It happened quickly, but I don’t know how it could have happened differently, not in this time of war.
One year. And I wonder when it will be time for me to let you go.
Not that you won’t always be a part of my heart. I see your face in Gabrielle’s every day. Her eyes light up like yours in a way that takes my breath away.
But I wonder if I need to let Gilles further into my life. If I have less of a use for this diary, for these letters. Not that I won’t feel a need to come and share from time to time. But these days are short and life is full of the uncertain. I should hate to miss something in the present because I cannot loosen my grip on the past.
I love you, dearest, and I will always love you.
November 1943
Dearest,
Henri came into this world last week. He is quite bald, but aside from that, he looks just like Gilles. Gilles cannot decide whether to walk taller and prouder because he has a son, or more stooped with concern—so truly, he has remained much the same. He loves this new child tenderly, just as he loves me, Gabrielle, and Anouk. We are a strange little family, but a family just the same.
May 1945
Dearest Gabriel,
The war is over. At least, that is what they have told us. Allied soldiers have displaced the Axis soldiers, and the war in Europe is over, though it continues in the Pacific theater.
Forgive me if I am not as celebratory as some of the others. There are so many dead, so many fallow fields, so much destruction. The country is still overrun with foreign soldiers.
The girls are now four years old. They run, they chatter, they have such individual personalities and squabbles and passions.
Cécile and I have not yet discussed the future; I believe she’s afraid to bring up the subject. I know she has fully bonded to Alice as if she were her own; Alice does not want for love. And Alice is fully bonded with her sisters, Suzette and Elèonore, though she and Gabrielle remain close and, I believe, always will.
My mother, though, is not afraid to approach the subject.
She sat down next to me while I was knitting a sweater for Henri. She asked if we intended to stay at the chateau, to which I replied that Gilles and I hadn’t considered otherwise. He has sold his stakes in the Toulouse factories and has enjoyed his life as a farmer, working in the earth, making things grow. It would break his heart to leave.
And when I gave that answer, Maman asked about my plans for the girls.
She pointed out that if we decided to stay, that it would create a scandal, explaining to friends and neighbors that Gabrielle wasn’t Gilles’s daughter, and Alice wasn’t the child of Françoise’s son Luc, that they were actually the twin daughters of a Parisian Jew.
Her words felt like a slap in the face, and in my daughters’ faces. I very nearly jumped out of my seat and stormed from the room.
You must know, darling, that I am not ashamed of you. There is no reason for me to be. But there is some truth in her words. If I insisted on claiming Alice as my daughter, she would be viewed with suspicion. Both girls would be. Even if I wore our marriage papers pinned to my clothes, I don’t know that it would be believed, not really.
If we went to Canada or America and started fresh, that would be different. But I cannot imagine the heartache of taking the girls—and Gilles—from a home they love so much.
And then there is the simple fact that one night in Paris, German soldiers came to my home to arrest me and the girls, the way that so many others were arrested and murdered. That we were in the neighbor’s home when they broke down the door, I do not know why we escaped when so many didn’t. I only know that we were in a safer place, and that Nathan’s connections got us out of the city.
Who is to say such a thing might not happen again? That in another generation, some madman will decide to blame a Jew for his lot in life?
If I were more courageous, I might say that it is their history and heritage, and the world can hang.
But I am a mother who wants her children to live long, happy lives.
I have only to look outside my window to see the girls playing in the garden. They are happy, secure, and content. Getting what I want—my daughters together in my arms again—means branding my daughters the bastards of a secret liaison. Getting what I want would hurt my daughters, my husband, my son, and my sister—and every other member of my family, by association.
The price is too high.
No. I carried Alice in my womb, and when she was in danger, I made sure she had the best chance for a happy life in a loving family, with people I trust.
The danger has passed; if I must sacrifice Alice, then Gabrielle will return to her birth name. We have called her Claire these many months, but if we must tell people it’s a middle name, so be it. I must have that one thing.
Gilles has no objections. He told me that because of Gabriel, Gabrielle is a part of his life, and if I would like to honor her with her birth father’s name, he could not think of disagreeing.
With Gilles, I am blessed. Not every man would be so generous.
As for Alice, as her mother, the most loving thing I can do is let her go. She’s not my Alice anymore. She’s Cécile’s Sandrine, adopted daughter of the estate, biological daughter of a war hero, if anybody asks. She can hold her head high.
I will always, always love her. But I must let her go.
Sandrine took in a gasping breath. “So it’s true. It’s true. I have been Alice all this time. Alice.” Another breath. “And Gabrielle— She was my sister.”
“It was another time,” Auguste told her, his large hand holding Sandrine’s delicate one. “At some point they must have dropped the adoption facade.”
“Would anyone have believed it? Sandrine looks just as much like a daughter of the house as her sisters or Gabrielle,” my father said.
“She lied about my age, my mother did. I am a year older than I believed.”
“It was war. There may have been more turnover in the village than anticipated, or the family may have been so isolated at the chateau that few took notice,” Caterina suggested.
“They loved us very much,” Sandrine said softly, looking down at the blue diary. “My mother loved me and did not want to let me go. My true mother did not wish to disrupt my life or cause me to live in shame. It is a fierce love.”
“All of the letters together. The photos tied with the same ribbon—I wonder,” I said, “if Cécile meant one day to tell you about your birth. I wonder if she got too sick too soon.”
“You think she gathered the letters together?” Sophie asked.
I shrugged. “Somebody did. They were pristine. Having all of the letters, from all of the parties? It had to be a curated collection.”
“Grand-tante Joséphine might have done such a thing too,” Sandrine added. “We shall never know, and I suppose it does not matter.” She shook her head. “Fleeing Paris like that, hiding us away…”
“I remember Grand-mère being very concerned during the Cold War,” Sophie said. “She felt certain another world war could break out. I remember her saying that she would not let her family be targets, but I didn’t know what she meant, not at the time. Why would we have been?”
Chloé, seated next to Sandrine, looked up at the woman she’d thought of as her grandmother’s cousin. “So you’re my great-aunt, right?”
Sandrine’s face softened. “Yes, mon chou.”
Chloé nodded. “That’s good. I like that.”
“Moi aussi, ma petite. Moi aussi,” Sandrine answered, placing an affectionate arm around her grand-niece’s shoulders.
Neil joined me in our room as I packed my clothes that night. We weren’t leaving for another two days, but I wanted to start gathering my things. Really, I wanted something useful to do and it was too late to cook.
“You know what I was thinking?” Neil asked. “You told me that Sandrine came out and helped with your mom’s care when she was really sick, near the end.”
I nodd
ed. “You’re right.”
“So even if they didn’t know they were sisters, Sandrine was there and caring for her until the end.”
“She was, yes.” I swiped fresh tears from my face. “You’re right.”
“Did she see much of Mireille? As an adult?”
“Not very much. She was busy caring for the chateau, or caring for her mother.”
“Taking care of things in a way that I’m sure Mireille appreciated.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Grand-mère always spoke highly of her.”
“And she had a good life—that’s what Mireille wanted for her in the first place.”
“Yes.” I sighed as Neil’s arms looped around me. “So now we know. Now we know about my grandfather, about Alice.” I rested my head against his chest.
“And to think that no one would have known unless you’d decided to take your grandmother’s cookbook to work.”
“Someone might have found the letters or diary at some point, I suppose.”
“But you put all the pieces together. And you found Benjamin.”
“I’m excited for you to meet him.”
“Me too.”
Neil pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You should get some sleep.”
I tipped my head up, bumping his nose with my own. “Not with a kiss like that.”
“No?”
“Nope.”
He slipped his hand to the back of my head, lowering his lips to mine. My toes curled within my woolen socks, and my eyes slid shut. I kissed him back, my heart glad that he was here, that we belonged to each other.
Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart.
Bitter. Sweet. Alive.
—JOANNE HARRIS
There were dozens of lit candles in the sitting room the following evening. Dressed in the green dress I found in town, topped with Mireille’s silk jacket and off-white veil, I felt warm and glowing from the inside out.
I wore garments representing two generations of love, and if I couldn’t have my mother and grandmother at my wedding ceremony, that was the next best thing.
Chairs had been placed on either side of the room, creating a short aisle. Looking out, I could see my family, with Nonno at the front, and my husband at the center.
I didn’t hear many of the words spoken by the priest, but I loved the way they washed over us, blessed us, covered us.
We ate cake afterward, lovingly baked by Sandrine. My father laughed with his father, sister, and brother-in-law, all of them speaking in rapid Italian, egging each other on.
I loved it.
Neil’s hand on the small of my back broke my concentration. “Let’s step over here,” he said. “I have—well, something to tell you.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong. I hope it’s right, actually. You see, when we were apart, taking the Atlanta job made sense. It had no connection to you, so a part of me chose it because I thought it would remind me of you less.”
“I’m moving there with you,” I said dryly, “so that plan might not work.”
He smiled, that lovely, happy, disbelieving smile of his. “Plans changed.”
“They did at that,” I said, smiling back. “You’ve just married me for the second time. In a second language.”
“If you keep teasing me,” he said, “I won’t finish what I have to say.” He took a deep breath. “After we married, during this trip, Atlanta started to feel…wrong.” He reached for my hands and held them in his own. “I called Callan,” he continued, his voice husky. “There’s a place for me there.”
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.
“I wish there was a place for me in Portland, sweetheart, but there isn’t, at least not now. But how would you feel about moving to Chicago instead?”
“This place, this position—is it as good as the job in Atlanta?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not a demotion of any kind, or a pay cut—because if you’re taking a lesser job because you’re worried about me…”
Neil chuckled. “It’s none of those things, and my best friend lives there. Honey, it’s the job I should have considered in the first place, but I knew you had a sister somewhere in Chicago and I couldn’t stand the idea of running into her.” I pressed my lips together. “Oh really? And Portland was somehow better?”
“It was short term. I thought I could handle it.”
“You did,” I said, barely suppressing laughter. “Admirably. So, you avoided Chicago to avoid Cat but you came to Portland short term and”—I bit my lip—“I found you.”
“My subconscious turned out to be wiser than anticipated,” he said. “And maybe—just maybe—we were meant to be.” He squeezed my hands. “All that to say, Juliette D’Alisa McLaren, will you move to Chicago with me?”
“Yes,” I said, full of joy, catching the swivel of Caterina’s head as our words made their way to her ears.
Soon enough the joy in my heart caught fire, spreading around the room, binding us together every one.
“What is this made of?” Damian asked, trying to catch his breath. Callan shifted his hold. “Lead. Pure lead.”
“Be nice to that table,” I instructed from the sidewalk. “It’s been through fire. Literally.”
“Two more steps,” Neil told the men. “We’re almost there.”
“I think it needs to stay here,” Damian suggested. “It would look nice on your front steps. Like a conversation piece.”
I repressed a laugh. “Someone might steal it.”
“Who? Does the Hulk live in the neighborhood? It’s not going anywhere.” Callan grunted. “Could be osmium. Denser than lead.”
“French oak,” I said. “And marble. In case you were actually curious.”
Tarissa, standing next to me, shook her head. “I doubt that.”
“Are they suffering too much?” I asked, watching the three men struggle with the prep table, wincing as Damian nearly dropped his end. “We should have hired movers.”
“Builds character,” Caterina answered. “Character and muscles, and I like both.”
“Should I tell them there’s dessert inside?”
She threaded her arm through mine. “We’ll tell them when it’s in your kitchen.”
Five minutes later, we stood around the antique piece, now in its final location. Ten minutes after, everyone had a slice of pie on a plate. The others chattered around me—Damian having made fast friends with Callan and Neil in the weeks since we’d arrived, Tarissa and Caterina hitting it off instantly. They could entertain themselves, and while they were occupied I took in the sight of the prep table.
The last piece to be moved in, it was the table Gabriel had made for Mireille. The original keeper of secrets. My inheritance, in so many ways.
Neil broke away from the group, sidling up to me and breathing a kiss against my lips. “Hi, love,” he said.
I smiled and kissed him back. “Hi.”
“You like it?”
“I do.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “Welcome home.”
Readers Guide
1. The story opens with Juliette dealing with the aftermath of difficult life events. What time in your life did you find yourself adjusting to circumstances after a difficult event?
2. Juliette is dealing with grief differently than other members of her family. How do you handle grief? How do your loved ones?
3. Seeing Neil causes Juliette to question her personal life. Have you ever been in a situation where seeing an old friend caused you to rethink a decision? What did you do?
4. How did you feel about Juliette’s response to Adrian’s party and impulsive question? How would you respond?
5. In Chicago, Juliette is able to make contact with new family members. Do you or does anyone in your family have a story of reconnecting with lost family members? How did you feel about it? Did you find familial similarities or unusual differences?
6. Juliette’s family celebrates holidays differently because of their restaurants. What are your family’s holiday traditions? How are they influenced by career and family commitments?
7. After the fire, Juliette has to think on her feet. What do you think she learns through the experience?
8. Juliette’s decisions lead to more changes and doing things differently than she planned. Which of your life events happened differently than you’d hoped?
9. As we read Mireille’s diary, we see how her relationship with Gilles changes. What are the factors, do you think, that cause her feelings to change?
10. Mireille must make a heartbreaking choice after the war. How do you feel about her decision?
11. Juliette faces more change after the end of the book. What do you hope lies in her future?
12. What foods from the book would you most like to taste? Which recipes would you be interested in making yourself?
Acknowledgments
This list of thanks and acknowledgments has to start with Sandra Bishop, my agent, who shepherded this book—and the entire series—because that’s the person she is. Let’s raise a glass to getting this last one out of the gate!
Many thanks to my editor, Shannon Marchese, for her graciousness and patience with (a) this book and (b) me, as well as her confidence in this story.
Giant thanks to Rachel Lulich, who did an early read and editing pass as a friend, and helped to restore my confidence in this book. Not only does she have a keen eye, but she’s a great person to explore Atlanta with.
Thanks to Laura Wright and her consistent eye over all three books, making sure each detail matches from start to finish.
Thanks to Kara Christensen, Katie Ganshert, Rachel McMillan, and Melissa Tagg for being story consultants and supporters, and Sarah Varland for reading the manuscript and giving her valuable feedback.
Grazie to Alessandra Gardino for her invaluable Italian language assistance and recipe consultations, and for teaching me to make truly delicious fresh pasta. This book is far richer with her expertise, and I would encourage anyone with a desire to explore Italy to check out one of her tours with Customized Journeys.
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