As promised, there was a note waiting for Josephine Allard at the front desk of the Grand Hotel in Cabourg when her family checked in for their annual stay. Always during the same four weeks of the year, always at the Grand Hotel—were there any others?—and always in a cluster of ocean-facing rooms on the second floor. Her parents took one room, her older brother Guillaume another, and Josephine and her recently engaged and therefore insufferable sister Juliette shared a third. Over the years, Josephine had made friends—both people from Paris and from other places—whose annual stays overlapped hers. In the weeks leading up to this arrival, there had been many letters about plans and preparations. What dresses to pack, what books to bring and share, how many tennis games would they realistically play per week, what day trips around town to plan. Josephine, who was tired from the trip from Paris, had only the energy to skim the letter from her friend Annette, looking for one thing: her friend’s room number. Finding it, she asked the concierge to send a message to Annette in room 310 that she was going to take a nap to recover from the train ride, and she’d see her at dinner. Then she tucked the otherwise unread note into the pocket of her skirt and promptly forgot about it.
This was how she missed the crucial piece of information contained within that note, which was that Pierre Leroy had arrived with his family and would be there at the friends’ table for dinner. Josephine unpacked and napped and dressed and came down to the dining room oblivious of what lay in store for her. She saw her friends at the big round table right away, but she didn’t see Pierre until she was standing right next to him. The gentleman who’d made all those promises and then dropped her without a word. Him. There he was, like a fly on the rim of her soup bowl.
He was two years older. His hair a little longer. His shoulders perhaps a touch broader. The sun had bleached streaks of gold in his light brown hair and tanned his skin. His family owned and operated a vast champagne winery in Sacy, and he was outside all the time amongst the vines. Or he had been when she knew him.
“Josephine.” He took her hand without hesitation and kissed it. His breath was warm through the satin fabric of her glove. His dark eyes gleamed.
“Bonsoir, Pierre,” she managed to say. “It’s been a while.”
“Too long.” His words were smooth as silk. That hadn’t changed either.
As the group had more or less assembled, they negotiated seating. And although Josephine turned away from Pierre, to search for anyone else to talk to and sit beside, she ended up next to him anyway. On her other side was Annette, who was too engaged in conversation with someone else to notice Josephine’s request to switch spots.
Once upon a time, she’d have been thrilled to be next to Pierre Leroy. For as long as she’d known him, she’d had a girlish crush. He was the one she imagined in her daydreams, the one she wrote about in her secret diary. They were in the same friend group, but he was a year older and never took much of an interest. Meanwhile the butterflies she felt in his presence emerged every summer.
Two years ago, when she was eighteen, she’d finally gotten his attention. Attention that started with lingering smiles and daily compliments. Then he made an obvious show of seeking her out every time, chatting her up about this or that, asking her thoughts and opinions, hanging back to wait for her, checking in. She’d been dumbstruck at first, dismissive of his attention. She’d wanted it for so long—longer than she’d known what exactly wanting a man’s attention meant—that she couldn’t believe she had it when she clearly did.
This flirtation culminated in their last week in Cabourg with kisses and secret rendezvous and promises of future trips to Paris and holidays at his family’s chateau that turned out to be empty. He’d written a few times after going home that summer. Then his letters stopped. Hers went unanswered. She heard from a mutual friend that he was known to be involved with a young woman whose family owned a vineyard adjacent to his. There had even been speculation about what a marriage between the two families could mean for the future of the champagne marketplace. The news landed like a spear in Josephine’s heart. And so all her satisfaction and hopefulness turned to bitter disappointment.
Then last year, when the families came to Cabourg, he wasn’t with his. He was touring Egypt was all anyone said about it. The finality of his absence was not lost on Josephine, who had spent weeks ahead of the trip speculating and talking herself through various scenarios, clinging to hope, only to have him not show. Any hopes for Pierre Leroy she’d had were gone. Never again. She hadn’t heard from him in two years. And although it would probably be impossible to forget him, she’d managed to stop thinking about him. She never once considered he’d be here now.
She wished he wasn’t.
Dinner service started. Josephine shifted her chair toward Annette and angled her body away from Pierre. But Annette was more curious about Pierre than she was about Josephine; after all, she and Josephine saw each other and talked all the time. Most of the people at the table hadn’t seen Pierre in years. So before long, Annette and Pierre were talking over Josephine. And most side conversations at the table ceased. Josephine was therefore forced to hear all about his trip.
He’d sailed from Marseille to Greece and then Egypt, where he spent two months. Then he came back to France, finished his studies in business at a Grand École in Reims, and was now working more actively in the family business. Many questions were volleyed at him during dinner from all sides of the table, but no one mentioned a wife or a marriage or a vintner’s daughter. And Josephine tried hard not to be interested at all. After so many years of secret longing and such a deep disappointment over his fleeting affections for her, her life was better without him in it. Without thoughts of him.
Then dinner was winding down, and the party began discussing what should come next for the evening’s plans. There was a new casino opening not far down the beach promenade, and the consensus seemed to solidify on visiting it.
Pierre turned to Josephine for the first time since sitting down to eat. “Will you be joining us at the casino?”
For weeks, Josephine had looked forward to being at the beach, to seeing all her friends on this first night at the hotel. But after this most awkward dinner, she didn’t have the energy to be around him any longer. “I won’t be.”
“You’re not coming?” Annette chimed in. “Why not?”
“I’m exhausted from traveling all day,” she addressed her friend, but Pierre was listening. “I’m looking forward to a quiet night in. Next time.”
Josephine excused herself. She’d reached the lobby when someone touched her elbow.
“Josephine, wait.” It was Pierre. His face drawn and earnest. “I’d like to catch up soon.”
Josephine recoiled. “Isn’t that what we just did?”
He winced. “Properly. Me and you. I feel I owe you an explanation.”
“No need.” She walked away fast. Pierre’s presence would ruin her whole month in Cabourg. He’d be there every night at dinner, going out and hanging around with everyone. Could she ignore him the whole time? Could she finagle a way to exclude him, splitting the group off into factions maybe? Or maybe her month at the beach should be spent in solitude. She could laze on the beach all day reading novels instead of gossiping about everyone she knew. She could work on her play in the evenings. She could spent time with her family, begging off invitations to join friends. Maybe she could rent a bicycle and spend the weeks exploring Cabourg and the areas outside the social whirlpool of the hotel. She didn’t slow down until she was in her room, where the realization that she would have to recast her whole vision of the trip gripped her by the throat.
The next day, before Josephine had even left the room, a bouquet of carnations in more shades of pink than she’d ever seen arrived for her—not Juliette. Even more surprising to both sisters: the sender.
Juliette, who read the note first because they’d both assumed the flowers were for her, let her mouth fall open. “They’re for you. From Pierre Leroy.”
Josephine snatched the card from her sister, thinking surely she was in the middle of some joke. But it was from Pierre to her, reiterating his desire to catch up and explain himself. Josephine’s nostrils flared and she crumpled the note. When she sat down to her correspondence, she didn’t write him back.
When they were all at the casino later that night, after several hands of cards and glasses of champagne, Pierre approached Josephine at the bar. She didn’t see him in time to avoid him, which she’d managed to do all evening.
“You look lovely tonight, Josephine.” His eyes found hers. He was dressed in his black tails and white tie, held his hat in his hand at his side.
“Merci.” She looked away, searching for an escape. But a quick conversation could end his apology charade. “You don’t have to do this.”
“What?”
“The flowers. The being nice. It’s not necessary.” Someone at the table behind them cheered when he won a hand, eliciting applause.
“No. It is. I mentioned catching up, but what I really want is to apologize for losing touch. And if I don’t apologize… if I don’t try to repair things between us, then I fear I will regret it.”
She didn’t say anything, but he did have her attention. She waved her hand for him to continue.
“When we lost touch, it was my fault. The distance was more difficult than I thought it would be. I don’t have a good excuse, at least not one that means anything two years on. I regret not writing you back.”
“So why bother, then? It’s been two years. No one cares anymore.” Her words were cold and disaffected. Josephine had poured her heart into letters to this man, and she wasn’t going to do it again. She refused to embarrass herself further.
“But that’s precisely it. I still care. Very much, in fact.” His face was flushed from the warm casino and wine they’d all been drinking. “Seeing you here and making amends is all I’ve thought about for months. I could barely sleep last night knowing I’d see you at dinner.”
“That’s funny because I had no idea you’d be here. I forced myself to forget all about you a long time ago, when I realized everything you told me when we last parted was a lie.” Strong, long buried emotions rose within her like lava. She swallowed hard. “Then I heard you were getting ready to marry someone else.”
“I wasn’t ready to marry someone else, Josephine. I was temporarily distracted by someone else, that’s true,” he said in a soothing, though not disingenuous tone. “But it wasn’t serious. Maybe our parents’ entertained the idea, but there was never any talk of marriage.”
“Most of our mutual friends talked of your marriage.”
“Well, whatever you heard in that regard was untrue. It was rumor.”
“It still would have been nice to hear from you. That you were keeping company with someone else and no longer interested in maintaining a relationship with me would have been courteous.”
“I understand that. I’m sorry.”
Earlier that evening at dinner, he’d been talking to some of the others at their table about his time in Egypt. Although she hadn’t participated, she’d listened, and it became clear that he’d been in touch with several of their friends during his trip. One of their friends, Albert, mentioned something about Pierre finding what he’d been looking for, and when he said it, Albert’s gaze slid to Josephine, as if she had something to do with it. It had been a strange glance, a knowing one. At the time, Josephine told herself she didn’t care what it was about; but now she thought of that moment again.
“What did Albert mean earlier, about your trip? What were you looking for?”
“Oh, well…” He hesitated and squinted slightly, and then made some decision about what to say. “It was mostly soul searching.”
“Soul searching?”
“Yes. I had gone in large part because I was upset about what happened between us. That was part of it anyway. A series of screwups over several months that culminated in a feeling that a change in scenery might make it all go away. Or sort itself out maybe.”
“I see.”
Their friends were reconvening nearby then, and their moment of privacy was gone. He leaned in close and whispered to her, “It didn’t work.”
Her eyes met his for an arresting second; her body stiffened. Something sparked through her. Then he was swept into another conversation.
Seeing him grovel was oddly satisfying, and she didn’t hate the idea of it continuing. Or that their friends might see it happening. Her ear tingled from his breath for the rest of the night.
A bouquet of flowers arrived first thing every morning that week. Blooms of all sorts. Lilies, daisies, more carnations. Massive hydrangeas so blue that Juliette’s eyes welled with tears. Always accompanied by a short, simple note about how happy Pierre was to see Josephine or how much he looked forward to speaking to her. Every night at dinner and when they all went out, he made an effort to gain her company reminiscent of the summer two years ago. Seeking her out, engaging her in conversation, asking if she needed anything. It was both comforting in its familiarity and a warning for her bruised heart to proceed with caution. She tried so hard to keep her distance.
Then, on the seventh day, Pierre sent a bouquet of roses the size of a bush. Creamy white roses. The porter struggled to carry them into the room there were so many of them. The note read simply: I saw these and thought of you.
“A man of few words,” Josephine said, admiring the flowers.
“I think roses mean he’s serious,” Juliette said. They were still in their dressing robes, finishing their breakfast tray.
“Serious about what, though?”
“You, apparently.” Juliette sipped the last of her coffee and stood up. She had been Josephine’s shoulder to cry on when Pierre stopped writing to her. And she knew that Josephine had been holding a hard line with him all week, not responding to his flowery gifts.
“You don’t think he just feels bad?”
“If he just felt bad, then surely one bouquet would have sufficed.” Juliette picked up her hairbrush and began fixing her long blonde hair. Their hair was similar in color and length, but Juliette’s was straighter and easier to keep styled. “Definitely it could have stopped with the hydrangeas, which are stunning by the way. My favorites. But the three… four dozen roses is an escalation.”
“So what do you think he wants?”
“You’d have to ask him that. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to marry you.”
I scoffed. “After an apology and few days? We haven’t talked in years.”
“But you were close before that?”
“Not close enough to talk of marriage.”
“What did you talk about?”
Josephine had tried for so long not to think about it. But he’d said he wanted her, wanted to keep in touch, wanted to make plans to see each other again. “Before he stopped writing to me, he told me he’d come to see me in Paris.”
“Well, I’d say, from the looks of it, he wants that now too.”
“We’re not going home for weeks.”
“All I’m saying is that roses indicate feelings stronger than sorrow and friendship. And I, for one, am waiting with bated breath to see what happens next.” She leaned into the bouquet and sniffed a dreamy bloom with eye-fluttering pleasure. “Because this man is in deep, Josephine. Very deep.”
This all would have been fine if she could trust him; she couldn’t. She crumpled his note and dropped it in the wastebasket.
Sure enough, another bouquet of roses arrived the next day. Orange ones, like a fiery sunset over the water. And this time, the accompanying note asked her to dinner. Josephine didn’t respond to this one either.
Perhaps to emphasize the point of her nonresponse, she ate dinner with her family that night. When Annette and some of the others found her during dessert, Josephine said she was too tired to go out. “Too much sun.”
She was on her way upstairs when she passed one of the several sets of wide, glass doors that led out onto the promenade. She slowed. And then instead of going to her room, she went outside.
The promenade was a wide paved path connecting all the hotels and restaurants and casinos and clubs that lined the shore. Music emanated from the various establishments, mixing with the boisterous sounds of revelers on vacation and the din of waves rolling in and crashing against the sand. The breeze was warm and pleasant, carrying the earthy, humid scent of salt and ocean. She found a vacant bench facing the beach and lit a cigarette.
“Pardon, mademoiselle, may I join you?” It was Pierre, standing there in the dim light.
This time, her first thought was not to get up and walk away. The calming effects of the sea may have been stronger than she thought, or perhaps all those flowers had taken some of the fight out of her. She waved her hand at the empty space on the bench to indicate he would be tolerated if not welcome. The cigarette, pinched between two of her slender fingers, made an elegant swirl of smoke before disappearing on the breeze.
He sat and crossed his long legs at the ankles, and then he didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Josephine smoked and resisted the urge to fill the silence. She fell in love with Pierre here, in this same intoxicating landscape, over and over again every summer for years. At first from afar, and then getting to know him as they grew up. But she knew better than to let the relaxing rhythm of the waves and the heady air lull her into foolishness this time. If he had something to say, then he was going to have to say it. And then, after uncrossing his legs and sitting up straighter on the bench, he did.
“You haven’t responded to my notes.”
“I haven’t.” She smoked and gazed out at the dark water. The white caps were just visible in the moonlight.
“I suppose I deserve that.”
“Oui.”
“I only wish you’d hear me out.”
She looked at him blankly. “And what is it that you want me to hear?”
“That I was wrong. I feel like an idiot. I’ve felt like such an idiot that I didn’t come to Cabourg last year. I was afraid I’d lost you forever, and I couldn’t face it.”
His anguish was familiar; she’d felt the same hurt when he cut off contact. “Not writing someone back implies a wish to lose them.”
“I made a mistake.”
“What do you want, Pierre?” She flicked her cigarette with her thumb nail and the ashes tumbled away in the breeze. “Why are you telling me all of this? Why all the flowers?”
“I want to start over. If I could, I would go back and do everything differently from that moment we last parted ways. Everything.”
“To what end?”
“That we pick up where we left off.” He took her hand, the one without a cigarette. “That you give me another chance. That you forgive me.”
She wanted to pull away, but his skin felt too warm and pleasant. This all sounded so sincere, so important to him. These were the words she’d once longed to hear him say. But she was a different person now. A person who had been hurt by someone she’d trusted: him, although perhaps a previous, lesser version of him.
“Have you ever been wrong about anything, Josephine?”
“I was quite wrong about you once, and it hurt so much that I never want to be wrong about you again.” She pulled her hand away now.
“It kills me that I hurt you. It’s been killing me. I was afraid I’d waited too long to write.”
“Well, we can’t pick up where we left off. And if you want me to forgive you, then… I don’t know. You’ll have to not be the person who didn’t respond to my letters. The person who left me to wonder and worry.”
“I don’t want to be that person. I never wanted to be. Do you believe me?”
She sighed. Did she believe him? Ultimately, maybe it didn’t matter. “I suppose I do. But believing you led me to trouble in the past. And even if I believe you now, it doesn’t change what happened.”
“I’m going to try to make you forget all about it.”
Her cigarette was finished. When she stood to put it in the ashtray nearby, he stood as well. A boisterous group (not theirs) emerged from the hotel onto the promenade then, crowding it even further with their cheers and revelry.
“Walk down to the water with me?”
The request was tentative, humble, and there was desperation in his eyes. She thought of her hotel room, filled with flowers and crumpled up, unanswered notes. The flowers were admittedly beautiful. “Yes. Of course, I will.”
His face lit up with triumph, and he offered her his arm. She took it. Together they descended the staircase that led from the promenade to the beach. When they got close to the water, they took off their shoes, and kept walking. She was wearing lacy stockings, but they would probably survive a walk in the sand. A breaking wave swirled up to their ankles, soaking the hem of her dress. The water was cold and they both laughed. And then as quickly as it had rushed upon them, the water swirled away.
“So tell me how you’ve been spending your time, Josephine. Are you still working on your play?”
She couldn’t resist smiling that he remembered. “I finished it actually, a long time ago. I’ve written two more since that first one.”
“Have you really? I’m impressed, but not surprised at all. I never doubted you.”
“Merci. It’s been fun, and my plays are getting better. I’ve been passing the last one out to producers.”
“That’s fantastic, Josephine. I can’t wait to see your opening night.”
She’d forgotten how good he was at making her feel bigger, like her little playwriting hobby was actually a worthwhile pursuit. He had always believed in her, which was probably how she fell in love with him in the first place.
“Tell me about it, without spoiling it, of course.”
“Well, it’s about a haunted house,” she began, and then proceeded to tell him everything as they walked, carrying their shoes, along the shoreline. He listened as intently as ever. When she loosened her grip on her hurt, it was a relief to be talking to the person who had always made her feel so special and admired.
They’d walked nearly a kilometer from the stairs when he stopped to face her. “I know you might not believe me, at least not yet, but I don’t want to lose touch again. I was a fool for not writing you back, for not explaining my feelings. But at the time, it all felt so overwhelming, maybe, or being so far away from you was so difficult that I thought letting you go was the right thing to do.”
He dropped his shoes into the sand and put his hands on her shoulders. Her skin warmed under his touch; the weight of his hands was like a balm on her heart.
He continued, “The truth is that, even though I was sure the geographical distance between us meant that we weren’t meant to be, no one I’ve met has come close to you. No one is as funny or insightful or pretty or interesting. No one’s hair is more beautiful than yours. Nothing has been able to push you from my thoughts.”
Her face crumpled because it was nice to hear him say all of this, but it was also a relief. He pulled her into a hug and held her there for as long as she let him. She had the first glimmer of hope that, despite the setbacks and everything else, things could still work out how she’d always wanted. That her dreams and her heart weren’t so foolish after all.
They talked for hours that night about everything. Then, when they’d said everything but good night, he dipped his head to kiss her. He hesitated, asking for permission, and she tipped her head to meet him. It was a gently, sorrowful kiss, meant to soothe. It worked, and she kissed him back. Their mouths moved in a slow dance of reacquaintance. Their breath soft with measured certainty. She had missed him so much. The feel of him firmly in her arms, the sea air tickling her skin, it was like arriving home.
And it was the first of many kisses. Falling back in love with him was like being lifted off the sand by a wave and then gently carried away on a warm current. Over the coming weeks, they would kiss countless times. At first in stolen moments alone, and then without regard for who was around or who saw them. He’d dine with her family, and she’d dine with his. And by the time her stay in Cabourg was over, everyone would know they were attached. He’d meet with her father about visiting them in Paris and gain a firm nod of approval. Though many would have wilted and been thrown out, she’d leave behind a hotel room full of flowers. Of course she’d worry, but he’d write to her every day without fail. Sometimes more than once. Before the year was out, he’d come to Paris like he said he would. They’d be engaged the following year. And they’d be married in a church not far from his family’s vineyard the year after that.
But that kiss on the beach was enough to make her understand that forgiving could help with forgetting. When she let in new memories and fond emotions, the hurt went away. That love was sometimes worth it. The breeze shifted and the wet hem of her skirt brushed her legs; she stepped in closer and gave him another chance.
Thank you for reading! And if you liked this story, you might also like my books.
Love and the Downfall of Society
A working-class writer finds new fame criticizing high society, but then she falls in love with an aristocrat who can’t marry her or convince her to become his mistress. Click here to buy the book.
Complications in Paris
A young American in Paris fakes an engagement with a man she just met to put her family off bringing her home to marry another. Click here to buy the book.
You are a talented writer, FOR SURE! I felt a bit embarassed that I ever submitted any writing to you (i quickly addressed and ignored that self-consciousness though). We write for different audiences, may yours come to you in droves!
Be well.
I enjoyed this so much! Thank you!