Chapter 14
étienne turns toward the staircase. As I follow him up, the floorboards creaking, my mind is still caught on the memory of our almost-kiss. I try to box it up so I can focus on the present.
I’ve only been upstairs once before. It was the day I’d turned up in tears after realizing Jackson and Chloe had taken their relationship to the next level. Thankfully I’d recovered by the time I was leaving because his mother had called out, wanting to say goodbye.
I remember étienne pausing before he opened the door, almost as though he was steeling himself.
He does the same thing now—I’m not sure if he’s aware of it—but I can see the set of his shoulders, the strain in his hand and forearm, the moment’s pause before the handle is turned and the door is pushed open.
The room looks the same as it did back then, but now the bed is made and there’s no woman with long dark hair lying in it, her bones unnaturally thin beneath the covers.
That was the last time I saw Estelle.
I was supposed to come back here once more before I flew home, but I’d forgotten it was Albert’s birthday dinner so I asked étienne if he’d come and say goodbye to me in town instead.
He hadn’t been able to make it. My mother is having a bad day, he’d texted.
I’d messaged back to say that I was sorry to hear it, that I hoped she’d feel a bit better soon and asked if he would stay in touch. My message was breezy, but I was gutted not to see him again.
He never replied.
I’ve noticed that he has a different number these days.
I wonder if he lost his phone back then and had to get a new one, but I suspect he intentionally cut me loose.
Given the way I’d cried over Jackson and with all that he was going through, I was no doubt a complication that he just didn’t need.
And what use was a friend who lived in another country anyway?
The three photo frames that were here ten years ago are still on the dresser.
I remember cooing over the one of étienne laughing in his mother’s arms—he was very cute as a little boy.
The other photos are of him as a teenager and Estelle’s parents on their wedding day; they’re all coated with a thick layer of dust. Everything is, actually.
I cast étienne a look of concern. “Have you been in here since you lost her?”
“Only a handful of times. I could barely find the energy to make the bed when she was moved to a hospice.”
Thunder rolls again outside and the pitter-patter of light rain can be heard on the roof. He opens the wardrobe and sits on the well-worn floorboards. I hear him sigh as he stares at the contents before him. Brightly colored clothes hang on the rail and beneath it are rows of shoes on racks.
“That is a very neat wardrobe,” I say as I settle down beside him.
“She wanted it to be easy for me,” he replies quietly.
His words hit me like a punch to the gut.
He reaches for one of two old biscuit tins squeezed beneath the shoe rack. “I’m pretty sure the postcards are in here.”
But when he opens it up, we find a stack of what look like letters. étienne frowns at them. Then he lifts out the bundle, which is tied with a blue ribbon, and thumbs through it.
“Do you know who they’re from?”
“No.” His voice sounds tight.
The top letter is addressed to Estelle Fournier at Les Saules in sloping handwriting.
“Is Fournier your surname?” I ask as the rain starts to come down harder.
He nods.
étienne Fournier. I want to say it out loud, but I resist.
I’m guessing the other letters are all from the same person, as they’re written on identical expensive-looking cream-colored stationery.
étienne gingerly slides the top envelope out from the ribbon and opens it, pulling out a folded letter. He peeks at the contents and freezes. And then he shoves the letter, together with all the others, back into the tin, slamming the lid and pushing it to one side.
“What is it?” I’m about to keel over with curiosity. “Who are they from?”
“My father,” he replies bluntly.
I let out an audible gasp. His father died before he was born—it was one of the things we’d bonded over, the fact that we had that in common.
“Are you going to read them?” I’m excited at the thought. I’d love to be able to read a letter from my father to my mother.
“Maybe later,” he mutters, bringing out the second tin.
I notice his hesitancy before he opens this one, as well as his sagging shoulders when he discovers that it’s full of postcards.
“Here they are,” he says with relief, sliding the tin between us.
There are a lot, but many are copies of the same design. I show him one of a blond-haired lady in a flowing yellow kimono with a green leaf design and flowers in her hair. Art nouveau was inspired partly by the art and architecture of Japan; I’ve been doing some research.
The rain is pelting down now. There’s something kind of cozy about being holed up in this room, looking at turn-of-the-century art together, but at the same time, I’m never fully relaxed when I’m with étienne.
I realize I’m actually more comfortable around Jackson.
“Your great-great—how many greats is it?” I ask.
“One more, I think.”
“Your great-great-great-grandfather was so talented,” I say with a smile. “I love that your mum took up a paintbrush too. It’s nice when skills flow down through a family. It’s like you with restoring French cars.”
“Have you picked up anything from your ancestors?” he asks, resting his back against the foot of the bed. We’re not touching, but we’re not far off.
I shrug, trying to ignore the jumpy feeling behind my rib cage. “I don’t know about my dad’s side, but I haven’t inherited a drink or drug addiction, so that’s something.”
He looks confused. “Who had a drink-drug addiction?”
“My mum’s parents.”
“I thought Mellie was your mother’s mother.”
“She was her foster mother. She’s better than blood.”
“I didn’t realize. You inherited your father’s eyes though. I remember you telling me that once.”
“You said the same thing, as I recall.”
I’m hit with a flashback of him leaning in close, studying me with an intensity that made me blush. When he said my pale green eyes looked golden in the sunlight, the heat on my face spread to every part of my body.
I’d never seen eyes like his before. I’d had a boyfriend the previous year who had light blue eyes, but the color was vivid, whereas étienne’s are washed out, a bit like faded denim but with a gray hue. They’re incredibly beautiful, especially when set against his thick, dark lashes.
“Do you ever miss your dad?” I ask.
His brows knit together as he shakes his head. “I can’t really miss what I never had.”
“I miss my dad,” I confide. “I didn’t know him either, but I think you can miss what you never had. You can miss the idea of what you could have had.”
“Your father was a refugee. Have I remembered that correctly?”
“Yes, Kosovar Albanian,” I reply. “He came to the UK with his mother, but went home when he was old enough to fight in the war. His father and uncle had stayed behind.” He’d been at university with Mum—I was conceived the night before he left, but he was killed before Mum found out that she was pregnant.
He inspired her, not just in life but in death.
She never went back to finish her film studies degree; instead she became an aid worker.
We continue looking through the postcards.
“Here she is!” I exclaim as we come to the lady in the oyster shell. I can see her resemblance to Sainte églantine, but other postcards have influenced her too. I think my favorite is of a woman in a blue dress with a heavy crown of yellow roses—the crown reminds me of Estelle’s pavilion painting.
I grin at étienne, but my smile fades as he rests his head back against the bed, a glint of gray beneath his dark lashes. His expression is somber. The rain is still pounding down.
“It’s always so hard coming here,” he confesses.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
I don’t like witnessing his pain, but I feel as if I know him better when he’s like this. He’s more familiar somehow, as though we never fell out of touch. I’m glad that he’s opening up to me again.
“But it’s been easier coming with you,” he adds.
My heart lifts. “I can come back with you anytime you want. I could help you with some house repairs, although maybe we should start with a good clean.”
“Haven’t you got enough on?” he asks, and his sudden smile makes me feel lightheaded.
“I can always find more time.”
I jolt as a drop of water splashes onto my arm.
“Merde,” étienne exclaims, leaping to his feet and rushing out of the room as I look up at the ceiling. He hurries back in with a bucket. “You want to retract that offer?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Maybe there’s more to do here than I thought, but I’m still game if you are.”