“Maybe part of your legacy is bringing Émile and Lucie’s story to light, however tragic it might be.”
“Is it tragic, though? I think Gaspard had a point: We want Émile and Lucie to have lived, but they would have been dead by now no matter what. All stories have to end sooner or later, and there’s really no ‘right way’ to exit, when you think about it. Ultimately we’re all just the contents of our own letters, which someone in the future might read; everyone dies eventually.”
“That’s very philosophical,” said Rosalyn, leaning forward and putting her hand over Emma’s. “And I accept any decision you make, of course. But, Emma, if the doctors think this new experimental protocol might work, I hope you’ll try it. And I want to go with you. I need to take care of a few things in Napa, but it’s not far. I can be there for you, Emma. Iwantto be there for you. And if you still want to pay me to write Émile and Lucie’s story, I would love to accept. Turns out, I really need a job.”
“You’re hired, on one condition: Apologize to Jérôme. Don’t be an ass, Rosie. The man’s adorable; he works the fields during the day, reads poetry at night, and busts through walls. Assuming he’s good in bed, he’s the real deal.”
Rosalyn laughed. “I will. But hey, you’re going to want to stick around long enough to read my book—ourbook—when it’s done. With all these new revelations, it ought to be a bestseller. I see Hollywood blockbuster written all over it.”
Tears in her eyes, Emma squeezed Rosalyn’s hand and blew out a long breath. “Are you sure you can handle this, Rosie? The great likelihood is that I’ll die, just like Dash did. Just like we all do, eventually.”
Rosalyn had fled from Dash’s hospital room at the last moment, so fearful was she of facing loss. But loss was part of life; it was inevitable. She was no longer afraid of death. As a matter of fact, she was no longer afraid of facing life, either.
“I want to be there, if you want me to be.”
“All right, what the hell? If the tests reveal I’m a good candidate for it, we’ll head back to California. I want to meet this Hugh character I’ve heard so much about.”
“I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“One more try, Rosie, but if this doesn’t work...”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll be there till the bitter end.”
“It won’t be bitter, Rosie. It’s just the next step.”
Chapter Fifty-three
When she didn’t find Jérôme out in his fields, Rosalyn drove up to the old stone farmhouse. She sat in the car a moment, hesitating. She probably shouldn’t disturb him—what if he was napping after waking up at three in the morning to tend his vines?
Get a backbone, Rosie,she told herself.Awkward never killed anybody.
She knocked. When she got no response, she knocked again. Finally, she heard some muffled sounds, and Jérôme opened the door, looking rumpled and gorgeous. He didn’t say a word.
“I know your English skills are impressive.” Rosalyn jumped right in. “But I’m not sure you completely understood when I told you I was a hot mess.”
Jérôme gazed at her for a long moment, his head tilting slightly, those tiny lines forming between his eyebrows. Not long ago Rosalyn would have assumed he was angry with her, or annoyed with the ever-problematic American. Now she knew different: He was confused. Hurt. Perhaps even... feeling betrayed? Before long he would give a little shrug and turn away.
How had she come to know him so well in such a short time?
“Could I come in for a moment?” she asked.
He stepped back so she could walk through the doorway. Once again she was impressed with the feeling of being at home and comfortable, despite the wildly awkward situation she found herself in.
“Coffee?” he offered. “I was just making some.”
“Thanks. I’d love a cup.” She leaned back against the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry, Jérôme. Again... this is a lot for me. I’m doing the best I can, but I think things moved a little fast between us. I wasn’t sure I was ready to start something new with someone. And I got caught up with the stories of Émile and Lucie, and the First World War, and thoughts of Dash, and—”
“I understand. It was fast for me as well.” He set a mug of coffee in front of her. The cup was chipped, as though it had been in the family a long time. She ran her finger along the groove and decided she loved it even more for its imperfection.None of us makes it out of this life unharmed.
“Emma’s sick,” Rosalyn said. “She has to go back to San Francisco, to try a new therapy.”
He nodded. “I heard something about that, at Dominique’s store.”
“Since when did you start listening to gossip?”
“Since I started caring about who—or is it ‘whom’?—the gossip was about.”
Rosalyn smiled. “Our flight leaves for San Francisco tomorrow.”
