With the civilities out of the way, Grandpa fetches the box and lays the fragile letters out on the dining table.
“I’ve ordered them chronologically for you,” he says.
His mouth is turned downward and his misgivings are palpable in his tone.I’m sorry, Grandpa!
Using my phone, I begin to scan the letters.
Grandpa’s head wobbles as he watches me. Theodor’s single eye watches me, too, as I make my way through the letters.
“This correspondence is private,” Grandpa mutters, head shaking harder still. “My parents never meant for them to be read by anyone, not even me.”
I’ve heard this argument before. Grandpa read the letters without permission when he was young, something he isn’t proud of. Then, after Simon passed away and Elise grew too old to care, he “relocated” the box. Basically, he stole it from her room to make sure she didn’t destroy the letters on a whim. He later came to regret that transgression, too. He plans to destroy the letters himself someday soon to honor Simon and Elise’s wishes. That’s what he claims, anyway, every time I ask to read them.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m done.
Grandpa packs the letters back into his box. He’s beyond upset about the whole situation. Under normal circumstances, he’d inquire about my week and he’d suggest I stay for dinner. But today, he bids Theodor and me goodbye and sees us out.
It breaks my heart that I had to force his hand like this. As for the prospect of discovering that Simon was a dick, it’s making my stomach turn.
By the time Theodor, Darrel and I get back in the car, I’m certain that my Resistance hero great-grandfather was no hero at all. Shuddering, I brace myself for the most unpleasant part—reading his letters with Theodor.
It’s going to be an ordeal. After we’re done, that smug boss man will have his final confirmation that my people, the Pontets, are the scum of the earth.
ELISE
“What’s the best restaurant around here?” Theodor asks his men.
Darrel grabs his phone and checks quickly. “If we don’t want to drive more than thirty minutes, then there’s one-star Michelin in a town down the road.”
“Local cuisine?”
“Yes, but revisited,” Darrel says. “They describe it as traditional chic.”
Theodor turns to me. “Do you mind if it’s only one star?”
“Do they have set menus under twenty bucks?” I ask.
I very much doubt a restaurant starred by the Michelin Guide, even when it’s “only” one star, would offer a meal that cheap. But I consider paying more than that a rip-off.
“Elise.” Theodor shoots me a hooded look of exasperation. “We will not be going dutch.”
I respond with a shrug. “OK then. No problemo. One star is perfect, actually.”
“Is it?”
“Since I’ve never been to a starred restaurant, it may beriskyto start with three stars,” I say. “The contrast with what I’m used to would betoogreat. It would destabilize me.”
He nods. “Good point.”
My gaze bores into his.Is he playing along, or did he really not catch the sarcasm?
It’s impossible to tell.
“I’ll book it, then,” Darrel says.
We drive off.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up by the restaurant and get out of the car.
