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"Henry," she says, and tugs on the ribbon. She unwinds the folds one at a time, gingerly opens the front cover, and then looks at me.
"I can't," she whispers. "I want to, but I can't."
My breath is shallow, the weight of this moment as it suddenly feels like one of the most important ones in my life. "Would you like me to do it?" I ask her. She nods, her lips parted as though memory has stolen her voice. I look down now at the volume and realize it's not a book at all. It's a stack of letters.
"Some of them I barely even read," Grandmama says. "I didn't have the heart. He felt so far away, and what promise could there be in his words that he would ever be able to fulfil? But I was wrong."
I lift the first letter carefully since I don't know how well this paper has withstood the test of time. It's flimsy in my fingers, but it holds strong. I grasp it like the world's most precious vase and begin to read.
“‘My dearest Emeraldine…’ Your name is Emeraldine?"
"My father was a romantic," she says. "And everyone in the family has eyes of emerald."
That's no joke. Haven't I seen that in Olivier's eyes every time he looks at me? I clear my throat and continue the letter.
"'It has been two days since my eyes had the gift of drifting into yours.'" Wow. The letter is only half a page, but every word is poetry, spoken from the heart of someone so smitten in love he cannot see anything but his dearest Emeraldine. "'Our worlds remain very different, very far apart, but isn’t that the beauty of our meeting? Never will a conversation be dull. But the silence of our nighttime strolls, hand in hand, is what I take with me most. Remember the way the moon lit our path on the night our souls found each other? I will not be myself until I see you again. Yours forever—'" And Grandmama speaks before I can finish.
"Henry."
"Henry," I finish, and we sit a moment in silence, taking in the weight of words that were written more than fifty years ago.
“You know the numbers on the wines?” she asks me, her eyes glossy.
I nod.
“Each one corresponds to one of these letters. Many are dates. Another is the number of letters he sent. One is his age when—” her voice quietens, “when he left this earth.”
We sit for a while, her lost in memories, and me trying to imagine what that must feel like.
"I was so young," Grandmama finally says. "But even then, I knew. He was the man of my life. I wanted to take his name, but my father would not have it."
"Your father wouldn't let you marry him?"
"He would have let me. But Henry was killed in Vietnam before we ever had that chance." Her eyes glaze over, and my heart feels like it’s being wrung. "We should have been together forever. We would have had nothing, and we would have loved every moment of it. This was before our estate became what it is now—long before I established the Bouchon Noir. Jacques took me in—a headstrong and pregnant country girl with dreams of building a dynasty. Jacques was my rock. But my sweet cowboy, my Texan. He came first. And I always wished that his child would take his name."
She looks at me, as if hoping I would understand the insinuation. It takes my mind a moment to catch up.
"You mean… Henry is Olivier's grandfather?"
She places her hand on the stack of letters.
"These are all that are left of Henry now. I thought this was a secret I would take to my grave, but your lively spirit has taken me back to those times when love was the most important thing in the world.” A tear falls down her cheek.
There's a knock on the door that might as well be a bomb dropping. Both Grandmama and I clutch at our chests, and I swiftly cover up the stack of letters. Grandmama lays her hand on top of the cover.
"Grandmama?" Olivier says, pushing the door open. "Oh, Natalie. I should have guessed you'd be here. Grandmama, I really need to speak with you."
Her voice is weak as she replies. "Not now, my child."
"Please Grandmama, it's very important."
"I said, not now." Her voice is firm, and she stiffens her shoulders. I watch her put on a protective mask. "You know very well that around here, we operate on my timeline, not yours."
"It’s important, Grandmama," Olivier insists, his tone calm but firm.
Grandmama narrows her eyes and cocks her head and I tiptoe back a few steps, as I’m feeling rather the intruder on their private moment. "Olivier, you leave me be. When I'm ready to entertain the subject you deem so important, I will let you know. Is that clear."
"Yes, Grandmama." Olivier’s jaw clenches, but he backs out and closes the door.
