by Marc Levy
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“Tomorrow . . . we’ll see about, tomorrow.”
As the night drew on, Anthony inched his hand toward Julia’s. Finally he made the leap and took her hand in his. Their fingers tightened over one another and stayed that way, intertwined. Later, when Julia fell asleep, her head came to rest on her father’s shoulder.
Anthony Walsh rose before sunrise, taking every precaution not to wake his daughter. He delicately shifted her body onto the sofa and draped a blanket over her shoulders. Julia grumbled in her sleep and rolled over.
After making sure she was still fast asleep, he sat down at the kitchen table with a pen and paper, and began to write.
Once he had completed the letter, he set it out on the table. Then he opened his bag and took out a little stack of about a hundred other letters, all bound together by a red ribbon. He went into his daughter’s bedroom and put them into one of her dresser drawers, careful not to bend the corners of the yellowed photograph of Thomas that accompanied the stack.
Back in the living room, he walked over to the sofa, took the white remote control, put it in the breast pocket of his coat, and leaned over to plant a gentle kiss on his daughter’s forehead.
“Sleep, my darling Julia, and know your daddy loves you.”
22.
Julia stretched and opened her eyes. The room was empty, and the massive crate was sealed once more.
“Daddy?”
She heard no reply, nothing but dead silence in her apartment. Breakfast for one had been perfectly arranged at the kitchen table, with an envelope propped up against the jar of honey, between a box of cereal and a milk carton. Julia recognized the handwriting. She sat down and read.
My darling Julia,
By the time you read this, my batteries will have run down once and for all. I hope you can forgive me, but I wanted to spare you one more senseless goodbye. Burying your father once was quite enough. When you finish reading my last words, leave your apartment for a few hours. Grant your father one last wish and don’t be here when they come to get me. Leave the crate closed and sealed as it is. Inside, you’d only find me sleeping—peacefully, at last, thanks to you. I can never thank you enough for these days you gave me, my dear. I was waiting for them, for such a very long time. I’d always dreamed of getting to know the mysterious woman you had become. I’ve learned one of the great lessons a parent can learn over these last few days—the importance of taking time to get to know the adult who stands where once stood a child, and to give that adult their rightful place. I’m sorry for all that you missed during your childhood. I did my best. I wasn’t there for you enough, not as much as you would have liked. I wanted to be a friend to you, a confidant; in the end, I was only your father. But I’ll always be your father. Wherever I’m going, I will always take with me the memory of an infinite love—the love I hold for you. Do you remember that lovely story I told you, about the power of the full moon’s reflection in a puddle? That legend was true, and I was wrong to doubt it. It was just a matter of patience. In the end, my wish did come true—the person I missed so much and longed to have in my life was you.
I can still picture you as a little girl, running and leaping into my arms. It may sound silly, but you have always been and remain the best thing that ever happened to me. Nothing made me happier than the sound of your laughter and the hugs you gave me when I came home at night. I know that one day, when you’re free from all that weighs on your mind, these memories will come back to you, too. I also know that somewhere, deep inside, you’ll never forget those dreams you told me about when I came and sat at the foot of your bed. Even if I wasn’t next to you, I was never as far away as you thought. Clumsy and awkward as I may be, I love you. I have but one more thing to ask of you: promise me you’ll be happy.
Your daddy
Julia folded up the letter. She walked over to the crate and gently ran her fingers along its surface, reassuring her father that she loved him, too. With a heavy heart, she granted his last wish. Going downstairs, she left a key with Mr. Zimoure. She warned her neighbor that a truck would be coming to pick up a package at her place that morning, and asked him to let them in. Without waiting for a response, she left and headed downtown toward a certain antique store.
23.
Fifteen minutes passed. Heavy silence still reigned over Julia’s apartment. Then . . . a gentle click, followed by the sound of the crate creaking open, inch by inch, with painstaking caution. Anthony Walsh stepped out, dusted off his shoulders, and walked over to the mirror to straighten his tie. He noticed the framed photo of himself and returned it to its place on the bookshelf, then turned to take one last look around the room.
Anthony left the apartment and went downstairs to the street. A car sat idly waiting for him there, right out in front of the building.
“Good morning, Wallace,” he said, settling into the backseat.
“Good to see you again, sir,” replied his personal assistant.
“Is everything all set with the shipping company?”
“The truck is waiting behind us as we speak.”
“Perfect.”
“Shall we head back to the hospital, sir, as scheduled?”
“No, I think I’ve wasted enough precious time there already. We’ll head to the airport, with a quick stop at home along the way. I’ll need to change suitcases. And you’ll need to get packed yourself. I’ve developed a newfound appreciation for company when I travel.”
“May I ask where we’re going, sir?”
“I’ll explain everything along the way. But do bring your passport.”
The car turned onto Greenwich Street. At the intersection, the window rolled down, and a white remote control flew straight out of the car and into the gutter.
24.
New York hadn’t enjoyed such a mild October since time out of mind. Stanley and Julia were going to have brunch together, just as they had every weekend for the past three months. On this particular morning, a table was awaiting them across the street at Pastis. However, today was special: Mr. Zimoure’s fall collection had just gone on sale, and for the first time, Julia knocked at his door with no dire news or emergencies. Amazingly he had agreed to let her have the shop to herself a full two hours before the official opening time. And she wasn’t alone.
“What do you think?”
“Turn around and let me see.”
“Stanley, you’ve been looking me up and down for half an hour. I really need to get off this platform.”
“Look, do you want my opinion or not? Turn around Show me the front again. Isn’t that a pity! Those kitten heels just aren’t doing you any favors, baby-doll.”
“Stanley!”
“You know I’m allergic to the sales rack.”
“Have you seen the prices in this place? It’s the best I can do with my measly salary,” she whispered.
“Don’t start with that again!”
“So. Do we have a winner?” asked Mr. Zimoure, clearly exhausted. “The two of you have single-handedly ransacked my entire store. I think I’ve taken out every last pair I have in your size.”
“No, not quite yet,” replied Stanley. “What, pray tell, is the story with those ravishing pumps on that shelf over there? Yes, those ones, up on the top shelf, the very last ones over—”
“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t see those in Miss Julia’s size.”
“What about in the back?” begged Stanley.
“I guess I’ll have to go down and check,” sighed Zimoure, and he went clomping down the stairs with heavy footsteps.
“I tell you. It’s a good thing he’s so distinguished and handsome, because the man is not winning any points for personality.”
“Sorry. Did you say ‘distinguished and handsome’?” Julia said with an incredulous laugh.
“Let’s just say I’ve had a change of heart these past few months. Maybe we could have him over for dinner at your place sometime.”
“That’s gotta be a joke. Right?”
“Well, you’re the one always going on about how he sells the most exquisite shoes in New York.”
“Right. But what’s that got to do with—”
“I’m not going to stay a widower for the rest of my life. Is that okay with you, baby-doll?”
“Of course it is . . . but Mr. Zimoure?”
“You know, you’re right. Forget Zimoure!” said Stanley, his eyes wide, staring out the window onto the street.
“Wow. That was quick.”
“Don’t look now, but there is a drop-dead gorgeous man, staring right through the window as we speak . . .”
“Wait, what?” Julia froze, too terrified to move an inch, not daring to glance behind her and have her hopes dashed.
“Well, he’s had that delicious face of his practically pressed against the storefront window for the past ten minutes. He’s staring at you like he’s seen the Virgin Mary or something. But as far as I know, there’s no Our Lady of the Three-Hundred-Dollar Pumps, not even a sales rack version. Don’t turn around! I saw him first.”
With great effort and trembling lips, at last Julia turned to face the man.
“Actually, Stanley?” she said in a soft voice. “I saw this one long before you.”
The overpriced shoes were left behind on the platform as Julia flew across the store, unbolted the lock, and ran out into the street.
When Mr. Zimoure came back up the stairs, he found Stanley sitting alone on the platform with a pair of pumps in hand.
“What, she left?” he asked, looking around dumbfounded.
“Yes,” replied Stanley, “but not to worry; she’ll be back. Probably not today, but she’ll be back.”
Zimoure sighed and simply dropped the box of shoes he had brought from the basement. Stanley picked up the box and handed it back to him.
“You sure do look exhausted. Come on, let me help you clean up this mess, and then I’ll buy you a coffee. Or tea, if you’d prefer.”
Thomas brushed Julia’s lips with his fingertips and placed the gentlest of kisses on each of her eyelids. She melted into his arms.
“I tried to convince myself I could go on without you, but as you can see, I just can’t,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“What about Africa? Won’t Knapp be—”
“I can’t just run around the planet reporting the truth about other people if I’m lying to myself. What good would that do? Why race from country to country when the person I love is right here?”
Julia stood all the way up on her tiptoes, looking deep into his eyes. “You don’t need to say another word. Not another word . . .”
They kissed, a kiss that stretched on and on, the passionate embrace of two people so blindly in love that the rest of the world has simply ceased to exist.
“How did you find me?” Julia finally asked, nestling deeper into Thomas’s arms.
“I searched for you everywhere for twenty years. Looking downstairs from your apartment wasn’t much of a stretch.”
“Eighteen years. But believe me—that was long enough.”
Julia kissed him again.
“All this . . . and I still don’t know why you even came to Berlin.”
“I told you, it was a sign . . . By total chance, I came across that portrait of you at a street artist’s stand.”
“But I’ve never had my portrait drawn.”
“Give me a break. It was you, without a doubt—your eyes, your mouth, even that dimple in your chin.”
“And where was this? This mysterious portrait.”
“On the Old Port of Montreal.”
“Well, now I’m sure what you’re saying is impossible. Because I’ve never even set foot in Montreal.”
Julia looked skyward and saw a cloud drifting over New York, taking form into a familiar shape before her eyes. She smiled.
“I am going to miss him . . . so much.”
“Miss who?”
“My father. Come on. I feel like taking a walk with you. You have to get acquainted with my city, after all.”
“But, Julia? You’re barefoot.”
“That really doesn’t matter,” Julia replied.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to
Emmanuelle Hardouin,
Pauline Lévêque,
Raymond and Danièle Levy,
Louis Levy,
Lorraine.
Susanna Lea and Antoine Audouard.
Léonard Anthony, Marie Garnero, Kerry Glencorse, Katrin Hodapp, Mark Kessler, Moïna Macé, Laura Mamelok, Danielle Melconian, Romain Ruetsch, Lauren Wendelken.
Chris Murray.
Antoine Caro.
Pauline Normand, Marie-Ève Provost.
Philippe Guez, Éric Brame, and Miguel Courtois.
Yves and Martyn Lévêque, Charles Veillet-Lavallée.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With more than forty million books sold, Marc Levy is the most-read French author alive today. He’s written eighteen novels to date, including P.S. from Paris, Children of Freedom, and Replay.
Originally written for his son, his first novel, If Only It Were True, was later adapted for the big screen as Just Like Heaven, starring Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo. Since then, Levy has not only won the hearts of European readers, he’s won over audiences from around the globe. More than one and a half million copies of his books have been sold in China alone, and his novels have been published in forty-nine languages. He lives in New York City. Readers can learn more about him and follow his work at www.marclevy.info.