More Than Words
Page 56

It was like every good and beautiful thing in the world came together all at once and you’d found a way to express it in one single song.
I wasn’t useless. I wasn’t. Jessie had tried to teach me that. And yet I hadn’t been able to trust anyone to love me, even someone kind like Jessie, when my own father hadn’t been able to.
I sat for a long time in the desolate shack, my tears drying, the blood hardening. I stared at the ruined wall as my heartbeat became a steady thump, thump, thump.
Oh God, I was a fool. I hadn’t seen. I hadn’t realized.
I held my head in my hands, so many visions flowing through my mind, not just Jessie. Not just the second time she’d shown up to save me on a rooftop in Paris, not only the third, in a French château in the Loire Valley. But Nick, how he’d arrived in my life when I’d needed a friend the most, how I’d protected him and how he’d unfailingly had my back. Even Myrtle. Even crazy-ass Myrtle. I gasped, gripping my hair.
Maybe I had been loved all along … by something … or someone. By a loving hand that sought to guide me if only I’d listened. The feeling that something immense was happening danced across my skin, through my veins, and settled inside. It felt warm and shimmery, like a light. It felt like love.
You’re a disgrace, Jessie had said. I let go of my head, laughing out loud, not with self-mocking, but with the truth of her words and the realization that she was right. Of course she was. But the greater realization was that I didn’t want to be a disgrace any longer, and I needed to find the strength not to be.
I’d spent my life rejecting miracles. I’d spent my life snubbing fate. I’d spent my life sending boats away. One after the other.
Fate hadn’t given up on me, though. Fate had sent Jessie over and over again, and, God, I wanted to be worthy of the gift.
A scratching sound caught my attention, and I pulled myself to my feet. The last thing I needed was a run-in with some rabid raccoon that was squatting in the abandoned house. But when I peeked around the corner into the short hallway, I spotted a medium-sized brown and white dog, its expression moving between a grin and a pant. I backed up and the dog came forward, rounding the doorway into the kitchen where I now stood, moaning softly.
“Whoa,” I said, holding up my hand. The dog sat down, dropping its eyes. I paused. It seemed to have remarkably good manners for a stray. I could see the outline of its rib bones beneath its matted fur, so it was clearly hungry and homeless.
I shifted on my feet. “I should take you to the pound,” I murmured. The dog, seeming to know the word pound, dropped onto its stomach and covered its eyes with its paws. I laughed in surprise at the clear intelligence of this mangy animal. “Been there before, huh?” I sighed. “Well, I can’t take you. I live in an apartment in Los Angeles. No yard. No pets allowed.”
The dog continued to stare at me as if waiting for something. You could move. I let out a ragged breath, leaning back against the wall behind me. “Where am I gonna move to? France?” The dog’s ears perked up, and it lifted its head, letting out a moan. Of course. I wasn’t sure exactly where the thought had even come from other than that maybe … maybe it’d been swirling around in my head for weeks now. Perhaps I’d just been too scared to even ponder it and all the other risks I’d have to consider if I took that leap.
I pressed my lips together, still looking at the dog. “If we moved to France, I’d name you Pierre. It’s a really stupid name and you’d have to put up with it.” The dog leapt up, barking softly. I laughed. “It figures.”
I sighed again. I’d have to think about moving, really think about it, but it seemed that for now I had a dog. “Come on, Pierre. Let’s go get you a hamburger.” The dog moaned happily and then started panting, joining me where I stood and looking up at me solemnly. “I know. I didn’t expect you either. I think that’s the point.”
Pierre followed along behind me, and I unlocked the latch of the front door. Before I opened it, I looked back into the kitchen, picturing that small boy sitting at a table, scared, sad, filled with shame for who he was and what he couldn’t do.
“You were wrong about me,” I whispered, and then I opened the door, Pierre running ahead of me as we walked away.
* * *
“What do you think, Monsieur Hayes? Very nice?”
I turned, giving the modern kitchen a once-over. It was all shiny stainless steel and sharp edges. “It’s nice, I guess, but … do you have anything with a little more … history?”
The Realtor raised his eyebrow. “History? Monsieur, Giverny is rich in history. But in real estate that often translates to … needs work.”
I chuckled. “That’s okay. Within reason.”
The agent, Monsieur Voclain, brought his phone out and swiped through a couple of screens, stopping on one. He glanced at me. “I do have one you might like to see. If you like … history.” He smiled.
“Yes.” Or rather, someone special to me does.
“Okay. If you’d like to follow behind me, I will show you the way.”
I followed Monsieur Voclain’s car for several miles and pulled up next to him in front of a stone cottage, overgrown with ivy, white shutters falling from the hinges. I stood at the open car door for a moment, looking at it, a feeling of … rightness settling in. Pierre barked, sliding past me and jumping out the open door. “Hey. You’re supposed to stay in the car,” I said. The damn dog ignored me, trotting toward the house, where she lay down in a patch of sunlight on the stone pathway and put her head on her paws.
I looked around, taking in the overgrown yard fenced in by a stone wall that still looked sturdy. Massive trees shaded the property, and flowers and vines grew rampant and wild. It needed some taming, but the natural, unbound beauty of it caught at something inside me.
There was a familiar quality about the light here. The way it glowed so softly behind the house and then diffused gently away into the trees and the sky beyond. It brought to mind the way the light had looked behind Jessie that day as she’d stood in front of the window at the inn.
And as I tipped my head back and inhaled the breeze, I swore I could smell the sweet, spicy scent of roses wafting from somewhere beyond.
Monsieur Voclain approached. “It’s a fixer-upper, no doubt. But it has a lovely private garden in the back, and the fireplaces inside are still working. It has all the original beams and wood floors.” We started walking toward the front door. “You know that Monet’s house is nearby? When he moved here in 1883, the beauty of Giverny became a source of great inspiration for him. He painted several of his most famous paintings here. It is … a special place for artists.”
“Hmm,” I hummed. I’d heard Monet’s home and gardens were nearby. She would love that.
Monsieur Voclain chuckled as he looked at Pierre, who had made herself right at home already. “Your dog will like it here, too. There are beautiful places to walk, a river with an old bridge just that way.” He pointed to the left. “And above the trees, you can see the steeple of an eleventh-century church.”
A melody pinged inside me: soft, sweet, lonely, speaking of things I’d always longed for but never had the courage to try to make my own.
Love.
Home.
“Monsieur Voclain, I’ll take it.”
He laughed, turning from the front door he was just unlocking. “You haven’t even seen the inside.”
I grinned. “All right, let’s walk through, just to make it official.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JESSICA
“Jess?” I turned from the stove where I was heating up some soup as Frankie entered our apartment.
“Hey,” I greeted, giving her a smile.
“Hey. How was your day?”
“It was good.”
She came in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder into the pot of vegetable soup and wrinkling her nose. She tossed some mail on the counter, holding up a magazine that had been on top. “Look.” She grinned. “It’s the published article about how my brilliant friend helped uncover one of history’s great mysteries.”