Epilogue
Six and a half years later…
We lose Albert five days after Christmas.
He dies peacefully in his bed at Chateau Angèle, surrounded by friends and family and so much love.
Jackson, étienne, Sandrine, Mellie, and I are all at his bedside when he passes, and Josie and Sébastien watch over him from the frames on his dresser.
We are devastated, but we’ve been preparing for this day for weeks.
Once his health deteriorated, it happened so fast.
Sylvie and Mum are downstairs in the living room, looking after the children, but Sylvie envelops Jackson in a hug when he and I appear in the doorway.
“Are you okay?” she asks me over his shoulder, her American accent laced with concern.
I nod tearfully and she releases Jackson to give me a hug too.
Jackson did meet a nice girl in the end, one who doesn’t play games. Sylvie is like a ray of sunshine with a smile as wide as the mountains. I adore her.
She and Jackson are based here and it’s where we all spend our Christmases—the table in the dining room is the only one large enough to seat us all.
étienne comes downstairs, but Sandrine and Mellie remain behind in Albert’s bedroom. I imagine they’ll stay there for a while: his devoted daughter and his ever-faithful companion.
Albert forgave Sandrine, but it took étienne a couple of years. They’re still not the best of friends, but no one needs them to be.
“Where are the kids?” I ask Sylvie.
“With your mom, on the balcony,” she replies.
I walk around the table to where the doors have been thrown wide open and come to a stop beside my mother. She pats my back sympathetically. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “It was very peaceful.”
“Cup of tea?”
“Yes, please.”
She still struggles to show affection, but that’s okay. I receive more than enough from the other people in my life.
She leaves me to it and I stand and stare at the sight of our little girl sitting on the stone, facing Jackson and Sylvie’s son.
Elle’s dark blond hair falls to her chin and her chubby legs are stretched wide as she rolls a ball to Alfie, who’s mirroring her a few feet away.
He catches it and pushes it back toward her.
It’s not a tennis ball—it’s a big inflatable monster that belongs in the pool—but I smile at the scene anyway.
étienne comes over and slips his hand around my waist. I turn toward him and wrap my arms around his neck.
Our chests are flush so we can feel each other’s barely contained emotion, but we hold back from losing it in front of the children.
When our breathing has evened out, we lift our faces and stare into each other’s eyes.
“I’m so glad that I had that time with him,” he whispers, shattered.
I nod quickly, fighting back tears as I cup his face. “Me too. He loved you very much.”
He’s not really involved in Eau de Sainte églantine, other than giving his opinion about things when asked, but his car business is going strong and a few years ago we turned his apartment into the coffee shop that I once imagined, with tables and chairs out on the terrace surrounded by tropical plants and palm trees.
I regularly sit there with my laptop while étienne toils away on his beloved French cars upstairs, and on the days that Mellie comes to our place to look after Elle, he and I will often kayak to and from work.
We live at Les Saules and it’s prettier and even more magical than ever.
The exterior is painted the palest shade of peach and the terracotta tiles gleam under the blue sky.
Grapevines and honeysuckle creep up the walls and wildflowers run rampant along the banks.
We have a hive for bees and chickens that are locked up tight at night, just in case a wolf comes a-wandering.
Photographs line the inside walls with memories from over the years: Albert, étienne, and Jackson; Mellie, Mum, and me; Elle and Alfie.
The photograph of étienne and Estelle hangs beside the near-identical one of Josie and Sébastien.
Sometimes we picnic under the willow tree, and sometimes, when Elle is safely tucked away in bed, we make love beneath the swaying branches and swim in the warm river.
He still makes me nervous, but in the best possible way.
When I think about how he ran up to Chateau Angèle that day, blood gushing from his eyebrow, I can still recall the fast, hard thump inside my chest.
My heart beats for him. In a funny way, it always has.