Then I spot the book.
I lift it carefully.Madeline, obviously a collector’s copy. The spine is worn just enough to prove it’s been loved, but it’s clearly something rare. Special.
It must be worth a small fortune.I think.Esme’s not going to touch this until she’s sixteen.
I open the front cover, expecting a bookplate or owner’s note. But instead, I see the 1939 copyright. It’s an original. And then I see the inscription.
À ma petite fille courageuse, Esme.
Avec tout mon amour, Papa.
To my brave little girl, Esme.
With all my love, Papa.
That’s when I really cry. Messy, shoulder-shaking sobs. And at the same time—Fool!—I think.He’s written in a rare collector’s copy.But I clutch it to my chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Because it is.
There’s another package in the box—a square bundle wrapped in deep indigo silk, tied with a velvet ribbon.
I unwrap it slowly.
Les Contemplationsby Victor Hugo. The old edition. I’d mentioned it once to Spencer, the night we met, when we were sharing our favorite lines over wine.
I open it and see his handwriting again, stretching across the title page.
Aimer, c’est agir.To love is to act.
And just beneath that:
Et t’aimer, Rhea—t’aimer elle aussi—ce sont les actes les plus vrais de ma vie.
And loving you—and loving her—will be the truest acts of my life.
Then an envelope, with a letter inside, falls from the folds of the silk.
My Dearest Rhea,
Of course you don’t need rescuing.Anyone who thinks such a thing could only be a fool,Likely, blinded by the desperate desire to be with you.
But, I don’t want to cage you—I want to see you fly.I don’t want to write your story—I just want to be part of it as it unfolds.Standing by your side. As your partner. As your friend.
I know you don’t need to be taken care of. But still, I hope you’ll let me—with steady acts of love, both the daily kind and the grand kind.
And though I don’t say it easily, I do hope you’ll want to take care of me, too.
I don’t want to make decisions for you—I want to make them with you.And I don’t know when—or if—you’ll wantto share an address with me.But, wherever you and Esme are, that’s where my heart will be.
Who knows? Maybe we’ll decide to grow old in a quiet French village.Drinking too much wine, getting fat on pastries, and arguing about books.Esme may roll her eyes, but she’ll know just how much Mama’ and Papa’ love her.
And if it’s not too old-fashioned an idea…Maybe someday, you’ll even consider marrying Esme’s papa.
With my heart in my hand,
Spencer
I don’t even finish readingit before I’m reaching for my phone. My hands are shaking. He answers on the first ring.
“Rhea?” His voice sounds nervous.
