by Marc Levy
PRAISE FOR ALL THOSE THINGS WE NEVER SAID
“This champion of romance has a knack for hauling us into his phantasmagoria. His novel is a roller-coaster ride. Masterfully crafted.”
—Le Parisien
“A must read . . . Marc Levy mixes a brilliant cocktail of emotion, suspense, and humor, and does so with cinematic flair . . . A real accomplishment.”
—Le Matin
“Full of suspense, and at the same time both funny and moving.”
—LCI, la Matinale
“A wonderful fable. Humor, levity, fantasy.”
—Metro
“The suspense arises from tender emotions, the wounds of childhood, tender humor, and the force of friendship. Marc Levy’s ghosts are as convincing as his flesh-and-blood characters, all of whom are endearing—even the cantankerous ones!”
—Télé 7 Jours
“Levy revives the romantic and fantastic universe we fall for in each of his novels.”
—Ici Paris
“Each one of Marc Levy’s incredible stories truly takes flight . . . entwining humor with eternal love.”
—La Provence
“With this book, Marc Levy rediscovers the romanticism and fantasy of his first novel, If Only It Were True.”
—RTL, Laissez-vous tenter
“Marc Levy possesses a special talent to pass off the unbelievable as something believable.”
—L’Est Républicain
“Marc Levy re-creates the romance and fantasy of his first novel, If Only it Were True—and gets right under our skin! It’s as if he were whispering a story in our ear, by turns suspenseful and poignant.”
—François Wolfermann, Librairie Kleber, Strasbourg
“A captivating novel, impossible to put down. An arresting story that inspires us to believe and to think, ‘If only that could happen to me!’”
—Claudine Juin, Librairie Le Presse Papier, Paris 19ème
“All those things we find moving, tender, and so very true.”
—Isabelle Desesquelles, Librairie Privat, Toulouse
ALSO BY MARC LEVY
If Only It Were True
Children Of Freedom
Replay
P.S. From Paris
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2008 Marc Levy
Translation copyright © 2017 Chris Murray
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Toutes ces choses qu’on ne s’est pas dites by Éditions Robert Laffont in France in 2008. Translated from French by Chris Murray.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542045926
ISBN-10: 1542045924
Cover design by Kimberly Glyder
For Pauline and Louis
CONTENTS
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle.
Albert Einstein
1.
“What do you think?”
“Turn around and let me see.”
“Stanley, you’ve been looking me up and down for half an hour. I really need to get off this platform.”
“First off, we should bring up the hemline. It would be a crime to cover up legs like yours.”
“Stanley.”
“What, you want my opinion or not? Turn around, show me the front again. Yes, just as I suspected. Same plunging neckline in the front and back. On the bright side, if you spill something on it, you can just put the thing on backward; no one will be able to tell the difference.”
“Stanley!”
“The mere notion of purchasing a wedding gown on sale gives me hives. You might as well just find one on eBay! Sorry if that sounds harsh, baby-doll—just telling it like I see it.”
“Well, excuse me if it’s the best I can do on a graphic designer’s salary.”
“Come on, now. Just say artist. Lord, twenty-first-century vocabulary makes me shudder!”
“It’s not like I use oil paints, Stanley. I work on a computer.”
“You’re my best friend, and I won’t listen to you sell yourself short. You draw amazing characters and make them come to life. Computer or not, you’re an artist.”
“Fine, fine . . . So do we hem it or leave it be?”
“Two inches higher and we would have to work on the shoulders . . . and bring it in around the waistline.”
“Okay, I get it, you hate the dress.”
“I didn’t say I hated it!”
“Not out loud.”
“If you’d just let me help foot the bill, we could go to Anna Maier. I’m begging you here, baby-doll, please. Listen to me, just this once.”
“Ten thousand dollars on a dress? Are you insane? It’s too much, even for you. It’s only a wedding, Stanley.”
“Only your wedding!”
“That’s right. My wedding.” Julia sighed.
“I mean, with the fortune your father’s sitting on, you’d think he could at least—”
“The last time I laid eyes on my father was six months ago. At a red light. I was on my bike. He was in his limo, heading down Fifth Avenue. And that’s that, end of story.”
Julia shrugged and stepped down off the fitting platform. Stanley took her gently by the hand and pulled her in for a hug.
“Baby-doll, any dress on you would be a masterpiece; I just want yours to be perfect. And what about Adam? Couldn’t he help?”
“I don’t know, with Adam’s parents already paying for the entire reception, I’d rather not have my future in-laws gossiping about how cheap the bride is.”
Stanley crossed the small boutique discreetly, straight past the sales staff, who were leaning against the counter and chatting away. He grabbed a hanger with a white satin sheath off the rack and brought it back to Julia.
“Not a word! Not even a syllable. Just try it on.”
“It’s a size two. How do you expect me to fit into—”
“Hey! Quiet. What did I say?”
Julia rolled her eyes and made her way into the fitting room, closing the curtain with dramatic flair.
A few minutes later, the curtain whipped back open just as abruptly.
“Now we’re talking! I look at you, and I think that could be Julia’s wedding dress,” exclaimed Stanley. “Now get your ass back up on that block.”
“It’s so tight in this thing, we’re going to need a crowbar to pry it off.”
“Totally worth it. You loo
k drop-dead gorgeous!”
“Except that I feel like it’s about to burst at the seams. If I eat one little hors d’oeuvre, it will!”
“One does not eat on one’s wedding day. All we need to do is let it out a tiny bit around the bosom, and we’re golden. God, are the employees here on strike or just total assholes?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one acting all stressed out right now, not you?”
“Stressed out? I don’t know, should I be? I mean, we’ve got a whopping four days until you tie the knot, and yet I have to twist your arm just to get you to try on dresses.”
“You know how buried I am at work right now. And I can’t say a word to Adam. I’ve been swearing up and down that everything has been set for at least a month now.”
Stanley found an abandoned pincushion on the armrest of a chair and knelt at Julia’s feet.
“Your future husband has no idea how lucky he is, getting hitched to a superstar like you.”
“Again with the jabs at Adam. I don’t get what you have against him.”
“Honestly? He reminds me of your father.”
“Are you crazy? Adam is nothing like my father. And he hates him, by the way.”
“Adam hates your father? Maybe I should give him another chance.”
“No, no, no; my father hates Adam.”
“Big surprise. Your father hates everyone you’re close to. If you had a dog, he’d probably bite him.”
“Any dog of mine would definitely tear my father to shreds,” Julia said with a laugh.
“Actually, I meant your father would bite the dog.”
Stanley rose and took a step back to admire his work. A quick little nod, and then a deep breath.
“What? What is it now?” Julia asked.
“It’s perfect. Or rather, you’re perfect. Let me adjust the sash a bit, then you can take me out to lunch.”
“Oh, can I? Where am I taking you?”
“Anywhere—as long as there are outside tables and enough shade, I’m a happy camper. Now if you’d just stop squirming, I can finish. Flawless. Well, almost.”
“Why almost?”
Stanley winced. “Because this gown . . . is on sale, darling.”
A saleswoman finally approached and asked if they needed help with anything. Stanley sent her packing with a flick of his wrist.
“So what’s the verdict? You think he’ll come?”
“Who?” asked Julia.
“Who do you think? Your father!”
“Him again . . . Forget about it. I told you I haven’t heard from him in over a year.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing.”
“He won’t come!”
“Have you even tried to reach out to him?”
“I gave up pouring my heart out to his personal assistant a long time ago. Talking to the man himself is damn near impossible. Always on a business trip or in a meeting. No way he’d make time for his daughter.”
“But you sent him an invitation?”
“Are you done yet?”
“Getting there. You know, you and your father are like an old married couple. He’s just jealous. All fathers are. It’ll pass.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you stick up for him. And if we’re an old couple, we’re a divorced one. Been that way for years—”
Right on cue, “I Will Survive” started playing from inside Julia’s purse. Stanley threw her an inquisitive look.
“Are you going to get that?”
“Oh, it’s probably Adam. Or the office.”
“You know what? Let me get it. If you move an inch, you’ll mess up everything.”
Stanley dug into Julia’s bag, pulled out the phone, and handed it to her. Gloria Gaynor fell silent.
“Too late, missed it,” said Julia, glancing at the caller ID.
“Adam? Or work?”
“Neither,” she replied with a frown.
Stanley glared.
“What, do I have to guess?”
“Believe it or not, it was my father’s office.”
“Call him back!”
“No way! He wants me, he can pick up the phone and call himself.”
“Wait, you lost me. Isn’t that what he just did?”
“No. That was his personal assistant’s extension.”
“Cut the pouting-child act. You’ve been waiting for that call from the moment you dropped his invitation at the post office. Baby-doll, four days before your wedding, you should be minimizing stress at all costs. If you don’t relax, you could get a cold sore or a rash on your back! Just call the man already!”
“Why? Just to listen to Wallace explain that my father sends his sincere regrets, but he’ll be unable to attend? That the wedding is unfortunately the very same day as a major business deal, and my father will be abroad, tickets are nonrefundable, and the trip has been planned for months. Something like that?”
“Or maybe that your father would be delighted to give away his daughter, and he hopes that, despite their past differences, she has a seat reserved for him at the head table.”
“Ha! Like he cares about that. Give him a seat next to coat check, as long as there’s a pretty girl handing out the tickets.”
“Would you stop hating him for just one minute? Or don’t, and you’ll spend the entire reception in suspense, worrying about whether he’s coming, instead of enjoying your own wedding day.”
“Well, at least it’ll take my mind off the fact that if I take a single bite, this stupid dress is going to burst!”
“Then have it your way, baby-doll!” hissed Stanley as he turned to leave. “Let’s have lunch some other time when you’re feeling better.”
Julia took a reckless leap from the platform and ran straight across the boutique after Stanley. She caught him by the shoulder and pulled her friend in for a hug as her eyes welled up with tears.
“I’m sorry, Stanley. I don’t know what got into me. Really, I apologize.”
“About your father? Or about the dress? ’Cause I could point out, neither that narrowly diverted disaster of a jump, nor running like a fool across this hellhole, has burst one single stitch.”
“Stanley. I love this dress. I do. And I couldn’t imagine anyone but you there beside me when I walk down the aisle.”
Stanley took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed softly at Julia’s tears.
“You really want to walk down the aisle with an old queen like me? Or is this another cockeyed scheme to pass me off as your bastard of a father?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Sorry to say, but I don’t think you could pull it off. Not nearly enough wrinkles to play my dad.”
“On the contrary, it was a compliment. I was casting you as a woman young enough to play my daughter.”
“Stanley, I want you to be the one who gives me away. Who better, huh?”
With a tender smile, Stanley motioned down to Julia’s cell phone and said, “Call your father back. I’ll make arrangements with that mouth-breathing clerk, who wouldn’t know a customer if it bit her in the ass, to have everything ready for the day after tomorrow. Then, off to lunch. Hurry up! I’m starving.”
Stanley turned and headed toward the counter. He looked back and saw Julia hesitate before picking up her phone to call. Stanley took advantage of the distraction to put the whole thing on his own credit card—the dress, the alterations, and the forty-eight-hour rush fee included. He slipped the receipt into his pocket and walked back to Julia, who had just gotten off the phone.
“So?” asked Stanley impatiently. “Is he coming?”
Julia shook her head.
“Go figure. What’s his excuse this time?”
Julia took a deep breath, then looked Stanley in the eye.
“He’s dead.”
The two stared at each other in silence, not a single word uttered between them.
“Well, as far as excuses go, that one is airtight,” whispered Stanley.
“You really are an ass, y
ou know that?”
“Shit. That’s not what I meant to say. I’m all mixed up—I don’t know what I’m saying. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“I . . . really don’t feel a thing, Stanley. Not a thing. No tears, no sting, nothing.”
“It’ll come, don’t you worry. It just hasn’t hit yet.”
“I think it has. I think this is it.”
“Do you want to call Adam?”
“No, not now. Later.”
Stanley studied her, the concern leaking through in his voice.
“You . . . don’t feel like telling your future husband that you just lost your father?”
“Thing is, he died yesterday. In Paris. So they have to fly the body home. Which makes the funeral . . . four days from now,” she said in a voice that was barely audible.
Stanley counted the days on his fingers—just to be sure.
“Saturday?” he asked, his eyes widening.
“There goes my wedding,” murmured Julia.
Stanley turned on his heel and strode to the cash register, where he had a refund for the rush fee issued to his credit card. Leading Julia out of the store, he patted her softly on the back and declared, “Lunch is on me.”
The golden light of June bathed the streets of New York as the two friends crossed Ninth Avenue toward Pastis. The French brasserie had become an institution in the fast-changing neighborhood. In recent years, the slaughterhouses of the meatpacking district had been replaced by top-end stores and the city’s most popular designer boutiques. Luxury hotels sprouted from the ground as if by magic. The former elevated railroad had been transformed into a broad swath of green that extended all the way to Tenth Street. A once-renowned cookie factory now housed a bustling organic market on the ground floor, with production houses and PR firms renting out the floors above. Julia’s office was on the sixth floor. Just to the west lay the banks of the Hudson River, which had become a promenade for bicyclists and joggers who zipped past couples lingering on park benches—scenes straight out of a Woody Allen movie. From Thursday evenings through the end of the weekend, the area brimmed with the bridge-and-tunnel crowd, who crossed the river to hang out in the fashionable bars and restaurants.
Seated at a table on the outdoor terrace, Stanley ordered a cappuccino for himself and an Earl Grey for Julia.
