His words hit me like a punch to the gut.
He reaches for one of two old biscuit tins squeezed beneath the shoe rack. “I’m pretty sure the postcards are in here.”
But when he opens it up, we find a stack of what look like letters. Étienne frowns at them. Then he lifts out the bundle, which is tied with a blue ribbon, and thumbs through it.
“Do you know who they’re from?”
“No.” His voice sounds tight.
The top letter is addressed to Estelle Fournier at Les Saules in sloping handwriting.
“Is Fournier your surname?” I ask as the rain starts to come down harder.
He nods.
Étienne Fournier.I want to say it out loud, but I resist.
I’m guessing the other letters are all from the same person, as they’re written on identical expensive-looking cream-colored stationery.
Étienne gingerly slides the top envelope out from the ribbon and opens it, pulling out a folded letter. He peeks at the contents and freezes. And then he shoves the letter, together with all the others, back into the tin, slamming the lid and pushing it to one side.
“What is it?” I’m about to keel over with curiosity. “Who are they from?”
“My father,” he replies bluntly.
I let out an audible gasp. His father died before he was born—it was one of the things we’d bonded over, the fact that we had that in common.
“Are you going to read them?” I’m excited at the thought. I’d love to be able to read a letter from my father to my mother.
“Maybe later,” he mutters, bringing out the second tin.
I notice his hesitancy before he opens this one, as well as his sagging shoulders when he discovers that it’s full of postcards.
“Here they are,” he says with relief, sliding the tin between us.
There are a lot, but many are copies of the same design. I show him one of a blond-haired lady in a flowing yellow kimono with a green leaf design and flowers in her hair. Art nouveauwasinspired partly by the art and architecture of Japan; I’ve been doing some research.
The rain is pelting down now. There’s something kind of cozy about being holed up in this room, looking at turn-of-the-century art together, but at the same time, I’m never fully relaxed when I’m with Étienne.
I realize I’m actually more comfortable around Jackson.
“Your great-great—how many greats is it?” I ask.
“One more, I think.”
“Your great-great-great-grandfather was so talented,” I say with a smile. “I love that your mum took up a paintbrush too. It’s nice when skills flow down through a family. It’s like you with restoring French cars.”
“Have you picked up anything from your ancestors?” he asks, resting his back against the foot of the bed. We’re not touching, but we’re not far off.
I shrug, trying to ignore the jumpy feeling behind my rib cage. “I don’t know about my dad’s side, but I haven’t inherited a drink or drug addiction, so that’s something.”
He looks confused. “Who had a drink-drug addiction?”
“My mum’s parents.”
“I thought Mellie was your mother’s mother.”
“She was her foster mother. She’s better than blood.”
