He stretched out his legs, then pulled them back onto the bed. His ankle dangled over the edge of the mattress. “What’d you do to make them cut your hours? They catch you stealing apple pie?”
“Now, that was one time, and I thought it was leftover.” Her voice pitched with defense.
Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mom, I’m kidding.” Good grief. Had she actually done that?
“Oh.” She let out a hoarse laugh. “No, they just said business slowed.”
Her vague tone made him doubt the validity of that, but he wouldn’t pry. He never did.
Gerard pulled his wallet from his pocket and flipped through the measly bills. He doubted those two soggy tens were going to help her for long.
She coughed again, muted this time, as if she’d tried to cover the phone. “If it’s too much, son, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”
She really needed to quit smoking. “What time is your shift tomorrow?”
“Early.” Her voice cracked and she paused, then swallowed, as if taking a sip of water. When she spoke again, it was a little clearer. “Six a.m.”
Gerard squeezed his eyes shut. “Go get some rest, Mom. I’ll figure something out, okay?”
“You always do.” Tenderness filled her voice, and a band tightened around his heart. A band of obligation. Responsibility. Love.
No one had ever wanted to take care of her long-term. He was the only one.
He’d go to his grave making sure he did.
“Good night, Mom.” He dropped his phone onto the bed, eyeing his depleted wallet, and sighed. There was only one thing to do, and he hated to do it even more than he hated the red dripping off the walls around him.
He was going to have to ask Peter for an advance.
The attic loft of her little townhouse smelled the same as it had when she first purchased it seven years ago—musty cedar and pine.
Bri dragged her mom’s trunk from its revered designated spot by the tiny circular window overlooking the front yard. She used to consider keeping the chest in her bedroom, but it took up too much of the limited floor space. Besides, some days it made her sad to see it—a physical reminder of her official orphan status. She didn’t need that greeting her first thing in the morning. Grief was raw and unpredictable enough.
So, in the attic the trunk remained. Besides, coming up here made reading the letters more of an event, like visiting with old friends. She got to peek into her parents’ past with these crisp old notes—glimpse briefly into a time before she was born, where love reigned fresh and dripped in all things Parisian.
Unfortunately, her parents would never know the inspiration they were to her.
Outside, the dusky sky faded slowly from periwinkle to pewter. Faint stars began to peek through the evening curtain. Bri stared into the coming night. Maybe somehow, they did know. She liked to think they did.
She set her steaming mug of tea next to the faded beanbag chair she’d hauled up there last year and opened the cedar chest. The stack of letters, tied with a lavender ribbon, were on top of a stack of shoeboxes and quilts.
She gently picked them up. When had she come up here last? It’d probably been four months, at least. Maybe six.
The letters were scrawled in English with plenty of French endearments scattered throughout. French. She’d translated the French long ago and stuck a typed copy of the translations with the letters for quicker reading. Her father was born and raised French, her mother American. He’d learned English for her.
Was there anything more romantic?
Bri wasn’t quite fluent yet, but she’d been practicing off and on over the last few years. She knew enough to get by for a vacation to Paris—if she ever made it there.
She pulled the next letter from the stack and tugged it free of its envelope.
Dearest love,
I can’t wait to see you again. To tuck your hand into mine, to feel your slim fingers threaded through my rougher ones. To watch your joy as you gaze upon the Seine. To witness the wind caress your hair, each lock dancing to its own rhythm.
I miss dancing with you.
Your beauty takes my breath away. Even when you are not with me, I feel you here, and that’s enough. For now.
From Paris, with love
The words washed over her, a breath of fresh air from Gerard’s bitterness and Charles’s greed. There were good men in the world, men capable of love and chivalry, as evidenced by her father in these notes. It existed at one time, so surely it still did. Her prince would come.
Maybe he’d even have an accent.
She read the second letter in the stack, then the third. The words, familiar yet never old, soothed her weary heart like a balm. Somehow, connecting with her parents this way made her feel like things would be okay again. Charles wouldn’t prevail over the bakery. The love-lock wall would live on, and the Pastry Puff would thrive. Mabel and Agnes would continue matchmaking and grocery shopping in shawls.
Nothing else would change.
She glanced at her watch. Almost 8:30, and she still had to deliver those desserts to the B&B. She reluctantly slid the last letter into its yellowed envelope, then tucked them back inside the trunk.
The nostalgia sat a little heavier tonight than usual as she climbed back down the attic stairs into the hallway. Or maybe it was just because she knew she was about to see Gerard again.
Maybe she could just leave the desserts with Mrs. Beeker at the front desk.
She picked up her keys and the box of pastries, a strange mixture of compassion and irritation welling inside. Irritation at Gerard’s grumpiness and general apathy toward her favorite things—the Pastry Puff, romance, the love-lock wall—and compassion, because she’d learned over the
