For a moment, she looks at me the way she used to—eyes full of something soft and unfinished. “Goodnight, Marcel.”
I hesitate in the doorway, the lamplight spilling across her face, painting her in gold and grief. “Goodnight, Clara.”
She offers a faint, trembling smile. “Thank you—for listening.”
I nod once and step into the hall. The air outside her room feels different—cooler, clearer, touched with something like release. Behind me, the door clicks softly shut, the sound echoing through the stillness.
I make my way down the corridor, her letter still heavy in my hand. I could have set it back in the box, but I’m not ready to let go of it yet. Not tonight.
The house is quiet, the old boards creaking under my steps. Once I’m in my room, I pause at the window. Beyond the glass, the night stretches wide, a silver wash over the valley. Somewhere out there, the wind stirs through the wildflowers, and for the first time in half a century, I breathe without the weight of wondering.
An Invitation
Clara 1923
The clock ticks toward noon,each second tugging tighter at the knot in my stomach. Irene, in her infinite mischief, insisted the staff take the afternoon off. Which leaves me standing in the hushed foyer of the Albright estate, palms damp against the folds of my dress, with no butler to intercept what’s about to happen.
The crunch of tires on gravel shatters the quiet. My breath catches. Through the glass I see him hop out from the truck—hat in his hand, hair neatly combed, shirt pressed, boots polished as best he could manage. He looks both handsome and nervous, as though he knows full well he’s crossing into a different world.
I force my trembling fingers to the latch, and when I open the door, there he is.
“Marcel,” I say, softer than I intend.
His eyes find mine instantly, and the uncertainty in his posture eases. “Clara.”
For a long beat, we only stand there, the summer air spilling between us, thick with heat and silence. Finally, I step back, gesturing him inside. “Come in.”
He steps across the threshold, hesitant, his gaze flicking over the wide entry hall, the polished floorboards, the heavychandelier overhead. He looks smaller here, and yet somehow steadier, as if nothing in this grand house could impress him more than the sight of me waiting.
I close the door behind him, my pulse hammering. He clears his throat, shifting his hat in his hands. “I thought…Irene was hosting.”
A laugh, nervous and thin, escapes me. “That was the story she told you. The truth is…” I glance toward the door Irene had left through earlier that morning, her smile still echoing in my mind. “…she wanted us to have the house to ourselves.”
His brows lift, his ears tinging pink. “Just us?”
“Just us,” I confirm, twisting my fingers together at my waist. “She thought we might want to…talk.”
His gaze lingers on me, warm and uncertain all at once. “I don’t know what I did to earn her scheming,” he smiles, “but I won’t waste it.”
And in that moment, with no staff to overhear, no aunt to barge in, no pretense left between us, the air grows unbearably still. Every choice from here is ours alone.
“We could sit in the sunroom.” I blurt out.
He smiles, setting his hat on the sideboard. “That sounds nice.”
I nod and lead him down the hall toward the sunroom, my skirts brushing the polished floor, my pulse echoing in my ears. It’s the one room in this house that feels less like a stage and more like a refuge with its glass walls spilling sunlight over wicker chairs, the scent of hydrangeas drifting in through the open windows.
Marcel hesitates at the threshold before finally stepping inside—broad shoulders, shirt stretched clean across them, boots clicking softly against the tile.
“Would you like some lemonade?” I ask, desperate for something to say.
He shakes his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Awkward silence falls. I smooth my skirts and lower myself into a chair, gesturing to the one across from me. He sits slowly, posture too careful, like he’s afraid he might break the furniture if he leans the wrong way.
“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” I blurt. Then wince. “I mean—we should talk, of course. But…we don’t have to force anything.”
A small smile curves his lips, crooked and boyish, and my chest tightens. “I want to talk, Clara. I just…don’t always know the right words.”
