Marcel's Letters by Carolyn Porter

Author:Carolyn Porter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2017-05-06T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

White Bear Lake, Minnesota

Late July 2012

The corporate rebranding project had launched. The medical device brochure had been printed and delivered. It had been slightly more than a year since I established contact with Tom, and for the first time in those twelve months, I had room to breathe. So when Tom asked if I would be willing to come to his office to hand over copies of the new letters, I happily obliged.

Tom strolled into the lobby and extended his right hand. A handshake seemed too formal after sharing Marcel’s intimate words; I raised my hands in the air, reached forward, and gave Tom a hug.

We walked a maze of halls, which opened to an enormous cafeteria. After purchasing lunch, we claimed a table near floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked perfectly manicured grounds.

“How did you learn to speak French, anyway?” I asked while we ate. Tom had studied French in high school and college, then spent a year studying, then two years working in Aix-en-Provence. With a smile, he confessed his secret to learning the language: beautiful French women. His desire to communicate with them provided incentive for “disciplined study.”

He returned to the States for graduate school, then moved back to France. He was certain he had never driven through Berchères-la-Maingot, though he imagined it was filled with quaint stone buildings and vine-covered walls like so many other villages he explored. When Tom returned to the States for good, he took a job in Minneapolis and began offering translation services on the side. “One or two jobs per month,” he said.

After we finished eating, I retrieved a manila folder from my bag and slid it across the table as if it were some top-secret file.

“I still can’t believe you tracked these down,” he said. I related to the wonder in his voice. Several times during the previous days, I had slipped the letters out of the envelope to confirm they were real. That they were really in my possession.

Tom silently read a few paragraphs. I did not rush or interrupt. “I can’t imagine,” Tom said as he shook his head. “How helpless he must have felt. When I think about how much he loved those girls, and how he … I just … I just can’t imagine …” Tom’s eyes bloomed with tears. He lifted his glasses off the bridge of his nose and wiped his eyes. I did not imagine men cried in the cafeteria often, so I was careful not to say anything more. I changed the subject by asking Tom when he had last been to Paris.

“Too long,” he said with a wistful smile.

The day before, Aaron and I had purchased our airline tickets. If it had been up to me, I would have left for Paris immediately, but late October was the first time that worked for everyone in France. Twelve weeks existed until our departure. Translating one letter per week was an aggressive goal, but Tom assured me he would complete them in time. Besides, he was curious to know what Marcel said in his letters, too.

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