Paris. ‘You’d eat their chocolates if you were an Uber driver, wouldn’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t be able to resist.’
‘Take one of these for your trouble.’ I hold up the box and she chooses an almond praline for herself.
‘Just the one. Wow. So generous.’
We laugh as she cradles the note and chocolate as if it’s sacred and goes to deliver Noah’s.
We take a pew inside Sainte-Chapelle. It’s one of the most beautiful churches in Paris, from the rayonnant period of Gothic architecture. But what makes it particularly stunning are the stained-glass windows, shooting prisms of colour around the church. It’s breathtaking and, no matter how many times I visit, I’m still rendered speechless by its beauty.
The carollers start, the young choir who have the voice of angels. My eyes well up at the pure sound that’s so haunting and sweet and I try surreptitiously to dab at my eyes, wishing I’d thought to bring a tissue, or at least not worn a white jumper.
I’m sniffling and snuffling when Noah exits the pew, before returning with a small sachet of tissues. ‘The usher said it happens all the time.’
I send him a grateful smile. It’s the magic of Christmas, their cherubic voices, being bathed in pools of light, like we’re actually in the belly of a kaleidoscope, it’s Noah, the warmth and strength of him right beside me. It’s grace for myself and letting go of what came before. It’s a new start. It’s a new stronger me. Once bruised and battle scarred. Now healed.
I lean my head against Noah’s shoulder and put my hand on his chest. The beat of his heart is in symphony with mine.
After the concert, we take a walk along the Seine, hand in hand. Stars sparkle overhead as dinner cruises decorated for Christmas chug along the river. There’s a festive air as families walk in large groups, out late to attend markets. Revellers spill from bistros, smoking cigarettes. In a doorway, a couple embrace, laughing breathlessly before kissing. I catch Noah’s eye and we exchange a smile. ‘Love is in the air,’ I say.
‘ Oui ,’ he says, and he turns to face me.
I don’t hesitate; I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. The world around me fades to black as I melt into his arms and our kiss deepens with an intensity that feels right.