Jackson goes to a chest of drawers and begins to root through piles of clothing.
“This is so weird,” he says. “Everything is still here. It’s like a time capsule.”
I open the wardrobe and get down on my knees, movingshoes and bags and other bits and pieces aside, and then I see it: the old-fashioned biscuit tin tucked right at the back. “Jackson,” I say hesitantly, bringing it out. I ease off the lid and stare at the contents.
Sébastien, reads the top envelope in sloping cursive. No address, just his name.
Flicking through the stack and discovering that they’re all the same, I open the top one, pull out a letter, and without trying to decipher the contents—not because it’s written in French, but because this is notmyletter to read—I zero in on the name at the bottom.
Estelle.
We’ve found them.
Jackson looks a little disconcerted as I force the biscuit tin into my bag.
“I’m not sure Albie would want you to take them away,” he says uncertainly. “This room is like a shrine.”
“They’re not Albert’s,” I reply. “They belong to Étienne.”
“Yeah, okay,” he agrees.
“What will you do? Will you talk to Albert and your mum?”
He nods. “They should be home soon—they only went for a drive.”
I’d better get going then. I’d like these letters out of Sandrine’s sight and into Étienne’s hands well before she gets wind of them.
“Thanks again for your help,” I say as Jackson walks me back to the front door.
“It’s the least I can do,” he replies seriously.
Without thinking, I turn and throw my arms around his neck. “I meant what I said. You’re a good man.” I let him go and look up at his face. “I knew you’d do the right thing. I knew you’d want to set this straight.”
He looks embarrassed as he averts his gaze, his cheeks dusted with pink.
“Are we okay?” I ask worriedly.
He meets my eyes again. “Of course. We’re friends, right?”
“Always,” I whisper.
I’m blinking back tears as I walk out of the door.
37
Étienne and I take Sébastienand Estelle’s letters down to the riverbank and lay a picnic blanket out under a willow tree.
He was incredulous when I pulled the tin from my bag—he really didn’t think we’d find anything. We’ve decided to try to put the letters together and read them in the order in which they were written, hoping that they might tell us the story of his parents’ love affair.
I sit down and look across at Étienne. The branches of the tree sway all around us in the warm breeze, but it’s more sheltered down here than it was up on the mountain.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound sure.
“Are you worried about what they’ll say?”
“It’s not that. I just—” He glances at me and I feel uneasy as I realize that he’s barely looked at me since I got here. “It’s Jackson,” he says roughly. “I saw you kissing him.”
