The same startling sensation swept over her from head to toe as she looked back into the dark eyes of a man who was a complete stranger to her, but clearly not to her mother. She swallowed hard, turning the photo over and examining the scrawled signature. The initials. The smudge of the aged ink. The crinkled lines from bent corners.
The photo had been through a lot—and apparently so had her mom.
Bri rocked back on her heels in front of the trunk, sending a dust bunny skittering past like a tumbleweed. She let out a slow breath. There had to be more here. If her mom had saved a photo, maybe there was an explanation somewhere else.
But where? Bri frowned. She’d thoroughly gone through all her parents’ belongings after the funeral and saved what she wanted for sentimental value. The rest was donated. No way anything had slipped past her and Mabel and Agnes during that teary time. No, this kind of memory would be hidden.
Hidden. She narrowed her eyes and reached back into the trunk, carefully removing the familiar contents piece by piece. The hardback books. The lace doilies. The quilt. She sneezed from another rogue puff of dust and kept mechanically removing items until her hands braced flat against the bottom.
She felt around, then rose on her knees to peer into the dim shadows. It was solid. Plain wood. Nothing fancy. But what was she expecting—a panel to open into a secret chamber? Maybe next she’d find a winter wonderland and a lamppost behind a rack of fur coats.
This was ridiculous. “You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.” She spoke out loud, the sound of her own voice echoing in the silent attic, giving her new appreciation for how crazy she must look. First, she had splashed around in a fountain at night in her best dress to find a key, now she was groping around a trunk in the semidarkness for clues that weren’t there.
Maybe that was all there was. Just some letters. Just a photo. Just a memory better left in the past. A story untold.
Her heart thundered in protest as the ache of unanswered questions demanded to be soothed.
She began returning the items to the trunk, carefully, knowing this would be the last time she’d be back. For a while—maybe forever? At least until she moved out one day. She couldn’t take the reminder of the uncertainty.
And that was the worst part of all—not knowing. Did her mother have an affair? Had it been one-sided? Was it relegated to letter-writing only, or had it been physical?
Had her father ever known? Was her mother a decades-long liar? Was it possibly all a horrible misunderstanding?
It was a lot easier to bury mementos than the past. Her stomach cramped as she piled the stacks of books on top of each other, then nestled the doilies down beside them. The faded navy, purple, and green quilt went on top last, covering the rest of the items. And there they’d stay. Protected from the truth.
Maybe that’s how it was meant to be.
Bri stood reluctantly and shut the trunk, but the quilt caught the corner and wedged between the hinges. She raised the lid and tucked the edges back down.
Something hard crinkled under her fingers.
Her breath hitched. She ran her hand between the folds of the quilt and a semi-sharp corner pricked her finger. She winced and tugged it free. An envelope.
Sealed and addressed.
Monsieur T.R.
27 Rue Pasteur
Paris, France
The letter quivered in her hands, and she willed strength into her fingers. This was it.
This was the truth. All this time, hidden inside the quilt she’d refused to wash because it still carried the faint scent of dried roses from the trunk. The faint aroma of her mom.
She stared at the letter. She should go to Mabel and Agnes and open it with them for moral support. This was the final evidence—she knew it. She hadn’t been crazy. She hadn’t been imagining the worst. It was here, tangible proof. Whatever the letter contained, they’d help her figure out how to process it.
But strangely enough, she didn’t want to go to them. She didn’t want Mabel’s well-meaning coddling and Agnes’s well-meaning suspicion.
She wanted Gerard.
Dear T.R.,
I used to be young, and foolish. Now I’m older and even more foolish to allow a door to stay cracked that never should have opened in the first place.
Newlywed life was hard, and living in a foreign country was even more difficult for me all those years ago. Hard to learn the language, hard to be separated from my hometown and all things familiar . . . hard to trust a man. When I met you that day on the Seine, I should have nodded and kept walking.
But you drew me in, with your passion and your photos and compliments. My husband was never a natural at those things—at finding beauty and making a woman feel beautiful. He was always working, always pursuing the next financial goal instead of my heart. But you were a natural at those things, and it was to my detriment.
The letters you sent were nice, I admit. My sinful heart knows that well. It was comforting, in the turmoil of a new marriage, to have a plan B, a “just in case” for myself if marriage proved too difficult. But you deserve more than a plan B, and my husband and daughter deserve much more than a halfhearted wife and mother.
So I’m going to confess it all. I almost did years ago, when I first moved back to the States and cut you off. Those years of silence from you were the best for all of us as I healed and moved forward. I never should have allowed you to start
