2
Gazing down at the coffin that housed his father’s physical body, Jean-Michel counted the scoops of dark soil as they hit the lid and began to cover its surface. The two cemetery employees worked their shovels in unison.
Twenty . . . twenty-one . . . twenty-two.
The quiet thumps of dirt plopping on wood became quieter as the coffin disappeared and earth covered earth.
Thirty-four . . . thirty-five.
Thick humidity, rich with the scent of the recent rain, covered the earth. What used to bring him thoughts of being washed clean and fresh starts, now would forever stain his memory with the day he’d buried his dad. His mentor. His confidant.
Pierre Langelier hadn’t been that old a man, but a stroke had rendered him helpless just a week earlier. Complaints of blurred vision and fatigue were the only hints that something was wrong with the Langelier patriarch. Everyone thought it was attributed to overwork. But everyone had been wrong.
Jean-Michel wrapped an arm around his sister’s shoulders. Other than a few sniffles, Collette had been quiet through the entire funeral and graveside service.
And that worried him.
Collette was never quiet. Since her return from boarding school the year before, she had all but worn him out with her constant flitting about. She had been the apple of their father’s eye and could generally get anything she wanted from him. The exception had been where young men were concerned. Collette had encouraged suitors at every point. She wanted to try them on like the silly fashions she and her girlfriends thought so wonderful. Father, however, would not be persuaded. He would find an appropriate suitor for her. Now Jean-Michel supposed that task fell to him.
Another few plunks of dirt. Then the shovels patted the top. He leaned hard on his cane.
Their father was buried. Out of sight. Under a mound. With a wooden cross at the head until the gravestone could be carved and placed.
Too many deaths.
First, the Great War and then the influenza pandemic—every person he knew had lost someone. Only a few years later the Druze Revolt—when he’d failed to save countless lives. Now Father.
He looked up and gazed at the dreary sight before him. Tombstone after tombstone. Mound after mound. And yet Jean-Michel felt they were leaving their father isolated and alone. Without his beloved wife.
Their mother was buried in Quebec—on the other side of the world. They’d been living abroad so the senior Langelier could keep Jean-Michel out of reach of the war. Father paid outlandish fees for Jean-Michel to attend college there, and even though it kept him out of the Great War, they’d all paid the utmost price—Mother contracted influenza and succumbed to the dreaded disease before he could graduate.
Yet another point of guilt.
The reduced Langelier family returned to France after the armistice was signed, and Jean-Michel was stunned to learn that most of his old schoolmates were dead. More guilt piled onto his already heavy heart whenever he looked into the faces of their parents. Did they wonder why he lived when their own sons were dead?
So much sorrow. Too many funerals.
The quiet rustling of movement brought Jean-Michel’s attention up from the dark mound before him.
“So sorry for your loss. Pierre was a good man.” Someone’s soft words reached his ear as they passed by.
“If we can do anything . . .”
“We will say prayers for your family.” A woman’s voice cracked as she patted Jean-Michel’s arm.
One by one the mourners departed with their pittance of encouragement offered. Father had been loved by many as evidenced by the large crowd at the funeral and here at the graveside service. Loved. Admired. Respected. All the things Jean-Michel was not.
Pastor and Mrs. Martin were the only ones left now, and they had moved away about twenty yards—most likely to give Collette and him a few last moments. As much as Jean-Michel felt the tug to speak to someone, to allow all the pain and grief that was buried in him to spew out, he knew he’d never be able to. It would stay locked inside him forever. That was his burden alone to bear.
A shudder under his arm drew his attention back to his sister. She shook again and then fell to her knees and sobbed. “What will we do?” She looked so young and vulnerable—her tiny frame swallowed up in black bombazine. “What will we do without Papa?”
Jean-Michel shifted on his cane and closed his eyes as the words sank into the very depths of his soul. He should have known it was coming. Even vivacious and carefree Collette had broken down.
He’d expected that same shuddering of emotion to overwhelm him. But it stayed submerged and unreachable. He felt only the numbness of his raw existence. Only the depths of his wounds. And he wished he could change that.
“Ahem . . .” The clearing of the throat sounded familiar. “I’m sorry to intrude.”
Jean-Michel opened his eyes and looked into the bloodshot gaze of his father’s lifelong business partner. “Mr. Dubois . . . um”—he couldn’t exactly say it was nice to see him; it wasn’t nice to see anyone under these circumstances—“thank you for coming.”
The man handed him a card. On it a simple phrase was penned. Je suis désolé pour ta perte. Words he’d heard countless times that day.
Jean-Michel kept a stoic expression. No doubt Dubois truly was sorry for their loss. He and Pierre Langelier had been more than business partners. They had been lifelong friends. Dubois’s tears were real and his sadness no doubt ran deep. But it didn’t change a thing.
Mr. Dubois placed a hand on Jean-Michel’s shoulder. “Those words are inadequate. I’m sorry. I should have been the one to go first. Not your father.” He lifted a handkerchief to his nose. “That was our joke between us.”
Jean-Michel didn’t wish the man ill, but at the moment he wished those words were true. No response would form on his tongue, so he stared blankly at the man who’d been like family to them. Because reality had set in . . . all the wishing in the world wouldn’t bring his father back.
“Can we take a walk?” Dubois wiped his eyes and his nose again.
Looking down at his sister, Jean-Michel shook his head. Collette wasn’t a child anymore, but her naïveté and vibrant spirit—untainted or marred by the realities of their dark world—made her age seem that much tenderer. And she was still unmarried.
She needed him. He couldn’t leave her alone at a time like this.
But before he could voice his thoughts, Collette stood—mud covering the bottom of her dress—and ran to Mrs. Martin, their pastor’s wife.
The pastor nodded toward Jean-Michel.
“I don’t feel much like walking, but we can talk for a few minutes. Then, I must get Collette home.” Did his words sound as stiff as they felt?
“This is a horrible time to discuss business, but unfortunately, it’s necessary. With the death taxes due and our competitors pressing in, I would like to offer to buy out your father’s share of the business and factory.” He held out an envelope. “As you can see, our lawyers have drawn up the paperwork with a very fair offer.” He waited.
Jean-Michel opened the envelope despite feeling there had to be a better time for such matters. Why today?
“I’ve added in an extra ten thousand francs to the offer. Your father was like a brother to me, and I promised I would see to it that you and Collette were well taken care of.” Dubois’s voice cracked.
“You sound as if Father knew he was going to die.”
Dubois nodded. “He did . . . at least he told me he felt certain he would. He didn’t know if it was the fatigue he felt or the blurring of his sight that made him believe this, or some divinely appointed warning, but he felt strongly enough about it that he spoke to me at great length.”
“I wish he’d spoken to me.”
Again, Dubois nodded. “I wish he would have. However, I want you to know that I made him a promise, and I believe this arrangement will fulfill that in part.”
Jean-Michel perused the papers. “This is more than fair, Mr. Dubois.” He looked over at his sister, crumpled in the pastor’s wife’s arms. “You know that I’ve never had any desire to work at the factory or to run the business, and Father was all right with that.” He worked to swallow the lump of guilt down. “He knew I’d had other dreams long ago, and after this”—he looked down at his leg—“he was helping me to find my way.”
“He was so proud of you.”
Jean-Michel nodded, knowing it was the truth. He stuck out his hand. “I gladly accept your generous offer and thank you for caring so much for our family.”
Dubois shook his hand and nodded. “Please let me know if you ever need anything. Anything at all. Yes?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The older gentleman walked a few steps and then stopped and turned. “I know how hard the last few years have been.” He glanced over at Collette. “The war devastated our nation and it hasn’t been easy to recover from that, but your father had a thought that you both might benefit from a trip. He told me how much you all enjoyed traveling when you were younger.”
It was true. Jean-Michel had wonderful memories of trips that crossed oceans and multiple countries. His father and mother had wanted their children to see the world. Of course that ended with the onset of the Great War. Poor Collette didn’t have the same memories, she’d been so young.
“He thought maybe a trip away would be healing for you both. Mrs. Dubois and I just returned from America—perhaps I could send her over to entice Collette to take a journey? It could take your minds off the grief . . . and America is such an exciting place to visit. They don’t bear the physical scars of war as we do.”
“Thank you for the offer. Maybe in a few days, she’ll be up for a visit.”
“Again, let me know if I can help.” Dubois patted his shoulder, then took his leave.
Jean-Michel looked back down at his father’s grave. “Was it the right thing to do?” He tapped the envelope against his leg. “Dubois will do right by you, of that I’m sure. But how can I possibly care for Collette when I can’t even find my way out of my own pit of despair?” Stashing the envelope inside his coat pocket, he leaned on his cane and walked toward his sister.
No longer a sobbing mess, she smiled at the pastor and his wife. If only he could grab on to a bit of her joy. Her passion de la vivre. Passion for living. But his thoughts were too dark.
He couldn’t let Collette see the truth. That’s how Father handled it all these years. He’d sheltered her and protected her. Jean-Michel wished he could live in that world. But he had little desire to face life another day.
As he neared, Collette reached out a hand to him. “We will make it through together, my brother, yes?”
Pasting on a smile, Jean-Michel nodded. “Yes, my sister. Together we will.” He kissed her on the forehead.
If only he truly believed that in his heart.
MARCH 12—FRANCE
Collette Langelier looked down at her black dress and grimaced. She’d never liked black. It was a wretched color. It wasn’t even a color—not truly.
Tears sprang to her eyes. How shameful of her. Her father wasn’t in the ground but a week. She wore black out of respect for the greatest man she’d ever known. And she would continue to do so.
Even if she hated it.
The clock chimed and she looked around the silent library. Nothing was the same without the effervescence of Father. His personality preceded him when he entered a room and no one ever felt alone or neglected when he was around.
Larger than life. That’s how her mother always described him.
She also used to say that Collette’s personality was very much like his.
A tear ran down her cheek. She missed him. Missed them both. She’d only been eleven when Mama died. Worse still, Collette hadn’t been able to say good-bye. The loss left a huge hole in her heart. Now Papa was gone, too, and the hurt overwhelmed her. Much more than she could say.
Soft footfalls on the carpet brought her attention to the door. She quickly dried her eyes. She didn’t want her brother to think she’d been wasting away in despair. Even if she had been. Papa had told her that her brother’s strange mood and dark outlook had to do with the pain he felt from his leg, and encouraged her to do nothing to add to his misery.
Jean-Michel walked in and lifted a soft smile in her direction. “How are you this fine morning?” The smile did little to ease the tension in his brow.
“Obviously more rested than you, brother.” She poured him a cup of the strong coffee he loved and held it up for him.
“Thank you.” He nodded. “Madeleine makes the best coffee, yes?”
Collette allowed herself to laugh. He knew all too well that she couldn’t stand the stuff. “If you say so, Jean-Michel. The smell alone is enough to singe my hair.” She lifted a hand to her curls and batted her eyelashes. “I’ll stick with tea.”
At least he chuckled. She’d been working to get him to smile for days now, and nothing had worked. They both missed their father dearly—but how was she supposed to live with a man who wouldn’t move forward in his grief?
He settled onto the sofa across from her. “I saw Mr. Dubois again this morning. He gave me some of Father’s things and a few sealed envelopes from the lawyer.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Was it difficult?”
“No.” He looked down at his cup. “It was good. There’s a letter for each of us.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he looked her in the eyes. “It was a little difficult at first, but then it was wonderful to read Father’s words to me.” He handed her an envelope with Father’s beautiful script on the front.
The flourish on the C made her smile as she ran her hand over it. “I am sure I will cherish it. Father always had a way with words.”
“That he did.” Jean-Michel stood and leaned on the cane. “I’m going to give you a moment or two to read his letter and then I’ll be back. Is that all right?”
“Yes, that’s quite all right.” He was always so thoughtful—giving her space when she needed it. As she slid a finger under the flap, she thought of Father penning these words—who knew how long ago?—to her, knowing that to read them, he would have had to pass on to heaven. What would she write in a letter like that? The thought had never crossed her mind before, since she tended to live in the moment and enjoy things as they came. There’d never been much need for her to worry. Never much to grieve or be sorrowful over, other than Mother. Her life had been picturesque. Fun. Happy.
At nineteen years of age, maybe she ought to start taking things more seriously.
She pulled out the single sheet of paper, and it overcame her that this would be the last time she’d receive a handwritten note from her father.
Collette,
Je t’aime plus que les mots ne peuvent le dire . . .
I love you more than words can say. How often he had voiced that declaration and now here it was once again . . . for the last time.
It pains me to think that you are reading this because I am gone, but the prodding to write these thoughts down overwhelms me. I’m sorry for the sadness you will bear on my behalf, but please remember that God loves you more than I ever could. My only true regret is that I found Him so late in life and didn’t have the chance to share Him with you like I should.
Which brings me to the purpose of this letter. I have two requests:
1—Promise me that you will find someone to talk to about God. A man or woman of faith whom you can trust. Your brother has names of several people I think would be helpful. I’ve also left you two Bibles—one in French and one in English—so that you may study freely. Please pursue this quest. God is everything to me, but I want you to find Him for yourself. He loves you so much. And I want to be able to spend eternity with you, my precious daughter.
2—By now, Dubois has offered to buy the business. He does it with my full approval and hopes that you will be able to stay in the life in which you are accustomed. There are plenty of funds, and they are dispersed in both your name and your brother’s. When you are twenty-five—or when you marry, whichever comes first—you’ll be able to manage your own accounts, but until then Jean-Michel will oversee them. I caution you to be careful of young suitors who will come courting just because they know of your wealth. I know you have long desired to find a beau and marry as your friends have done, but I hope you will take your time. Think long and hard about the man who will be your lifelong companion. Your mother was most precious to me; she completed me. A husband and wife should do that for one another, not simply be someone who looks nice and takes you to parties.
Lastly, be happy. Your brother knows my heart regarding the two of you steeping yourselves in mourning. So, my sweet Collette, I know how you abhor black. Throw off the grieving attire and be the vivacious young woman you are. Convince your brother to travel somewhere and help him come out of the black fog he’s been in since the war. I beg you not to mourn me, for I am in a better place.
I pray for happiness for you both—as a father, that is my duty—but more than anything, I pray you come to an understanding with our Lord.
Live life to the fullest, my dearest. Wear your pretty clothes and put ribbons in your hair for me.
As always, your doting Father,
Papa
P.S. I never liked black either.
Collette laughed as tears slid down her cheeks. He always had a way of lifting her spirits. Oh, how she would miss him.
Jean-Michel leaned around the doorframe. “Is it all right to come back in?”
“Yes.” She patted her cheeks with a hankie. “You were right. His words were beautiful to read.” Tapping the letter in her hand, she inhaled deeply.
“Would you care to share with me what he said?”
She held out the letter, but he shook his head. “No, just tell me.”
“He cautioned me regarding suitors and told me that you would control my money until I turned twenty-five or married. He also told me not to mourn, to wear my pretty clothes and put ribbons in my hair for him.” She looked down at the black gown. “He said he didn’t like black either.”
Jean-Michel nodded. “Did he write to you about God?”
“Yes. And you?”
Her brother nodded, one hand on the mantel, the other on his cane. His gaze seemed to be glued to the fire.
“Well?”
“I don’t know what to think of it. Especially since he never really spoke of it to me.” Jean-Michel took his hand from the mantel and reached into a pocket. “If you’d like to contact someone on this list, go ahead. It may take me some time before I’m ready to speak of God.”
The paper shook a bit in his hand. Collette couldn’t stand for her brother to be so miserable. And if talk of God made it worse, then who was she to pursue it? “No. Not now.”
He shrugged and tucked it back into his jacket pocket.
“What I would like to do is discuss something that Father said in my letter.”
Jean-Michel raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to speak to me of suitors, are you?”
Collette rose, then crossed to where he stood. “I have no desire to discuss that just now.” She smiled. Maybe if she smiled big enough and pleaded long enough, she could convince him. Besides, it was for his own good. Father said so. “I’d like to take a trip.”
“A trip.” He looked down at the letter. “Exactly what did Father say about a trip?”
“That we should take one. That it would be good for us to have fun.” She hesitated a moment. “That we should go off and enjoy ourselves and heal.”
Jean-Michel gave her a half smile. “Well, those aren’t his exact words, are they?”
“Close enough, brother, and you know it.” She took the letter and went back to the settee. “I think it’s a splendid idea. And like Father said, he didn’t want us moping about—and he didn’t want your sadness and nervousness to worsen.”
“You can’t do anything about those things, so don’t worry over it.” He sighed and looked back at the fire. “I can’t say the thought of traveling excites me, but if it’s something you wish to do . . .”
She squealed and raced over to hug him. “Truly? You would do this for me?”
“But of course.”
Ideas formed in her mind. “You know, Mrs. Dubois was just speaking of their trip to America. She told me everything.” She sighed. “It sounds so amazing and vast. They absolutely loved it. Could we go?”
“America?” That eyebrow shot up again.
“Pretty please?” She smiled. “I won’t ever ask for anything again. . . .”
“Of course you won’t.”