Frederic d’Estang
Paris
I finish reading with tears dripping down my face.
Dad’s standing at my side, uncertain. “Does it explain things at all?”
I stare at the tablet, wiping my face. Hope. I’ve given Frederic hope? I gave him those books because I wanted to show him that music could still be part of his life. I didn’t realize that it would mean so much to him.
“Yes, it does. It does more than that.” I look at the bottom of the page. Frederic d’Estang, Paris. He’s so far away from me, the English Channel separating us. I remember the lines from Jane Eyre that he quoted beneath the Eiffel Tower. If that boisterous channel come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.
It has snapped, and I’m left only with a wound that won’t heal. Tears fall over my cheeks, faster now. It’s really over. I feel it now, and I’m utterly bereft.
Dad takes out his phone. “Shall I call him in then?”
I look up in confusion. “What?”
“He’s out in the lane if you want to see him.”
He’s out in the lane. I shove the tablet back at my father and run down the hall, flying out the door and across the snow-covered gravel. There’s fifty feet to the road but I cover it in seconds, not caring that the only things on my feet are slipper socks. I come out at the end of the driveway and see him, leaning against a car. He’s swamped by a heavy black coat, his hands deep in the pockets and his breath fogging the air. When he sees me he starts forward, his face uncertain, but hopeful.
I throw myself into his arms and clasp him about the neck, still weeping. His body is reassuringly solid beneath the bulky coat. He’s really here.
“Minette, shh, it’s all right,” he says, stroking my hair.
But I’m not crying from sadness. I’m crying because there’s nothing else in the world I wanted more than Frederic in this moment, and here he is, impossibly, beautifully here. I look up at him, studying his face. “I gave you hope?”
“You did, ba—chérie. You gave me so many things, but you ga
ve me hope, and I tell you, how I’ve needed it these last few months. It’s all I’ve had.”
I notice that he stopped himself from calling me baby. Too intimate? The last few months haven’t been easy for either of us, but I think he’s right. Hope has kept us both going; hope for him that he still has music in his life; and hope for me that I am brave enough, strong enough to face things and become what I need to be.
Touching his lips with my fingers, I whisper, “If we can give each other hope, then maybe there’s hope for us, too.”
He kisses me, swift and fierce and with the full force of his feelings behind it. When he pulls away, leaving me breathless, his face is hard and determined. “I want you as mine. Properly mine, no time limits, no conditions.”
My heart expands hearing him say those beautiful words, but the practicalities still worry at me. “How would that work? You have your life and I have mine.”
“Things have changed. I am a free man, chérie. No productions to call me away to Europe or Canada. I only need two things: you and a piano. If this island is your home, then it is my island, too.”
I study his green eyes, feeling a smile blossom on my face. “You really mean that? You’ll be a French-Canadian in England, and put up with our mediocre coffee, too much rain and barely enough pâtisseries?”
He considers this, a smile plumping his mouth. “I’ll make my own coffee, and take you to the continent for sunshine, and find a way to do without pâtisseries. But it won’t matter, because I’ll have you.”
Kissing me again, he pulls me tightly against him, his tongue running over my top lip, making me groan, and then delving into my mouth. How I’ve missed his kisses. I’m growing drunk on them, my tolerance lowered after so many months’ abstinence.
“It is Thursday, my love,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice turning dark and seductive. “Unless your schedule has changed then you are free until Sunday night, are you not?”
I nod. I am free, and safe in the circle of his arms.
“Then may I suggest we go to Paris? I have missed you in Paris, minette. I love you in Paris. In fact, I love you everywhere.”
His words curl around me like sunshine. I imagine holding his hand while we shop for fruit and vegetables in the market. Lying on the sofa holding Christine while he plays the piano. Held tightly in his arms after a ferocious bout of lovemaking while our hearts thunder against each other’s.
“I love you, too, Frederic. Yes, please, take me to Paris. What will we do there?”
He tucks my hair behind my ear and rubs his thumb over my lower lip. “Well, we will eat, and drink, and talk. We will go to bed. All the things you should do in Paris. How does that sound?”