The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  Maybe that was all there was. Just some letters. Just a photo. Just a memory better left in the past. A story untold.

  Her heart thundered in protest as the ache of unanswered questions demanded to be soothed.

  She began returning the items to the trunk, carefully, knowing this would be the last time she’d be back. For a while—maybe forever? At least until she moved out one day. She couldn’t take the reminder of the uncertainty.

  And that was the worst part of all—not knowing. Did her mother have an affair? Had it been one-sided? Was it relegated to letter-writing only, or had it been physical?

  Had her father ever known? Was her mother a decades-long liar? Was it possibly all a horrible misunderstanding?

  It was a lot easier to bury mementos than the past. Her stomach cramped as she piled the stacks of books on top of each other, then nestled the doilies down beside them. The faded navy, purple, and green quilt went on top last, covering the rest of the items. And there they’d stay. Protected from the truth.

  Maybe that’s how it was meant to be.

  Bri stood reluctantly and shut the trunk, but the quilt caught the corner and wedged between the hinges. She raised the lid and tucked the edges back down.

  Something hard crinkled under her fingers.

  Her breath hitched. She ran her hand between the folds of the quilt and a semi-sharp corner pricked her finger. She winced and tugged it free. An envelope.

  Sealed and addressed.

  Monsieur T.R.

  27 Rue Pasteur

  Paris, France

  The letter quivered in her hands, and she willed strength into her fingers. This was it.

  This was the truth. All this time, hidden inside the quilt she’d refused to wash because it still carried the faint scent of dried roses from the trunk. The faint aroma of her mom.

  She stared at the letter. She should go to Mabel and Agnes and open it with them for moral support. This was the final evidence—she knew it. She hadn’t been crazy. She hadn’t been imagining the worst. It was here, tangible proof. Whatever the letter contained, they’d help her figure out how to process it.

  But strangely enough, she didn’t want to go to them. She didn’t want Mabel’s well-meaning coddling and Agnes’s well-meaning suspicion.

  She wanted Gerard.

  Dear T.R.,

  I used to be young, and foolish. Now I’m older and even more foolish to allow a door to stay cracked that never should have opened in the first place.

  Newlywed life was hard, and living in a foreign country was even more difficult for me all those years ago. Hard to learn the language, hard to be separated from my hometown and all things familiar . . . hard to trust a man. When I met you that day on the Seine, I should have nodded and kept walking.

  But you drew me in, with your passion and your photos and compliments. My husband was never a natural at those things—at finding beauty and making a woman feel beautiful. He was always working, always pursuing the next financial goal instead of my heart. But you were a natural at those things, and it was to my detriment.

  The letters you sent were nice, I admit. My sinful heart knows that well. It was comforting, in the turmoil of a new marriage, to have a plan B, a “just in case” for myself if marriage proved too difficult. But you deserve more than a plan B, and my husband and daughter deserve much more than a halfhearted wife and mother.

  So I’m going to confess it all. I almost did years ago, when I first moved back to the States and cut you off. Those years of silence from you were the best for all of us as I healed and moved forward. I never should have allowed you to start sending letters again years later. But I was selfish and prideful and scared as my husband’s stress and temperamental outbursts grew stronger. I clung to a backup possibility again, even though I never responded to you.

  The last several years of my marriage have been so fulfilling that I hated to cast a long shadow on something brimming full of light. But it’s time. Starting with you and what should have been said long ago. I’m going to burn all of the letters.

  You may no longer contact me. I know that what we shared was real to you, but I’m choosing a reality that you can’t understand. I’m choosing love. Not frothy affection, nor secret meetings, nor forbidden letters, but love. Real love. It’s hard. It’s often messy and loud and full of grit. But it’s also kindness, patience, and forgiveness, which I have no doubt my husband will extend to me. And even if he doesn’t, my faith will no longer allow me to hold this secret close. I long to be rid of it.

  What happened in Paris will no longer stay in Paris. The truth will emerge, for better or for worse. Love is a choice, over and above a feeling. My heart—and my choice—is forever with my family. I do hope one day you find the same grace.

  Please do not respond to this letter.

  Sincerely,

  Julia Duval

  “Wow.” Gerard leaned forward against the back of the chair he’d straddled at the desk under his B&B window as Bri finished reading. So heavy—and it made sense now, the emotional turmoil Bri had been under the past week. He had known her only a short time and had immediately recognized the respect and admiration she carried for her parents. No wonder she’d been so shaken.

  Bri paced the floor between him and the red-draped bed, her high ponytail swinging with every faltered step. “Right?”

  “It sounds like there were more letters than the ones you read all the time.”

  “I think so too. My mom must have gotten rid of those.” She started to fold the letter in her hands, then stopped. Then folded it in half and replaced it inside the envelope. She looked like she was torn between burning the entire thing and preserving it. He didn’t blame her.

  When Bri had first knocked on his bedroom door about fifteen minutes ago, his instinct had been to joke about Mrs. Beeker starting rumors about these late-night pop-ins. Then when he saw her red-rimmed eyes and pale face, his next instinct had been to pull her close, to protect her from sadness, to right whatever was wrong. Which was sort of terrifying.

  Though not as terrifying as the fact that in a few days, he wouldn’t see her anymore. His open laptop sat on the desk behind him, cursor blinking a steady reminder that he was almost done with part two of the article.

  Almost done with Story.

  “Who knows how off-again, on-again the letter part of their correspondence was once Mom made it back to the States. But I would imagine the bulk of it took place when I was a little girl, during that year my dad was in France dealing with his family inheritance.” Bri shook her head, a sad smile turning the edges of her mouth. “I had the time frame of the letters right, but the author wrong.”

  “This should make you feel better, though, huh?” Gerard braced his arms on the back of the chair. “She did the right thing. She shut it down.”

  “I guess. I just still hate that it happened at all.” Bri closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, she looked . . . older. Wiser. And a little more exhausted.

  But that spark, that glimmer he’d missed these last few days—it was there. Barely smoldering, but there.

  He exhaled in relief. Part of him didn’t want to leave Story at all. But no part of him wanted to leave with Bri not her perky, romance-oozing, love-obsessed self. She contributed to the people of Story in that way, and he hated to see it end. She was chiseling her gift into something beautiful, and he’d gotten to watch the masterpiece develop. Despite his own cynicism, he’d felt something growing beneath the surface. Like long-buried seeds finally exposed to sun.

  Great. This town was making him sappy. Bri was making him sappy. And he almost didn’t mind anymore, which was the scariest element to it all.

  He rubbed his hands down his face, then looked at Bri. “Sometimes the truth is better than the wondering—even if the truth isn’t pretty.” His own words shot an arrow of conviction deep. Wasn’t he doing that with his own mom? Avoiding the issue of her alcohol consumption rather than confronting her with the tr
uth?

  “I’m starting to agree.” Bri pulled in her lower lip, worry furrowing her brow. “The one thing that really grates on me still is that she didn’t send it. If she never mailed it, does that mean she changed her mind? Why was the letter in the trunk?”

  “Maybe she just needed to vent. People write stuff they never send all the time.” Gerard shrugged. “People should do that more often, actually, especially on social media.”

  “Maybe.” Bri didn’t look convinced. “But if the whole point of the letter was to cut off any future communication, then he would have had to have received it to know to do so. I don’t think that’s it.”

  “May I see it?” He held out his hand.

  Bri hesitated, then slowly placed the envelope in his palm.

  He carefully removed the letter and studied the loops and swirls of her mother’s handwriting. History breathed off the page. This paper was important—not just morally, or spiritually, though it was that—but important for Bri. For generations to come, this paper mattered.

  Why hadn’t her mother sent it?

  His eyes zeroed in on the date, expecting to see fifteen to twenty years in the past. But it was only about ten years ago. A hunch tapped on his shoulder, and he held his breath. “Bri? What day was your parents’ . . . accident?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “October 12th, 2010.”

  That’s what he thought. He held up the date for her to see, and her eyes widened.

  “October 10th, 2010.” She collapsed on the edge of the bed, gripping the fabric in both hands. Wonder filled her voice. “She never had a chance to mail it.”

  “Sounds to me like she wrote it, then stashed it in her trunk until she could make it to the post office alone.”

  “But she never did.” Sorrow immersed her expression. “I don’t even know . . .”

  It was a lot to process. He wanted to sit next to her, to comfort her, but wasn’t sure that was wise—for about a dozen reasons. One being that if he got that close, he’d also want to press her back against the bed and kiss her senseless. He’d almost done so a dozen times during their picnic but had restrained. It hadn’t been about that—and tangling up their ties before he rode out of town wouldn’t be beneficial to either of them.

  She sniffled and pressed her fingers under her eyes, dabbing at the remains of her makeup.

  Well, maybe just a quick hug wouldn’t hurt.

  He moved to her side on the bed and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She leaned in automatically and fit so perfectly into the curve of his arm that he shivered. He tucked her in close and held her, breathing in the vanilla scent of her hair even as his heart thudded a warning.

  He’d never been one to appreciate red lights.

  He turned toward her, tilting her chin up with one finger, and grazed the curve of her jaw. Her skin was painfully soft, her breath warm. Her tear-filled eyes closed and her lips parted.

  That was all the motivation he needed to close the distance.

  The kiss was shorter than their last one, but it fanned a flame a dozen times hotter. His lips moved against hers as he pulled her in closer. She sagged against him, filling any remaining space between them with soft sighs and fingers clutching the folds of his shirt.

  He kissed her as if he wasn’t leaving. As if her life wasn’t in turmoil. As if either of their futures weren’t up in the air. He just kissed her, as easily and naturally as he breathed.

  She pulled away first, sucking in a gulp of air and dabbing the corners of her mouth. “Gerard.”

  He wanted to pull her back in but didn’t. He didn’t trust himself or the gallop of his heartbeat. “Hey.”

  Her hair was mussed, and her eyes were bright with leftover tears and a shining emotion he couldn’t quite name. “Thank you.”

  He laughed. “Thank you, Cupcake.”

  She blushed, and he loved that he could make her do so. “I meant for listening. And for the hug. And—you know.”

  Boy, did he. “I know.”

  “But you’re—”

  He sobered. “I know.” He was leaving. And she was staying. And that was most likely the end of their story in Story.

  A careful guard took over her expression. “I never showed you the picture.”

  Dodging the new subject worked for him. “Show me.” It didn’t really matter to him to put a face with a name, but it seemed important to her—and offered a distraction from the mass of feelings trying to talk him into kissing her again.

  Bri stood and went for her purse across the room, and he immediately missed the warmth of her presence at his side.

  She returned but didn’t sit, just stood in front of him and extended the slightly crinkled photo. “This is him.”

  He took the photo, glanced down, and started to nod. Then his grip tightened and his heart accelerated. “Wait. This is who?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “T.R.”

  He stared down at the dark swoop of slicked hair, the thin mustache, the camera strap slung over one shoulder.

  Remy.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Her mom always baked when she was upset.

  Bri remembered that now, the way her mother’s anxious whisks around a mixing bowl slowly turned into careful, therapeutic strokes. The way her tense shoulders eased as the warmth of the oven filled the kitchen, the way her expression softened as she slid her hands into pink, checkered oven mitts and withdrew delicious-smelling trays.

  Bri stirred with that same anxiety now, another halfhearted effort at matching her mother’s famous macarons. She was a glutton for punishment, wasn’t she? Attempting an impossible recipe for the hundredth time. Developing feelings for a man who would be leaving any day now. Trying to hold on to a bakery that her ex was determined to steal from her.

  Her grip tightened around the whisk as the hands on the clock above ticked closer to noon. Charles couldn’t succeed. He might have backed off for now, but she wouldn’t relax until Mabel and Agnes specifically told her that they would never sell to him. That they planned to die of old age in another decade or longer and leave the bakery to her.

  That nothing else would change.

  Her cell phone on the bakery counter buzzed with an incoming text. It was Casey, texting a selfie of her new family of four with a dozen heart-eye emojis. Bri smiled, grateful her friend had found her happily ever after—one that wasn’t quite as complicated as the chapter Bri found herself in.

  The memory of Gerard’s lips on hers last night shot a tingle up her spine, and her smile faded. How long until he left Story? After she’d shown him the picture last night, he had acknowledged it with less interest than she’d imagined he would have and soon after ushered her out the door to finish his article. She would have been concerned at the abrupt change of mood if that kiss hadn’t held such . . . well, everything. Passion. Gentleness. Comfort. It’d been even more genuine than the kiss at the fountain. It’d been real, no doubt.

  But those kisses couldn’t lead anywhere other than to the trail of exhaust from Gerard’s motorcycle.

  The door to the bakery opened, and a brisk wind swept across the room ahead of Mr. Mac. Bri set aside the whisk and brushed her hands on her apron. Mabel and Agnes were grocery shopping, so she’d brought her mixing bowls up front to help customers while she experimented with the macarons.

  “Well, aren’t you a welcome sight.” Her smile begged to return, and she granted allowance. “I was just itching to make a decaf soy latte, and here you are.”

  “I know you’re lying, but I’ll believe you because I want it.” Mr. Mac shuffled toward the counter, his eyes twinkling beneath his trademark bushy eyebrows. “You got anything new for my sweet tooth?”

  He patted the front pocket of his hunter-green button-down and retrieved his wallet with slightly shaky, darkly veined hands. Hands that once fought as a Marine and had held the same woman for over sixty years. A true hero.

  “I’m working on a new recipe, but it’s
not ready yet.” She glanced dubiously at the bowl. “It might not ever be, honestly.”

  “You’re the best baker I know, Miss Bri.”

  “I do have plenty of these Parisian cookies.” Bri tapped the display. “Buttercream frosting and Eiffel Towers.”

  “I’ll take three.” The edge of his Marine insignia tattoo peeked from the rolled-up cuff of his shirt as he pulled out a handful of bills.

  Jill, his nurse who waited by the door, cleared her throat pointedly. “I’m assuming two of those are for Betty? You know you can’t have all three, sir.”

  “I was going to give one to you, you old nag.” He winked at Bri and lowered his voice. “Make it four.”

  “No one tries to sneak extra sugar on my watch, Mr. Mac.” Jill grinned, crossing her arms over her dark scrubs. “I know you’re anxious to rejoin your bride, but we don’t want you bailing out of here too soon, now.”

  He grumbled back good-naturedly as Bri bagged his purchase—three cookies—and started working on his latte. The door opened again, and Jill stepped aside as Gerard entered.

  Bri’s breath hitched and her hand stumbled on the steamer handle. It sputtered—sort of like her heart as he strode toward her, nodding to Mr. Mac before locking eyes on Bri. She fought to regain control of the machine. They’d just seen each other last night—and his article was all but wrapped up. Why was he here?

  Mr. Mac’s thick brows raised and furrowed. His wiry gray mustache couldn’t begin to hide the mischievous grin that spread across his weathered cheeks. “I’ll be. Finally!”

  Heat climbed up Bri’s neck as she reached for a lid. “It’s not what you think.” She kept her voice down, hoping he’d get the hint to do the same. But Mr. Mac continued to look back and forth between her and Gerard like an awed spectator at a professional ping-pong tournament.