The last several years of my marriage have been so fulfilling that I hated to cast a long shadow on something brimming full of light. But it’s time. Starting with you and what should have been said long ago. I’m going to burn all of the letters.
You may no longer contact me. I know that what we shared was real to you, but I’m choosing a reality that you can’t understand. I’m choosing love. Not frothy affection, nor secret meetings, nor forbidden letters, but love. Real love. It’s hard. It’s often messy and loud and full of grit. But it’s also kindness, patience, and forgiveness, which I have no doubt my husband will extend to me. And even if he doesn’t, my faith will no longer allow me to hold this secret close. I long to be rid of it.
What happened in Paris will no longer stay in Paris. The truth will emerge, for better or for worse. Love is a choice, over and above a feeling. My heart—and my choice—is forever with my family. I do hope one day you find the same grace.
Please do not respond to this letter.
Sincerely,
Julia Duval
“Wow.” Gerard leaned forward against the back of the chair he’d straddled at the desk under his B&B window as Bri finished reading. So heavy—and it made sense now, the emotional turmoil Bri had been under the past week. He had known her only a short time and had immediately recognized the respect and admiration she carried for her parents. No wonder she’d been so shaken.
Bri paced the floor between him and the red-draped bed, her high ponytail swinging with every faltered step. “Right?”
“It sounds like there were more letters than the ones you read all the time.”
“I think so too. My mom must have gotten rid of those.” She started to fold the letter in her hands, then stopped. Then folded it in half and replaced it inside the envelope. She looked like she was torn between burning the entire thing and preserving it. He didn’t blame her.
When Bri had first knocked on his bedroom door about fifteen minutes ago, his instinct had been to joke about Mrs. Beeker starting rumors about these late-night pop-ins. Then when he saw her red-rimmed eyes and pale face, his next instinct had been to pull her close, to protect her from sadness, to right whatever was wrong. Which was sort of terrifying.
Though not as terrifying as the fact that in a few days, he wouldn’t see her anymore. His open laptop sat on the desk behind him, cursor blinking a steady reminder that he was almost done with part two of the article.
Almost done with Story.
“Who knows how off-again, on-again the letter part of their correspondence was once Mom made it back to the States. But I would imagine the bulk of it took place when I was a little girl, during that year my dad was in France dealing with his family inheritance.” Bri shook her head, a sad smile turning the edges of her mouth. “I had the time frame of the letters right, but the author wrong.”
“This should make you feel better, though, huh?” Gerard braced his arms on the back of the chair. “She did the right thing. She shut it down.”
“I guess. I just still hate that it happened at all.” Bri closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, she looked . . . older. Wiser. And a little more exhausted.
But that spark, that glimmer he’d missed these last few days—it was there. Barely smoldering, but there.
He exhaled in relief. Part of him didn’t want to leave Story at all. But no part of him wanted to leave with Bri not her perky, romance-oozing, love-obsessed self. She contributed to the people of Story in that way, and he hated to see it end. She was chiseling her gift into something beautiful, and he’d gotten to watch the masterpiece develop. Despite his own cynicism, he’d felt something growing beneath the surface. Like long-buried seeds finally exposed to sun.
Great. This town was making him sappy. Bri was making him sappy. And he almost didn’t mind anymore, which was the scariest element to it all.
He rubbed his hands down his face, then looked at Bri. “Sometimes the truth is better than the wondering—even if the truth isn’t pretty.” His own words shot an arrow of conviction deep. Wasn’t he doing that with his own mom? Avoiding the issue of her alcohol consumption rather than confronting her with the truth?
“I’m starting to agree.” Bri pulled in her lower lip, worry furrowing her brow. “The one thing that really grates on me still is that she didn’t send it. If she never mailed it, does that mean she changed her mind? Why was the letter in the trunk?”
“Maybe she just needed to vent. People write stuff they never send all the time.” Gerard shrugged. “People should do that more often, actually, especially on social media.”
“Maybe.” Bri didn’t look convinced. “But if the whole point of the letter was to cut off any future communication, then he would have had to have received it to know to do so. I don’t think that’s it.”
“May I see it?” He held out his hand.
Bri hesitated, then slowly placed the envelope in his palm.
He carefully removed the letter and studied the loops and swirls of her mother’s handwriting. History breathed off the page. This paper was important—not just morally, or spiritually, though it was that—but important for Bri. For generations to come, this paper mattered.
Why hadn’t her mother sent it?
His eyes zeroed in on the date, expecting to see fifteen to twenty years in the past. But it was only about ten years ago. A hunch tapped on his shoulder, and he held his breath. “Bri? What
