Page 51 of Ten Christmases Without You
Emmy grinned. “It’s surprisingly easier than it looks. I learned in a few days. It’s all in the flick of the wrist.”
The bus turned onto a street lined with stops, tucked away in an old East Nashville neighborhood. The entire row of red-brick early-1900s buildings had been restored and converted into a wedding venue. Lanterns with tulle bows lit the cobblestone walkway, and the aged wooden doors were draped in bundles of fresh roses in red and white.
“This is gorgeous,” Emmy said.
“It sure is.”
As the bus waited to park, Emmy opened her mom’s clutch, retrieving her compact and lipstick to quickly freshen up. As she did, the corner of a small piece of paper peeked out from the inside pocket—an old receipt or something. She pulled it out and unfolded it.
“What’s that?”
“I’m not sure.” She read the scratched handwriting.
Meet me on Rue des Lumières d’Automne at 8 p.m.
M.
“Probably a note from a friend. Mom must have tucked it away when she didn’t have a trashcan,” Emmy said.
Madison frowned skeptically. “That she tucked away in a designer beaded clutch?”
Emmy peered down at the small bag. Her dad had said that her mom had never used the clutch. She must have used it in Paris. How fabulous would it be for her mom to get a note from a friend to meet her on a street in Paris all dressed up?
“What does it say? The Street of... Autumn Lights?” Emmy eyed the “M.” at the bottom.
“And M forMitchell?” Madison stole the thought right out of Emmy’s head.
“M could be anybody,” Emmy reasoned. “What if the French connection is a coincidence? What if Mom bought the purse here in the U.S.? Someone could have used it for a party and returned it. People do that with fancy stuff all the time.”
“Someone who happened to write French street names and signed notes with the initial of the one person of interest that Mom knew in Paris? The one guy whose name was written on Mom’s drawing, the guy who might have stolen her creative work, who wantedMomto tell us how they knew each other?”
Emmy’s gaze ran over the handwriting. Was that actually Mitchell Augustine’s writing?
“What life did Mom live in Paris that we don’t know about?” Madison asked. “It sounds fascinating.”
“Now who’s the dreamer? Mom was a rational woman. We forget that she studied there for two years. The note could be from literally anyone.”
“Ma’am,” the driver called.
The bus was empty.
Emmy folded the paper and tucked it back into her purse. “Well, we won’t find any answers now. It’s wedding time.”
She and Madison filed off the bus. They walked the cobbled path, then passed between two sparkling Christmas trees at the building’s grand entrance. Classical music poured through the large room. They meandered through groups of people dressed in their finest attire who were admiring the bridal portrait on a bronze easel in the corner or stacking elegantly wrapped gifts on the table against the large wavy-glassed windows. Chandeliers cast sparkles onto the wooden floors, the old boards creaking under their high heels. Emmy pointed to the guestbook positioned on a small podium.
“Should we sign it and leave Adrienne a message?” Emmy asked.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
As they walked that way, reality fell upon Emmy. Charlie and Amelia were visible through the double doors across the room, finding their seats among the rows of white folding chairs, all pointing toward a focal point created by an explosion of roses.
With a deep breath, Emmy went over and signed the guestbook, then handed the pen to her sister.
After they’d finished, they walked through the venue. Emmy held her head high, trying to channel her mom’s energy. The Garnet & Petticoat dress swished loosely around her ankles. People noticed her, smiling kindly, their eyes lingering on her, making her feel seen for the first time in her life. She’d never wanted attention, but if they were noticing her, would Charlie? The hope withered as her gaze fell on Amelia.
In a long, silky gold gown with a fur coat draped over her arm, she was standing along the row of chairs in a group of people. She commanded the room with a magnetism that Emmy imagined her mom would’ve had. The comparison to herself made Emmy feel like a child in costume, playing dress-up. The voice of doubt returned:”You’ll never be like her.”Her hands shook as she gripped her mother’s clutch.
“Is this good?” Madison gestured toward two seats at the end of an aisle.
