‘Don’t you sometimes wish you could just wipe the slate clean? That you could start over and not keep getting lost in the past?’
Joe nodded, taking her ice cream cup and setting it down beside his. Then he turned back to her and cupped her cheek in his palm, leaning in and pressing the warmest, softest kiss to her lips.
‘The thing is, Mia, you are making me forget the past,’ he said, pulling away just enough to murmur to her. ‘But my past is a little different to yours. It’s easy to forget when I’m with you.’
What she would have told him, if she were braver, was that he was making her forget, too. Not her time with Ethan, but the pain of afterwards. Joe had done more to heal her than any therapist had, and at the very least he’d shown her that she could meet someone else who made her feel wanted and cherished. Sometimes she wondered if she’d idolised what she’d had withEthan to the point of believing no other man could ever live up to her memory of him. Before now. Now she could see that there was more for her; that she had so much more still to look forward to.
Joe leaned in and kissed her again, and she sighed against his mouth, wishing that their days together weren’t fast running out.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘Anything,’ he replied, slinging his arm around her shoulders and sitting back beside her.
‘If I’d been French, and we’d met, would you have asked me to the party?’
He looked away, staring out at something she couldn’t see before slowly turning back to her. ‘No.’
She nodded. If he’d been in London, she probably wouldn’t have said yes, either. But there had been something about being away, about being prepared to take a risk because she wasn’t at home.
‘Honestly? I asked you because I thought I wouldn’t see you again after that night.’
She reached for his hand and dropped her head to his shoulder. She understood. And maybe that was why they’d both got on so easily, because somewhere deep inside they were both a little broken, and one night had felt safe.
‘I was afraid of getting close to someone, of falling in love, of getting hurt,’ he said. ‘It’s been easier to dip in and out of casual relationships that never had the chance of becoming anything more.’
Mia closed her eyes. ‘And now?’ she whispered.
He was silent for a long moment, and when she opened her eyes and glanced up at him, she could see the hard line of his jaw.
Joe wrapped his arms around her, tightly, holding her against him as he pressed a fierce kiss to the top of her head.
‘Now I’m wondering how I ever thought one night with you would be enough.’
Mia was grateful for being busy, because it stopped her from thinking about leaving. No matter how much she wanted to stay and keep searching, she’d resigned herself to the fact that she would have to come back another time. She couldn’t stay on holiday forever, even though the idea was tempting, but one thing was for sure—she wasn’t going to give up on Hope yet.
They’d eaten at the best little restaurants, and had had so much fun along the way, and now she was strolling through the village of Provins, their last stop on their way back to Paris, with her camera dangling around her neck as she admired the beautiful stone architecture everywhere she looked.
She had one hand on her camera now, her fingers already at home gripping the sides as she admired the view, when she realised that she didn’t have a photo of Joe.
‘Joe,’ she called out, making him look up from where he was standing outside a little boulangerie.
She clicked the moment he looked up, catching him with his hand raking through his hair, a smile lifting the edges of his mouth at her call. And then again when his eyebrows pulled together in a frown, realising what she was doing.
Mia knew then that when she looked back on her time in France, it wouldn’t just be Joe she remembered fondly. It would be rediscovering the joy of holding her camera, and that alone was enough to make her feel whole again. And that was when she realised what she needed to do, whether she ever found outmore about Hope or not. She wanted to photograph each of the women who’d received a box, in honour of her great-aunt; she wanted to put together a private exhibition, a tribute as such.
As she looked out at the landscape, she imagined photographing each woman with her box, holding it in her palms. She wanted to recapture the moment when they opened it for the very first time, the connection they felt when they realised who it had once belonged to, and who it had been left for. And she would photograph Hope’s box, even though there was nothing inside it. Because if it hadn’t been for those little boxes, discovered so many decades after they’d been made, tucked beneath the floorboards, Mia would never have gone on her own journey. A journey that she very much felt wasn’t over yet.
Somehow, from beyond the grave, Hope was the one who’d helped Mia reclaim her life. In retracing her steps, she’d found her own path back to happiness.
‘Croissant or éclair?’ Joe called out.
Mia smiled before giving him a shrug. ‘Both?’
He laughed and muttered something in French that she hadn’t a chance of understanding, but if she had to guess he was probably cursing how English she was. But it might be a long time before she ate such good pastry again.
When he came back, holding two paper bags, he folded his arms around her, the bags against her waist as she leaned back into his chest.
‘Why are you smiling like that?’
