Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
We stepped back inside, and the cool house enveloped me like a soothing balm. Compared to the scorching inferno outside, even the non-air-conditioned interior of the estate felt positively arctic. Sweat evaporated from my skin in an instant, leaving behind a clammy, salt-crusted feeling that made me itch for another shower.
"Are you alright?" Félicité asked.
I nodded, the movement making my head swim. "Fine. I think I just need a little rest. Last night is catching up with me."
She nodded understandingly, her eyes soft with concern. "I am going to rest a little myself. Take a book out back. Join me if you feel like it."
"I might in a little while. Thanks." The words felt heavy on my tongue, weighed down by exhaustion and a cocktail of emotions I couldn't quite name.
As I trudged up the creaking stairs toward my room, my head spun like a merry-go-round on overdrive. Why did everything seem to be coming to a head all at once? I didn't mean to throw myself a pity party, but seriously, what was it going to take for me to just have a moment of peace and calm? I was still too fresh off Evan to go getting all heart-hurt over some French winemaker I barely knew, anyway.
I toyed with the idea of following Félicité's sage advice and losing myself in a book, but my nerves were too frayed to sit still. I needed a distraction, something to occupy my restless hands and racing mind.
Almost on autopilot, I found myself wandering the halls, taking in the subtle symphony of scents and colors that made up this old house. Musty wallpaper mingled with the ghost of decades-old perfume. In some areas I hadn’t gotten to yet, paint still peeled away in delicate curls, revealing layers of history beneath. Hairline cracks spider-webbed across the plaster, telling tales of settling foundations and the passage of time.
At the end of the hall, my eyes were drawn upward to an old attic access, its wooden stairs neatly folded away. A shiver ran down my spine. I'd always had a general fear of attics, finding them exceptionally creepy and surely full of dead bodies and… well, let's just not go there. But practicality won out over irrational fear. There were likely things stored up there that needed to be sorted out. On a day when the heat made thinking feel like wading through molasses, mindless organizing sounded like the perfect distraction.
Céline's words about dividing up the belongings among the siblings echoed in my mind as I pulled down the stairs. Even though her delivery left much to be desired, I couldn't deny she had a point. Pierre might have left all of this to me, but so much of the history here wasn't really mine. They had decades of memories woven into the very fabric of this place.
Taking a deep breath, I ascended into the attic. Instantly, the air grew thick and musty, laden with the unmistakable scent of age and forgotten things. It was exactly as I'd imagined—cobwebs stretched between rafters like gossamer curtains, and a thick layer of dust coated every surface. A lone window cast a shaft of golden light across the floor, illuminating dancing motes of dust and highlighting stacks upon stacks of boxes. Furniture draped in yellowed sheets loomed like silent sentinels. It was like stepping into the pages of an old Victorian Gothic tale.
My hand fumbled along the wall until I found a pull-string light. With a soft click, the room was bathed in a warm, honey-gold glow that was far less ominous than its shadowy counterpart. The bare bulb cast long shadows that danced and swayed with my movements.
Gingerly, I picked my way through the maze of boxes, squinting at their labels. Of course, they were all in French. Thankfully, I had Google Translate at my fingertips. I pulled out my phone and scanned the words. The app obediently converted them to English: Dishes, Clothing, Knick-knacks.
Then, my eyes fell on a box simply labeled " Le passé n'est pas oublié "—The past is not forgotten. Something about those words roused goosebumps on my arms. My stomach tightened as if bracing for impact. I ran my hand over the box, feeling an almost tangible energy emanating from within. Taking a deep, dust-laden breath, I gently popped open the tape.
Inside lay stacks of papers and photographs, fragments of lives lived and memories preserved. I hesitated, suddenly feeling like an intruder in my own inheritance. But somebody had to go through all this stuff, right? We had to know what was up here and make sure there was nothing valuable or important hidden away.
With trembling fingers, I began to pull letters from the box. My heart nearly stopped when I saw an envelope addressed to Pierre Descoteaux. The return address was written in a flowing hand I recognized.
Rosemary Baker
It was from my mother. The postmark was faded but still legible. San Francisco, California, 1999.
My hands shook as I carefully opened the decades-old envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter, the paper soft and yellowed with age. Nestled alongside it was a handful of photographs. Tears pricked at the back of my eyes as I realized what I was seeing—they were pictures of a little girl. Pictures of... me.
The letter was written in French, so I held my breath as I scanned my phone over the delicate cursive script, letting the app translate as best it could:
Bonjour Pierre. I hope this letter finds you well. It's always this time of year when I dream of Provence. Of the lavender filling the air. The vines beginning to show life. The warm sun. I'm so grateful to have spent so many years enjoying that little slice of paradise. I imagine that you are now sitting on the back terrace, enjoying a glass of your famous rosé, soaking up that French sun.
I have so many regrets for the way things ended between Pascal and myself. But truly, the biggest regret I will always have is that it took Elodie away from you, away from the future I thought we might have. She's thriving here. Almost five years old now, if you can believe it. She chatters away every day and has been attending a little preschool that she loves. She will start kindergarten this September. I still read to her in French. I bought her some French children's books, you'll be happy to know. However, it makes me sad sometimes, especially when she asks questions. Which, as it turns out, four-year-olds do a lot of. She's such a curious, happy little girl.
I set down the letter, my vision blurring as hot tears flooded my eyes. The weight of decades of unspoken words, of paths not taken and futures unrealized, crashed down upon me.
I wiped away a rogue tear and reached for the next piece of history. The next thing in the box was a newspaper clipping. I picked it up and choked back a violent sob. It was my mother’s obituary.
Rosemary Michelle Baker of San Francisco, CA, age 50, lost her battle with a rare form of melanoma today. She leaves behind a beloved daughter, Elodie, and many dear friends. Rosemary was a beloved member of the community where she was a long-time elementary school teacher and very active in local environmental causes…
Before I knew it, great, heaving sobs wracked my body, echoing in the dusty stillness of the attic. The sound of my grief seemed to reverberate through the very bones of the house, giving voice to all the secrets and sorrows it had silently witnessed over the years.