“Oh fuck,” I reply with shock, not because he saw me—I knew he had—but because with everything else that’s been goingon, I haven’t even thought to explain. I shake my head. “Hekissedme.”
“But you’ve wanted him for so long,” he replies in a low voice. “And now he wants you too.”
“He’ll never be more than a friend and he knows that now. I feltnothingwhen he kissed me.” I think back to the feel of his lips on mine. “Actually, that’s not true.” I try to explain. “It felt wrong. All I could think about was you. I wantyou,” I say fervently. “Je te veux, Étienne.”
His face creases and he reaches out to draw me to him. My heart rate elevates as we kiss slowly and deeply, falling back onto the blanket.
I’m only vaguely aware of the river rushing past, of the birds flying by, the rustle of leaves. I’m more aware of my heartbeat and the sound of our breathing, ragged against each other’s lips.
He rolls over and brings me on top of him, easing my skirt up my thighs. He clutches my hips and pulls me down harder. Then he starts speaking French to me and it’s not long before I come undone.
“Je te veux,Étienne,” he whispers afterward as I lie in his arms.
I turn my head to look at him. “Are youreallygoing to tease me about my accent right now?” I ask with a laugh.
He smiles and shakes his head, still looking up at the branches of the willow tree. “Your accent was perfect.”
When he meets my eyes, I can tell that he means it.
“We should probably get dressed,” I say reluctantly.
He sits up, bringing me with him. “It’s very private here. Unless a nosy English girl comes along, I think we’ll be okay.”
I laugh as he smiles and kisses my neck. “You’re right, it is private, but I’m going to put my clothes on just in case.”
He sighs, giving me a lazy smile as I pick up my top. He reaches out and runs his fingers lightly over my leg, making me shiver.
“Or we could go for a swim?” he suggests.
“Don’t you want to read these letters?”
His eyes drop to the tin and his smile fades a little. “I almost forgot.”
“We don’t have to,” I say hesitantly. “They’re yours to do with what you want.”
He shakes his head. “No. I would like to read them.”
Ten minutes later, I’m lying on the blanket beside him and he’s turned toward me, propped up on his elbow, a stack of unfolded papers between us. We quickly established that the letters had been kept in date order, so it wasn’t difficult to sort them. Estelle and Sébastien pretty much matched each other word for word—his father was the first to write.
Étienne begins to read in French, which sends rivers of pleasure rushing down my spine, and then he translates into English, which, frankly, is just as beautiful.
The letters tell the story of their love affair, from the early days of Sébastien walking through the bottling department and hearing Estelle’s laughter, to her agreeing to go on a secret date with him, to him begging to introduce her to his parents properly, to her insisting that they keep things simple. It appears that Sébastien fell harder for her than she did for him—maybe she was more reserved because of her family’s history with his—but at some point she clearly stopped fighting against her feelings because there’s no holding back in the later letters: their love shines through in abundance. He continues to want to come clean to hisparents and she’s worried about how angry her brother will be if they make their relationship public, but in the last letter that she sends him, she’s nervous about what to wear. They obviously had a date set for a meeting with his parents—and then Sébastien died.
Étienne’s voice grows husky as he reads the final words.“Je t’aime pour toujours. Estelle.”
“I love you forever,” he says to me, blinking back tears.
All of their letters ended so beautifully. From a simpleJe t’aime—I love you—toJe suis amoureux de toi—I am in love with you—toJe t’aime de tout mon coeur—I love you with all my heart. Every time Étienne has read those words aloud, he has lifted his eyes to mine, saying it first in French and then in English. I have no idea if he knows how much I’m unraveling, but I’ve felt as though he’s saying those words to me.
I reach out and cup his face as a tear runs down his cheek. “He really loved her,” he says.
I nod. “I’m so sorry you lost him too.”
He breaks down.
It turns out hecanmiss what he never had.
I hold him while he cries. Their love was real and all-encompassing. It would have endured.
