More Than Words
Page 59
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“I have so much to tell you, too,” I whispered, smiling. “But tell me again.”
“What?”
“What you wrote in your letter.”
“That I’m sorry?”
“No, not that part. The other part.”
His smile was filled with tenderness. “I love you, Jessie. Only you. I’ve loved you for a long, long time, forever I think. I want to make a life with you and our baby. I want to write you love letters with my music. I want to feed you French chocolate.” His smile increased, and I let out a soggy-sounding laugh before we both went serious again, my breath suspended at the look of adoration on his handsome face. “I want to hear the passion in your voice when you talk about your work. I want to take walks, and sit in front of fires, and make love, and raise children, and grow old together. I want to be your prince.”
I was crying again, silent tears that coursed down my face, but I smiled through them, so much happiness in my heart.
“I love you, too,” I said, pulling him to me again, touching my lips to his as the last of the raindrops fell and the whole of Paris seemed to pause, just for a moment, just for us.
EPILOGUE
CALLEN
The little boy toddled unsteadily through the wildflowers, the faint vibration of sound emanating from his throat and floating to me on the mild spring breeze. He was humming. My heart caught, squeezing with love, and just a little bit of fear, before resuming its calm, steady pace. Music lived inside him, too—I’d passed on that gift. Perhaps I’d passed on my struggles as well, and maybe it was what the music did: fill our brains so completely that there was little room for other things. Then again, I’d learned to read. I would never grasp written words and phrases, sentences and language structure the way Jessie did, but I could read menus now. I could read signs and directions, product information, text messages, and e-mails. The world had opened up to me, but most of all, I felt a renewed sense of my own capabilities, the pride that came with putting my mind to something and accomplishing it, the self-respect that accompanied a new willingness to try, even when I was afraid.
And in any case, I would be proud of my son for whoever he was. The words that would ring in his head when he thought of me would be words of love and admiration, pride, and joy. He would always know that when I looked at him, I saw a miracle.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Jessie asked, coming up next to me and wrapping her arms around my waist, her head resting on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head as we watched our son laugh and change direction, following after a romping Pierre.
“It’s perfect,” I said. We had come to the field next to the cave where Adélaïde’s letters had been found and had a picnic lunch, enjoying the gorgeous Loire Valley as spring burst forth and basking in the sweet memories of the place where we’d fallen in love. The place where our family had begun.
Maybe that wasn’t totally accurate. Perhaps our family had actually begun its story many years ago, in an abandoned boxcar on a summer evening in California. Maybe fate had waited all this time for us to see the path she’d so lovingly laid out for us. She seemed to be patient that way.
“I feel them here,” Jessie murmured, turning to the cave behind us. “I can still hear Adélaïde’s voice in my head sometimes. I imagine the things she might say, the advice she’d give.”
I looked into her dream-filled eyes, my gaze moving over her beautiful face, those large hazel eyes, those sweet, full lips that I’d never tire of kissing. Thank you, I whispered inside myself. Thank you for her. For them. The sun had brought out Jessie’s freckles, and I leaned down and kissed one, unable to resist. She laughed and I smiled. “What does she say?”
Close to where we stood, Austin lost his balance and went down on his well-padded, diapered butt. Pierre was at his side in an instant, licking his face as our eighteen-month-old son pulled himself to his feet, continuing the exploration they’d been on.
“She tells me to listen to my heart, to notice all the gifts I’m given, even the seemingly small ones, and to have patience when you leave your cereal bowl in the sink without rinsing it out.”
I laughed. “She’s a wise soul.”
Her smile became pensive. “She is. Mostly, she reminds me to be grateful for it all.” I pulled her closer, feeling just that.
The year before, to create a more complete picture of the writings that had been translated, Dr. Moreau and Jessie tracked down information on Captain Olivier Durand, who had served in the French army during the Hundred Years’ War. They searched through ancient French archives and finally found records that showed that Captain Durand had married Adélaïde Beauvais, the disowned daughter of a French aristocrat, the same year Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for heresy. Captain Durand had retired from the army, and together they’d raised five children. They’d lived out their days in a village in France, where Olivier and Adélaïde farmed the land, tending their orchards until their deaths. Olivier passed first and Adélaïde followed three weeks later.
There was no information that could be found on where they’d been buried, if the gravestones even still existed, and so we came here to pay homage. It felt right. Here they had lived. Here they had expressed their love for the first time, and here was where they’d been brought back together.
And it was the same for us.
Jessie had given her notice at the Louvre the week before and was going to venture out on her own as a freelance translator. She’d been the lead on several big projects since she’d worked there, but she’d get more variety of work if she was a free agent. And she’d be able to work according to her own schedule and travel if she wanted. She’d already been contacted by a museum in the French Riviera that had come across buried writings from an old French prison and a family on the coast of Normandy who had found a box of letters that they believed incriminated a distant relative who had been a duchess of murdering her husband the duke.
And so we’d go on adventures together once again, Jessie and me, at least while Austin was young. She’d learn to cook, she said, and continue to fix up our French cottage, which she’d fallen madly in love with. And she’d tend the roses in our garden. Roses, to remind us of the weekend that changed everything, the weekend that fate brought us to an inn with a room that provided very close … proximity. The room where I handed over my heart and had been happily ruined for anyone else forever. The room where we’d unknowingly created our beloved little boy.
And, of course, I would continue to write Jessie love letters with my music.
The soundtrack I’d written, with the title song for Jessie, had become a success beyond any of my wildest dreams. I’d even won several Academy Awards, which had brought my career into a whole new realm. The security the money brought was nice, but the fame didn’t fill me anymore. I cherished my quiet life in Giverny, venturing to Paris only once in a while for the occasional business meeting with my new agent or to wine and dine my wife. Jessie went a little more often, to visit Frankie and have lunch with friends and old colleagues.
After that disastrous interview with Cyril Sauvage, I’d spoken of my illiteracy and how I’d subsequently learned to read only once, at the Oscars. As I received my first award, I read my speech to the audience, the one I’d painstakingly written out in my own hand, dedicating the words to my wife. The media replayed it ad nauseam, including the tear-streaked faces of almost everyone in the theater. Jessie never had enough of replaying it. I only laughed, still slightly embarrassed by the attention for something I’d hidden all my life as a secret shame. But like Jessie often said, there was no real bravery without fear.
“Should we head home?” I asked. The afternoon was dwindling toward early evening and the sun was lowering. “If we leave now we can be home by sunset.”
She nodded, dropping her arms from my waist.
I whistled for Pierre as I walked to my son, scooping him up into my arms and tossing him into the air, and he shrieked with laughter. I caught him easily, laughing along with him. Then I perched him on my shoulders and returned to Jessie.
“What?”
“What you wrote in your letter.”
“That I’m sorry?”
“No, not that part. The other part.”
His smile was filled with tenderness. “I love you, Jessie. Only you. I’ve loved you for a long, long time, forever I think. I want to make a life with you and our baby. I want to write you love letters with my music. I want to feed you French chocolate.” His smile increased, and I let out a soggy-sounding laugh before we both went serious again, my breath suspended at the look of adoration on his handsome face. “I want to hear the passion in your voice when you talk about your work. I want to take walks, and sit in front of fires, and make love, and raise children, and grow old together. I want to be your prince.”
I was crying again, silent tears that coursed down my face, but I smiled through them, so much happiness in my heart.
“I love you, too,” I said, pulling him to me again, touching my lips to his as the last of the raindrops fell and the whole of Paris seemed to pause, just for a moment, just for us.
EPILOGUE
CALLEN
The little boy toddled unsteadily through the wildflowers, the faint vibration of sound emanating from his throat and floating to me on the mild spring breeze. He was humming. My heart caught, squeezing with love, and just a little bit of fear, before resuming its calm, steady pace. Music lived inside him, too—I’d passed on that gift. Perhaps I’d passed on my struggles as well, and maybe it was what the music did: fill our brains so completely that there was little room for other things. Then again, I’d learned to read. I would never grasp written words and phrases, sentences and language structure the way Jessie did, but I could read menus now. I could read signs and directions, product information, text messages, and e-mails. The world had opened up to me, but most of all, I felt a renewed sense of my own capabilities, the pride that came with putting my mind to something and accomplishing it, the self-respect that accompanied a new willingness to try, even when I was afraid.
And in any case, I would be proud of my son for whoever he was. The words that would ring in his head when he thought of me would be words of love and admiration, pride, and joy. He would always know that when I looked at him, I saw a miracle.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Jessie asked, coming up next to me and wrapping her arms around my waist, her head resting on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head as we watched our son laugh and change direction, following after a romping Pierre.
“It’s perfect,” I said. We had come to the field next to the cave where Adélaïde’s letters had been found and had a picnic lunch, enjoying the gorgeous Loire Valley as spring burst forth and basking in the sweet memories of the place where we’d fallen in love. The place where our family had begun.
Maybe that wasn’t totally accurate. Perhaps our family had actually begun its story many years ago, in an abandoned boxcar on a summer evening in California. Maybe fate had waited all this time for us to see the path she’d so lovingly laid out for us. She seemed to be patient that way.
“I feel them here,” Jessie murmured, turning to the cave behind us. “I can still hear Adélaïde’s voice in my head sometimes. I imagine the things she might say, the advice she’d give.”
I looked into her dream-filled eyes, my gaze moving over her beautiful face, those large hazel eyes, those sweet, full lips that I’d never tire of kissing. Thank you, I whispered inside myself. Thank you for her. For them. The sun had brought out Jessie’s freckles, and I leaned down and kissed one, unable to resist. She laughed and I smiled. “What does she say?”
Close to where we stood, Austin lost his balance and went down on his well-padded, diapered butt. Pierre was at his side in an instant, licking his face as our eighteen-month-old son pulled himself to his feet, continuing the exploration they’d been on.
“She tells me to listen to my heart, to notice all the gifts I’m given, even the seemingly small ones, and to have patience when you leave your cereal bowl in the sink without rinsing it out.”
I laughed. “She’s a wise soul.”
Her smile became pensive. “She is. Mostly, she reminds me to be grateful for it all.” I pulled her closer, feeling just that.
The year before, to create a more complete picture of the writings that had been translated, Dr. Moreau and Jessie tracked down information on Captain Olivier Durand, who had served in the French army during the Hundred Years’ War. They searched through ancient French archives and finally found records that showed that Captain Durand had married Adélaïde Beauvais, the disowned daughter of a French aristocrat, the same year Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for heresy. Captain Durand had retired from the army, and together they’d raised five children. They’d lived out their days in a village in France, where Olivier and Adélaïde farmed the land, tending their orchards until their deaths. Olivier passed first and Adélaïde followed three weeks later.
There was no information that could be found on where they’d been buried, if the gravestones even still existed, and so we came here to pay homage. It felt right. Here they had lived. Here they had expressed their love for the first time, and here was where they’d been brought back together.
And it was the same for us.
Jessie had given her notice at the Louvre the week before and was going to venture out on her own as a freelance translator. She’d been the lead on several big projects since she’d worked there, but she’d get more variety of work if she was a free agent. And she’d be able to work according to her own schedule and travel if she wanted. She’d already been contacted by a museum in the French Riviera that had come across buried writings from an old French prison and a family on the coast of Normandy who had found a box of letters that they believed incriminated a distant relative who had been a duchess of murdering her husband the duke.
And so we’d go on adventures together once again, Jessie and me, at least while Austin was young. She’d learn to cook, she said, and continue to fix up our French cottage, which she’d fallen madly in love with. And she’d tend the roses in our garden. Roses, to remind us of the weekend that changed everything, the weekend that fate brought us to an inn with a room that provided very close … proximity. The room where I handed over my heart and had been happily ruined for anyone else forever. The room where we’d unknowingly created our beloved little boy.
And, of course, I would continue to write Jessie love letters with my music.
The soundtrack I’d written, with the title song for Jessie, had become a success beyond any of my wildest dreams. I’d even won several Academy Awards, which had brought my career into a whole new realm. The security the money brought was nice, but the fame didn’t fill me anymore. I cherished my quiet life in Giverny, venturing to Paris only once in a while for the occasional business meeting with my new agent or to wine and dine my wife. Jessie went a little more often, to visit Frankie and have lunch with friends and old colleagues.
After that disastrous interview with Cyril Sauvage, I’d spoken of my illiteracy and how I’d subsequently learned to read only once, at the Oscars. As I received my first award, I read my speech to the audience, the one I’d painstakingly written out in my own hand, dedicating the words to my wife. The media replayed it ad nauseam, including the tear-streaked faces of almost everyone in the theater. Jessie never had enough of replaying it. I only laughed, still slightly embarrassed by the attention for something I’d hidden all my life as a secret shame. But like Jessie often said, there was no real bravery without fear.
“Should we head home?” I asked. The afternoon was dwindling toward early evening and the sun was lowering. “If we leave now we can be home by sunset.”
She nodded, dropping her arms from my waist.
I whistled for Pierre as I walked to my son, scooping him up into my arms and tossing him into the air, and he shrieked with laughter. I caught him easily, laughing along with him. Then I perched him on my shoulders and returned to Jessie.
