The Last Dress from Paris(107)
“No, no, I promised you an ending today, and that’s what you’re going to get. You’ve waited long enough, Lucille.”
“Okay, well, in your own time, Granny, there’s really no rush. Shall I make you a tea or something to nibble first?” I start to rise from my seat.
“Just sit, please, Lucille, we’re going to do this together.” She takes a deep breath; I see how she holds the air inside her lungs for a few seconds before she releases it, channeling her confidence, giving herself the strength to say the words she must have believed might never be aired.
She starts to speak, very slowly, enunciating every word clearly, so sure of the narrative she’s taking us on.
“Saying goodbye to my daughter was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It tore me apart, Lucille, in ways I couldn’t possibly imagine until it was all far too late.”
The swell of emotion writhes up from somewhere deep inside my belly almost the second she starts to speak. I refuse to let it force itself any higher than my chest, where it sits painfully, slowing my breath, making it sound labored.
“What happened?” I manage to whisper.
“I couldn’t stay in Paris. It wasn’t fair to place such a burden on my friend. She would never have told me that, but I could see for myself. The money just didn’t stretch far enough. We had six weeks, that was all. More than enough time for me to fall completely in love with her. Then I returned to England with just a case full of my more practical belongings, determined to find work. I left my baby in Paris, the city where she started life. The place I felt she belonged if she couldn’t be with me.” The weight in my chest tightens, something standing to attention deep inside of me, but I keep my focus on Granny.
“Antoine? Did he finally . . .”
“No. We never spoke again. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to trace me. There were people who knew where I was, but when I needed him most, he was silent.” She allows her head to fall, and I can see the toll that all those years of disappointment have had on her. The deep-rooted rejection that still lives behind every line on her face, every quiver of her lips. Then I think about the letter in my bag, addressed to Alice in a handwriting that was so different from every other in the bundle that Veronique’s mother kept.
“I can’t be sure, but I think he might have tried, Granny. Hang on.” I dash back into the sitting room and delve into my bag for the letter, feeling again the small, hard shape within it. When I hand it to Granny, she confirms my hunch immediately.
“Yes, it’s from him. The letters, look.” She turns the envelope back to face me. “The strokes of an artist. It’s definitely from him.” She scans the envelope for a date. “Sent in March 1956, long after I left Paris. She would have been about a year and a half old by then.”
“Do you want to read it? I can step back into the other room if you need some time alone?”
I see the flicker of indecision cross her face as she turns the letter over and over in her hand, feeling the contents within it, trying to predict what it might say. “My friend told me about this letter when it arrived. She wanted to send it to me, but I insisted she shouldn’t. I was just starting to get myself together, I had been reunited with your grandfather by then, and I was worried whatever Antoine had to say would plunge me backward. I do want to read it, Lucille, but I’m a little scared of what it might say. For years I’ve told myself Antoine was simply frightened to face the future we created together. It made sense, even if I couldn’t possibly agree with it at the time. But what if there was something else? I’m not sure I can bear to hear him say it was all a mistake, that he never loved me. That he regretted us.”
I can’t believe for a second that’s what’s contained in this letter, but at the same time anything feels possible. “I could read it to you, if that makes it any easier?” That way I can scan ahead and stop if I need to. “Would that help?”
She jumps at the suggestion. “Yes please, darling. You read it.” I ease two sheets of thin blue writing paper out of their envelope and unfold them, catching the smooth pearl earring that drops from within. I hold it up so Granny can see it.
“My goodness. I left it at his apartment the very first night we spent together. He kept it all that time . . .” The tension seems to seep from her face a little. “Read, Lucille, please.”
It’s my turn to take a deep breath. I start slowly, lingering on every word, making sure nothing is lost, painfully aware that I am opening a door to her past. One that has been locked shut for decades.
March 13, 1956
Darling Alice,
I want you to know that none of it was your fault. You did nothing wrong. I hope if nothing else you know that. You were so irresistible, but more than that, so easy to love. I shouldn’t have made you love me. I should have walked away.
That very first night at the residence, when I saw you and the whole room fell silent around me, when I realized in that split second that my life would never be the same again, that was the point at which I should have turned and left. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. No one since Thomas had understood me the way you did. You bewitched me, and I was greedy, selfish, and spoiled, determined to have what was never mine to take. And now we know the consequences of that boundless arrogance. Like a child, I thought only of satisfying myself.