The Golden Letter is a novella included in The Merry Heart Anthology. All proceeds are donated to a pro-life center.
The next morning, Luc picked me up in his Peugeot and drove me through the French countryside. A haze covered the fields, and I imagined what it would look like in the spring and summer when the flowers would be in bloom. Tall, brown stalks of withered sunflowers pointed toward the sky. A BLEAK sun struggled to break through the mist.
We turned down a cypress-lined road and approached a wrought-iron gate. Luc reached up to a remote on the sun visor, and the gates rolled open. We passed onto a cobblestone driveway leading to the front of the house.
The villa was an example of traditional Provençal architecture, blending rustic charm with elegant simplicity. Its exterior a warm, honey-hued stone I adorned with climbing vines, now dormant as if waiting for someone to come and wake them.
I silently followed Luc through the arched, wooden front door and into the foyer. Exposed, rough-hewn wooden beams adorned the soft, pastel-colored stucco walls. The floors were laid with terracotta tiles.
In the living room, plush, comfortable sofas and armchairs gathered around a stone fireplace. Large French windows opened to a view of the garden and the cloudless sky beyond. Antique furniture and classic artwork added character and a touch of history.
I itched to take photos but, not wanting to look like a tourist, refrained. “It’s charming.”
Luc seemed pleased with my pronouncement. “Lorraine was an interior designer. Very talented and much sought after. She decorated many of the hotels in the area. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
The villa’s kitchen was a chef’s dream, boasting a combination of rustic charm and modern convenience. Traditional Provencal tiles decorated the backsplash, while marble countertops and state-of-the-art appliances added a luxurious touch. An old farmhouse table with mismatched chairs served as the heart of the kitchen and begged for family and friends to gather for leisurely meals and heartfelt conversations. It made me sad that out of this small family, only Luc survived.
And possibly Aimee.
Luc led me up the stairs to several bedrooms. The surrounding countryside had obviously inspired the deco, which featured floral patterns, soft linens, and vintage accents. French doors in each room opened to private balconies. Extensive gardens rolled beyond the windows.
Luc motioned for me to follow him through a doorway leading to a set of steep stairs. In the attic, light filtered through dusty windows. The air was chill, and a musty smell hung in the air.
Luc strode to the window. “Being December, it’s barren now, but in the spring, there is bougainvillea, honeysuckle, and climbing roses.”
My gaze lingered on the stone patio with its stone fountain and benches. “It’s beautiful, even in the dead of winter.”
He turned to look at me. “Every season has its own beauty.” He studied me, as if searching for something.
Uncomfortable, I turned away and surveyed the boxes, trunks, and plastic bins before us. “We had better get started. What are we looking for?”
“Anything that might tell us where Aimee has gone.”
We spent the next two days going through the attic, loading up the Peugeot, and hauling things to either Aimee’s friend’s antique store, the city dump, or a fire pit which Luc called barbecue à charbon. On the last night, we lit a giant bonfire and gathered around it to burn all the papers we found. We watched sparks rise into the velvety dark sky. The air was nippy if we moved away from the flames, so we huddled close, avoiding the smoke.
I leaned against Luc. “I’m sorry we didn’t find any clues leading to Aimee.”
“She is gone,” Luc said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It is time I let her go.”
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