I found M. Caron outside working on the window casing. I offered him a cup of hot tea, spiked with your lavender syrup. We discussed the weather for a moment before he complimented me on my coat dress (which really is quite fetching, and chosen for that purpose). I complimented the window and asked after his work.
He invited me to his workshop in the village, if I was interested in seeing some of his finer work.
You’re not here to answer immediately, but I feel fairly certain that this was a very positive exchange? Invited to his workshop?
I’m young, and I’ve seen very little of the world. But we are surrounded by war, and in such times especially, I suspect M. Caron would make a more practical husband than any race car driver or amateur botanist.
Or etymologist. I met one of those in Toulouse, and his letters arrived shortly after. If I weren’t anticipating your letters, I could hide from the arrival of the post.
Cécile
I smiled at Cécile’s letter—her letters always made me happy, while Mireille’s made me anxious. Scraping a bit of sweet mascarpone from my plate, I stretched my legs to tidy the kitchen before settling for another string of letters.
~ FRESH CHERRY CROSTINI ~
These are simple to assemble, and perfect for a no-bake summer appetizer or dessert! The mascarpone pairs beautifully with fresh, sweet cherries. A cherry-pitting tool will make quick work of the pits, but you can also use a chopstick or a bobby pin. If you have trouble finding mascarpone, ricotta is also delicious.
1 cup mascarpone
1 tablespoon honey
Zest of one small lemon
½ of a fresh baguette, sliced on the bias
2–3 sprigs fresh lemon thyme (optional)
1 cup fresh cherries, washed, pitted, and halved
Stir mascarpone, lemon zest, and honey together.
Toast baguette slices, either in batches or on a cookie sheet in a 375°F oven.
Spread mascarpone mixture over each baguette slice. Sprinkle thyme leaves over the top. Place cherries over the top and press into the filling. Serve immediately.
Makes about 8 slices.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
—WILLIAM BLAKE
When I returned to the letters, I skimmed a bit. Mireille grew—and grew and grew—while Cécile continued to fall in love with Richard. I breezed through several missives, but when my eyes hit the word “Vichy” I stopped to read the entire letter more carefully.
March 7, 1941
Dearest Cécile,
The Germans and Vichy government have been repossessing businesses owned by Jews and preventing them from government positions. I shouldn’t be very surprised—after all, we heard about what happened in Poland from Nathan. The government had the census information. I’m shocked and horrified, but not as shocked as I wish I were.
Which means…I believe it will get worse. Won’t it? Can’t it?
I want to leave, but Gabriel feels adamant that we stay. And so…we stay.
I can feel the babies—and there’s certainly two in there—grow restless. It won’t be long. I don’t know what to do—I don’t really want to give birth in Paris, not while such horrible things happen. And yet travel sounds like a terrible idea, and Gabriel insists we will remain safe in the city.
There are no options that I like, essentially. Gabriel continues to work late, though with the arrival of the babies, he is becoming conscious of trying to be nearer more often.
I hesitate to take walks through the streets these days, and Anouk grows restless.
My world is dreary, save the anticipation of the babies (I’ve begun to believe I might be able to hold one of them, though the nursery is still a shambles). Please tell me of your M. Caron. I’m anxious to hear stories that aren’t my own.
Mireille
My shoulders tensed as I read; Gigi sensed my distress and hopped up to my lap to join me—though she also brought her ball with her, just in case I was interested in a game to help me unwind.
As I threw the ball, I racked my brain for details about Paris during the war years. I could have looked up some of the information online, but what mattered, at least with the letters, was how these events would affect Mireille.
After a few trips across the room after the ball, Gigi settled under the couch with her toy, content to chew it out of sight. I took a deep breath and continued.
March 19, 1941
Dearest Mireille,
I am so sorry to hear of the strife in Paris. Word trickles here, through newspapers and rumors. I used to long for the city, and yet the longer the war drags, the more I am glad to be so far away.
Though right now being away from the city means being away from you, and that’s the last thing I want.
You are correct—after these many months, I finally managed to steal away to visit Richard’s workshop. Yes, he is Richard, because, dearest sister, he kissed me!
I visited his workshop, where he showed me the fine woodwork creations in his shop. He has pieces of beautiful inlay, designs with flowers and scroll motifs. He does so much more work than the repairs and construction, but he says that in the village, that’s what keeps him fed and clothed. His father and uncle taught him the trade. His father showed him how to build and repair, while his uncle taught him the fine woodwork techniques that he applies in his own pieces.
I cannot tell you, sister, how very handsome he looks in his shop, little bits of shaved wood in the nooks and crannies of his shirt and pants. He stands taller there, with more confidence. It is that confidence, I believe, that encouraged him to attempt a kiss.
I’m so glad he did. Now it is my turn to be ladylike and undescriptive.
He asked to take me on a picnic next week, can you imagine? I’m over the moon and concerned about the weather, all at the same time.
With great excitement,
Cécile
March 31, 1941
My dearest Cécile,
I am so delighted for you! I cannot wait to hear of your picnic. Please spare as few details as possible.
I’ve been cleaning everything lately, despite the fact that I can’t bend over without a great deal of effort. The one area I’ve had difficulty with, though, is the nursery. It’s ironic, though Gabriel is understanding. After the miscarriage, that room has become a difficult place. I only wish to place two healthy babies in there—I don’t care if there are no rugs or pictures on the wall.
However, there will be both if Tante Joséphine has anything to say or do on the subject. She’s agitated about the war, understandably, and I think preparing for the babies has become a pleasant distraction. And as always, I value her company, though I do miss you most acutely of late.
Mireille
I remembered back to Caterina’s pregnancy. Damian’s mother set up most of the boys’ nursery while Caterina was in the hospital after the delivery—throughout her pregnancy, Cat had struggled between her excitement and fear that the twins might not make it safely into the world and out of the NICU. She didn’t step foot into the boys’ nursery until she and Damian carried their newborns inside.
Grand-mère hadn’t mentioned her own delay at the time, but considering all of the things she’d kept to herself, I wasn’t surprised.
April 10, 1941
Dearest Mireille,
Our picnic was lovely, thank you! I’d rather share in person, but it’s unlikely we’ll have a great deal of time together. I made your chouquettes and packed them in a basket. They looked quite pretty.
You remember the little forest outside of the village, with the little bridge over the rill? There’s a small clearing nearby, and that’s where we made our picnic. The weather cooperated, though I made sure to wear my good walking shoes in case of mud (this turned out to be wise). Richard made chicken sandwiches and brought some early fruit, and we had a feast. Afterward we walked along the rill, crossed the bridge, and wandered through the trees. He was quite…affecti
onate. I had thought him reserved and mild-mannered, but as it turns out, he’s actually quite passionate after an outdoor lunch.
Did I mention he packed hot mint tea as well? He really is practical.
I don’t know what his intentions are—it’s really too soon. But even after this short time, I can tell you I’ve lost my heart to him completely. No cocktail party attendee could ever compare! I love him so much, the calluses on his hands from his trade, his craftsman’s eye for detail, his appreciation of beauty.
Oh, and the brunette? His sister, visiting. I’m such a ninny. Mistaking a sister for a lady friend—isn’t that the worst of clichés?
Praying for the last days/weeks of your pregnancy. I’ve decided to make a trip in three weeks or so—I’m going to see those babies while they’re fresh and new. I don’t care what Maman has to say about it, though I suspect she’ll be jealous. Missing you terribly, but cannot wait to see you!
Bisous,
Cécile
June 5, 1941
Dearest Cécile,
You cannot know how much I miss you! Alice and Gabrielle miss you too.
Alice and Gabrielle—Gabrielle and Alice. My heart stopped when I read the names. So my mother, certainly, and a twin sister I’d never heard about.
Did my mother know she’d had a twin? And whatever could have happened to her? My heart twisted with dread. Considering the times, it was unlikely any outcome could merely have been unfortunate. There were simply too many opportunities for tragedy.
They’re eating and sleeping with vigor, but they’re happiest when someone’s holding them, and they’re quite aware that there are fewer people to attend to their every whim.
You’d hardly know they were sisters! Every time I look at Alice, I see Gabriel’s face looking back at me, only in tiny baby form with the loveliest, most feminine lips. Somehow Gabrielle favors me, of course. She has the Chancelier look about her.
I can’t stop staring at them. After carrying them and feeling them within me for so long, seeing them outside feels so strange and yet so natural. And yet another part of me cannot believe they are here, that they survived.
Anouk, of course, continues to have mixed feelings about them. She thinks they smell delicious, possibly even better than chicken. But she resents having competition for my lap. I’m sure they’ll be the best of friends.
Thank you for all of your help with Tante Joséphine and the nursery. In the end, letting her put her stamp on the room was certainly the wise thing to do. And to be honest, Gabriel and I are on a budget, and Tante Joséphine would never have been content with the pieces I chose. Letting her spend the equivalent of two months of our food budget on the room brought her joy and kept the peace.
She continues to visit often, which has been helpful. I wish you could see the little jackets she’s knitted for them! Light pink for Gabrielle, dark pink for Alice. I complimented her on her sense—there’s no reason why both girls couldn’t wear pink. She agreed heartily. Apparently when she and Maman were girls, their parents dressed Maman in pink and Tante Joséphine in blue, and she resented it so much that when she married she had half of her trousseau made up in shades of pink.
My heart feels so full, though I miss you terribly. I want you to know that I treasure your letters. Your letters, and my letters to Gabriel, I keep in my drawer, and when I feel sad I go back and reread them, even the sad ones, because they remind me where I’ve been, and how far we’ve all come.
We have a telephone of course, but there’s something about the written word, don’t you think?
Anyway, I’m delighted things are going so well with your Richard. Neither of us knows the future, but I wish you every happiness.
On a less happy note (much less, actually), Gabriel is distressed, sleeping poorly, if at all, with deep circles under his eyes (he would be sleeping poorly even if the girls weren’t waking up several times per night to say hello and ask for a meal). Friends he grew up with, Jewish friends, are without work and means of supporting themselves. We don’t have much extra (and I don’t have my full strength back), but we’re both baking bread to feed those without.
The world feels so overwhelming sometimes, but then I look at Alice and Gabrielle sleeping and work my hardest to enjoy the beautiful moments when they happen.
À bientôt,
Mireille
There were more letters, but they’d certainly become sporadic on Mireille’s end, and they were mainly chronicles of the babies. The girls ate, they slept, and they woke—often. But by April of 1942, it seemed Cécile’s life faced a significant shift.
April 9, 1942
Dearest Mireille,
Richard and I have begun to discuss the future. Can you believe such a thing? With his flat feet (and I have seen them, they are indeed quite flat), the French army never wanted him in their ranks. I have no idea how to broach the subject of our future together with Maman and Papa, especially considering the unspeakable way they’ve treated you. They can hardly cease speaking to both of their daughters, can they? Perhaps if Richard and I marry, they’ll be forced to speak to each of us. Someone will have to inherit the chateau—Maman would never tolerate it going to a cousin.
Is there a way that Richard and I can keep the chateau going, make it profitable as a farm and estate? I believe it’s possible. Richard would need help to keep up with the repairs, which are a large part of the property’s maintenance, but he’s more capable than most. He’s no farmer by trade, but has the strength to tend the fields and gardens with the hands if necessary. It is a great deal of work for one man, though. I don’t know. I only know that there are possibilities.
I pray for you, Gabriel, and your sweet girls in Paris. You all have my love.
Love and prayers,
Cécile
I read longer, continuing as Cécile told her parents she wished to marry Richard, and how she threatened to elope just as Mireille had. In the end, faced with losing both daughters—and being left with no one to manage Chateau de l’Abeille—they consented. Mireille and Gabriel readied for the wedding but couldn’t travel when the twins came down with a frightening case of whooping cough.
In the end, the twins mended, Cécile and Richard married in a small ceremony, and Richard moved into the chateau, promptly making himself indispensable. They were happy, though the happiness in Mireille’s letters sounded as fragile as spun sugar.
June 13, 1942
Dearest Cécile,
We are well enough. The city is beautiful with the blooms and at odds with the war and arrests. Jewish men have been arrested for the last few months, leaving the women and children—many of whom have already suffered through unemployment—with very little support. There are charitable organizations trying to meet their needs, but this is difficult for practical and political reasons. My heart is heavy for them.
The girls are healthy, growing, and walking everywhere. Gabriel is so very precious with them—last night they both fell asleep on his chest. I’m a poor artist, but enclosed you’ll find a sketch of the moment. Maman had hopes I might have a talent for art—you remember the art lessons I had when I was younger? Well, I’m glad for them if only they give me the opportunity to remember times like these. I do want to have us sit for a family portrait soon. Gabriel has a place in mind, and hopefully we’ll attend to it within a week or so. Tante Joséphine brings her camera, of course, when she visits, so there are those pictures as well.
It’s been difficult without word from Maman and Papa, and yet Tante Joséphine has been like a mother to me these past two years. I treasure her time and her wisdom.
I apologize for the lack of correspondence lately! You’re thought of and missed. My brain seems scattered in a dozen places. I tried to bake the other day and switched baking soda and baking powder.
It didn’t end well.
Bisous!
Mireille
I laughed out loud. The baking soda/powder swap—I’d been guilty of that a time or two. Despite her a
ttempt at humor, I couldn’t help but feel as though something terrible waited in the shadows.
I scrolled through the next several letters. They were breezy and un-noteworthy, full of stories of the girls as they learned to walk and explore, visits from Tante Joséphine—who sounded delightful—and Cécile’s early married days with Richard. Mireille sent Cécile romantic advice that had me fanning my face, and stories of the toddlers that had me cackling in laughter at their antics. Cécile enjoyed all aspects of her new life, taking an active role in the chateau and looking for ways to make it self-sufficient, planting food and learning to preserve her harvest.
Their lives were happy, but I knew in my heart it couldn’t last forever. I turned off my light and went to bed before their lives changed, letting them be happy just a little bit longer.
All cooks, like all great artists, must have an audience worth cooking for.
—ANDRE SIMON
That evening I visited my parents, Caterina, Damian, and the boys, trying to make the most of family time before the restaurant swallowed my life whole.
Maman and I sat outside until the evening grew cool and she turned in for the night. Caterina joined me on the patio after the boys went to bed.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Caterina asked as we watched the summer sky turn colors.
“Oh, about as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“When’s Neil arriving?”
I winced. “About four tomorrow. He’ll come straight from the airport.”
“That’s some fun flying.”
Reservations for Two Page 27