“I’ll see you next week,” he said.
I pulled him into a hug. “I love you,” I said, before pulling back to study his face. “You’re a good man, Neil McLaren.”
The early morning light cast a glow on his features. I touched his hair, the line of his eyebrow, his beard. I wanted to memorize his face, not just how it looked but how it felt under my fingertips.
Neil’s hand reached for mine; we shared a sweet, soft kiss.
I pulled away first and looked up into his eyes.
“I’ll see you next week,” he repeated.
“Okay.” I nodded. “Good-bye, Neil.”
Too soon, we parted ways.
I didn’t cry during the flight to LAX, or the flight to PDX. My heart felt so many things; I had no room for tears. Instead, I read letters.
September 3, 1939
Dearest Maman and Papa—
I am writing to let you know that Gabriel and I have eloped.
We now live in a lovely little apartment, not very far from Tante Joséphine. It has large windows and wonderful light, and a great deal of beautiful moulding. It does need a small touch of paint, but there are plans to remedy that shortly. We’d love to have you visit soon.
Love to all.
Mireille
September 3, 1939
Dearest Cécile—
Well, I’ve done it. I’ve married Gabriel.
I suppose we’ve eloped. That’s what I told Maman in her letter, which is short and probably doesn’t make a great deal of sense (however, I have no desire to write another draft).
Marrying someone on purpose, but without a great deal of preparation—that’s elopement, oui?
I am delighted that you were able to meet Gabriel during your visit.
Unbeknownst to me, he had been considering marriage for a while. He secured the apartment and moved out of his parents’ home, with hopes that we would share it together after our marriage.
The apartment is in a wonderful neighborhood, and has wonderful light.
Aesthetically, aside from a few architectural details, it’s not good, but it does have an extraordinarily large kitchen. By Paris standards, it’s palatial (which means it has more than a meter of countertop and a working stove).
Between his jobs at the restaurant and teaching, Gabriel makes a comfortable enough living. He has also saved much of his income for many years, and has invested wisely. We are comfortable, if not wealthy.
However, we are talking about opening a patisserie together, once I’ve finished my classes.
Did I mention I’ve restarted my classes? The term started up again, and I’m covered in flour once more and couldn’t be happier. I cook all day, and then Gabriel and I bake together in the evenings.
(There are other activities, dear sister, but I shall not be indelicate, other than to say it’s much more fun than Mme. Proulx makes it out to be when she’s tipsy and maudlin over former lovers.)
We’re so very happy, Cécile. I feel drunk on joy.
I must be a complete bore. Please, do excuse me. Know that I wish you such a happiness, dearest.
Mireille Roussard
September 13, 1939
Dear Mme. Roussard,
How surprising to write such a name, and yet only a simpleton could be surprised at the reality of it. Very best of wishes, dear sister. I wish you nothing but happiness and joy.
Cécile
September 14, 1939
Dear Mireille,
Your mother and I were very surprised to receive your letter, and disappointed in its contents. In light of your decisions, we will no longer be able to correspond or keep society.
Enclosed, please find a check for the remains of your inheritance from your grandfather, which you are legally entitled to.
Of course, should you come to your senses, I feel confident in the abilities of my notaire to annul the union.
Regards,
Papa
September 28, 1939
Dearest Cécile,
I do hope you are able to receive this letter. Papa has written to tell me, very politely, that I’m excommunicated from the family. He sent my inheritance from our Grand-Papa and a line about annulling the marriage.
Despite that unpleasantness, Gabriel and I remain deliriously happy. I love my pastry classes, though I do not know how much longer we will be able to afford them. Gabriel is speaking to the head of the school about a reduced fee, since I am the wife of an instructor.
Anouk despairs while Gabriel and I are gone, but lately I have discovered that there is a very kindly elderly woman upstairs with a very nice sofa, so Anouk has taken to sitting on either her lap or her sofa cushions while I am away. Mme. Ledoyen enjoys the company, as well as the sweets I bring her in thanks.
The apartment is coming along; I’ve painted it myself, and where it was the color of day-old, unbaked yeasted dough, it is now crisp and clean.
Tante Joséphine has been to visit twice. While she has a brusque, curt exterior, inside I believe she’s made of custard. If I’m right, she’s become quite fond of Gabriel, Anouk, and me. She’s even sent her driver around to collect Anouk a few times—I believe she enjoys the company Anouk provides (though I hope to contribute superior conversation myself, Anouk is a devoted listener).
While we have chosen to forgo a full-time maid—to the horror of both Gabriel’s parents and Tante Joséphine, we do have a lovely woman who comes to clean once a week and keep us from perishing in our own filth.
I hardly know how to sign off this letter, only to say that I hope you are well, and that I would love very much to hear of your adventures and trials at the chateau and in the village. This depends, of course, on your being able to receive it. If necessary, I shall attempt a sort of creative delivery.
Bisous!
Mireille
October 9, 1939
Dear Mireille—
I’m pleased to report I did receive your letter, though I’ve learned there’s wisdom in getting to the mail before Maman or the housekeeper.
I’m sorry about Maman and Papa. They’ve said nothing to me on the subject, other than I’m to be much wiser about choosing a mate. It’s possible Maman will pick him out and do her best to keep me in sight until the vows have been spoken and I’ve been, er, taken to the marriage bed.
Horrors.
I wish I had happier—or more interesting—news to share. The chateau is fine, but Papa is struggling under the workload. He’s sleeping poorly, I believe, and has had more difficulty working in the lavender fields the way he prefers. To make matters worse, the foreman quit, so he’s had more hours in the hot sun than Maman or I would prefer.
Gilles has attempted to pitch in where he can, but his time is limited.
Maman is even more determined, now, for the two of us go to Marseille or Paris, ostensibly to be in the city for a little while, but really to find me a husband. She has friends, of course, and several of those friends have sons.
You can imagine how she plans for this to happen. If only I enjoyed cocktail parties the way you do, the future might not look so grim.
Cécile
October 21, 1939
My dearest Cécile,
In truth, I never much enjoyed the cocktail parties, but I became quite skilled at pretending I did. The secret is the cocktail laugh. Practice it in the woods by the chateau, or better yet near the horses. If you can laugh without frightening the horses, you’ve succeeded. Armed with that laugh, everyone will think you’re charming, refined, and clever, and not making a list in your head of everything else you’d rather be doing.
In some circles, I know it is the burden of the married siblings to help throw their younger brothers and sisters into the path of a prospective spouse, but I spend all day with cranky bakers who I don’t feel would suit you at all. The sad truth is that I believe I have the only one worth having.
Also, you might be disowned if you married someone I introduced you to. So you might consider other options.
I’m very sorry to hear of Papa’s trials with the fields and the chateau, though I am glad that Gilles has been able to be of some help, despite everything. I don’t wish him to suffer, truly, but when I think of how I nearly married him, and how I almost missed Gabriel…
There I go, writing like an idiot newlywed. Begging your forgiveness again, dearest. I’m sure I’ll improve once Gabriel has done something unforgiveable, such as…no, I can’t think of anything. Come home late and forget to kiss me hello? Perhaps that. It won’t be enough to bring about the annulment that Papa hopes for.
Thank you for keeping me up to date on the chateau. I really do wish Maman and Papa the best, and I shall be praying about you and Maman and your husband hunt. It might be a little amusing, don’t you think?
Mireille
November 2, 1939
Dearest Mireille—
I can only assume that the idea of the “husband hunt” is amusing to you because you have your husband. From here, it seems quite dismal.
Maman is planning a social tour, scheduling visits with all of her friends. She will take me to visit these friends (mind you, these are only friends with sons), where she hopes to present me at various cocktail parties.
I can’t think of anything worse, though the specter of not seeing you at holidays feels bleak at present. So if you can spare a moment in your domestic bliss, think of your sister who’s about to be paraded like a show pony.
But I miss you dearly, so please continue to tell me of your newly wedded bliss. One of us deserves to be happy.
Cécile
November 18, 1939
My dear Cécile,
Maman always hung the idea of such a tour over my head, but never managed. I’m sorry that she’s doubly determined to parade you around, though you are far lovelier than any show pony.
My days have been busy. I’ve started a new term. I’m beginning to feel this is the one that is going to do me in. We’ve been working on several pastries, and I’m having a difficult time getting the canelé just right. Either the outsides are perfectly crisp and golden but the insides are a bit dry, or the insides are perfect but the outside is underdone. The instructor, I believe, feels he is above teaching a woman, so you can imagine how well that’s going. So every night, very late when Gabriel is home, we make canelé together. It’s getting better, though still frustrating.
I fear the neighbor is getting tired of the baskets of canelés we bring her.
We visit Gabriel’s parents once a week. They still haven’t gotten over the shock of our marriage, but they’re still speaking to us, which is nice.
His younger brother Benjamin has begun to pursue a young woman from church. (Gabriel’s parents are relieved he’s given up on the shop girl he was interested in previously.) He’s gone from the family home more than usual, and his parents are secretly both delighted and hopeful for a wedding in the next six months.
They’ve also had a letter from their oldest son in Warsaw. He’s to arrive with his family soon. Mme. Roussard is hopeful that they will move into their home—it really is spacious enough to accommodate an additional family of six—and has been industriously making room for them.
The political tensions directed toward Jews has Gabriel quite concerned. His parents and younger brother remain largely unconcerned, and I understand their reasoning—the
Jews have faced one kind of disdain or persecution for thousands of years. But Gabriel is concerned that the wave of unrest in Germany and Poland will spread to France. He’s been talking about leaving France for Great Britain or America.
I have no great desire to leave for Great Britain (the English are just so…English), and even less desire to live in America. As my husband, though, these are his decisions. At the very least, he’s been talking about leaving Paris and moving into the countryside.
What would we do there? I don’t know. There’s already one boulangerie in the village. Could it accommodate two? Or would we return to run the chateau—would my Gabriel become a farmer?
This is all speculation.
Mireille
November 30, 1939
Dear Mireille—
In an attempt to get out of this tour, I’ve taken stock of the local young men. Gilles, objectively, is the best choice, but obviously out of the question, though I am fond of his sister.
There’s the baker’s son, Jérôme, who’s nice enough but rather vague. There’s Maurice Duguay, but he’s both too old and too fat, though his house is lovely.
Then there’s Richard Caron, who’s rather dreamy, to be honest.
I gasped, clasping my hand to my heart. Grand-oncle Richard! I only met him twice—once when he and Grand-tante Cécile came to visit Grand-mère, the second during a trip to the chateau. As the youngest of the cousins, I often found myself alone after unsuccessfully trying to tag along. Grand-oncle Richard took me to the stables or read me books. Growing up with a busy chef father and my only grandfather across the ocean in Montalcino, I loved the attention. I loved it so much that I soon let my siblings run off on their own adventures, just so I could have Richard to myself.
And now I got to read, in Cécile’s hand, how she found him dreamy.
He inherited his father’s carpentry business, and Maman had him to the house for some repairs to the south staircase and some of the door casings in the east wing.
He’s very kind, though at my age I’m beneath his attention.
I grinned. Oh, she’d get his attention, all right.
With so much of Grand-mère’s life remaining a mystery, I enjoyed knowing that somebody’s story ended happily.
No, I’m sure I’ll find some pompous though witty son of a country lord who has few skills but an excellent stable full of horses, and I’ll spend my life decorating and redecorating his family home.
Does that thought depress you as much as it depresses me?
Cécile
December 6, 1939
My dearest Cécile,
Of course that thought depresses me—that’s why I fled for Paris and pastry. But beware the cost, dearest.
Not much to report here—it’s flour, butter, sugar, eggs on repeat around here. Anouk is completely bored of me.
I remember Richard Caron. He’s not too old—perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight? Not yet thirty, at least. And you’re eighteen soon. Those aren’t insurmountable numbers. But if your heart is set on a man obsessed with horses, by all means proceed.
Mireille
December 20, 1939
Dearest Cécile—
I couldn’t wait to write to you. You’ll never guess! Gabriel and I are expecting! I visited the doctor today, and he confirmed my suspicions.
Gabriel and I visited Tante Joséphine to share the news.
My dearest, my heart is so full of joy I cannot contain it. I’ve been baking macarons for days for happiness (also, they’ve been the only food that sounded appetizing). I’ve not written to them as yet, but perhaps with this news, Maman and Papa might acknowledge my marriage and accept Gabriel, who has been the best of husbands.
I am full of joy, but also terrified. I’m trying to continue with classes (which will pause ever so briefly for the holidays), but hiding my illness has not been easy. And after the baby arrives—I cannot think of that just yet.
I wish you could visit, dearest. I miss you terribly. Paris for Christmas is truly beautiful, but it doesn’t hold a candle to your company.
With great joy (and a little fear),
Mireille
I’m convinced my fate turned on a strawberry tartlet.
—DORIE GREENSPAN
I reread the last letter from Mireille a second time. Pregnant. I checked the dates—it couldn’t have been my mother, and it certainly wasn’t Henri, her younger brother. I read on.
January 4, 1940
Mireille,
My very dearest sister in all the world—
My heart is full of joy for you! How wonderful! Oh, you and Gabriel w
ill have the most deliciously adorable babies—his eyes, your smile. I’m swooning already.
You know this means I’ll have to learn to knit more than scarves and lap-blankets.
And as for the future—pastry or no pastry, I wish you all happiness.
Oh, dearest, I’m so happy for you. Really and truly. Perhaps I might be able to come to Paris under the pretense of visiting Tante Joséphine.
Cécile
I smiled. Their joy shone through the page. The flight attendant arrived with the drinks tray. I waved her on and continued.
January 21, 1940
Dearest Cécile—
I know I asked for you to visit soon, but if you did you’d find me the very worst hostess. I’m trying to hide my symptoms when I’m at class—working with food—and while some days I’m successful, I accidentally vomited in the hallway yesterday.
This was not a proud moment for me.
I snorted, drawing a curious glance from the woman seated next to me.
I don’t know how long I’ll be permitted to continue with classes, but I’m working hard to stay on top of my workload.
I sent a letter to Maman and Papa with the news. I have not had a letter back, as yet.
Our apartment is, of course, quite small, but we do have a room to transform into a nursery while still maintaining a guest room. Tante Joséphine is beginning her campaign for a nursemaid/nanny. While there are aspects of the idea that are admittedly wonderful, we can barely afford our housekeeper.
Gabriel’s parents are likewise pleased. Stoic, but pleased. Mme. Roussard smiled and gave me a delightfully awkward little hug. M. Roussard gave a pleased nod.
Did I tell you that Benjamin’s courtship of Alice, the young woman from church, is going well? They’re really quite sweet together. She’s brunette and delicate and very nice. I hope that he marries her, she’d make a nice sister-in-law.
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