We haven't spoken about it in days, which is how I know we've both been thinking about nothing else.
Duval greets us the way he always does—a kiss on each cheek, a real question about the lavender from a man who has known this land for decades. But he's carrying them in front of him like something that might go off: two cream-colored envelopes, identical but for the names written across them in handwriting I'd know anywhere now.
"She was very specific about when you should have these," he says, and hands one to each of us.
My name. Written by a woman I never met, at some table in this house, years before I ever set foot in it.
Then he reaches into his coat and produces one more thing—a small iron key, dark with age—and sets it on the table between us.
"And this," he says quietly.
Neither of us touches it. We both know which door it opens.
"Should we read them now?" Cat asks.
"That's for you to decide." Duval's eyes are kind. "She suggested you each read alone, the first time. But she also said that whatever you feel afterward, you should bring it to each other." He picks up his hat. "She wanted these to bring you closer. Not to push you apart."
We see him out and stand together on the terrace while his car disappears down the drive. Then we turn and look at each other, holding our envelopes like they're made of something that could break.
"Together or separate?" Cat asks.
"Separate first," I say. "Like she wanted. Then we can—"
"Yeah." She squeezes my hand. "I'll be in my room if you need me."
I watch her tread down the hall, her footsteps fading into silence. Then I take my envelope to the office, close the door, and sit down at the desk.
My hands are shaking as I open it.
My dearest Iris,
If you are reading this, you have come home. To the lavender, to Provence, to the place where you should have grown up.
To me. Except I am not there, am I. That is the cruel joke of this letter.
You will want to know why I let you go.
The simple answer is your mother. When Colette found out about Hélène, she said things I have never been able to unhear. She called me disgusting. She said I had betrayed everything she believed. And then she took you, and told me that if I ever tried to reach you, she would make certain you knew exactly what kind of woman I was.
The truer answer is that I was afraid. Afraid she would poison you against me. Afraid that if I came for you, you would look at me the way she had.
So I stayed away. And I have hated myself for it every day since.
But I want to be very clear about one thing, because I suspect no one has ever said it to you plainly: I am not ashamed.
Hélène was the love of my life. Thirty-five years. They were the happiest of my existence, and I would not trade a single day of them — not even for the years I lost with you. That is a terrible thing for a grandmother to admit. It is also true, and you deserve the truth from someone.
When she was dying, she made me promise I would find a way to bring you home.
So: half of everything is yours. The other half belongs to Catherine, whom you will have met by now, and who has been every bit as alone as you have.
Go and know her. That is all I ask. I wasted thirty years of us. Do not waste her.
I love you, Iris. I always did. There was never a day I didn't.
Your Grand-mère
I don't know how long I sit there.
