‘He rang you?’ My voice instantly ratchets up a level.
‘Yes. He said that if he sent it to you, he was worried you would destroy it. And there was something in his voice… well, I felt sorry for him, Lexie. It wasn’t so much what he said, but the way he said it, and he was so apologetic. And earnest. And regretful. And sad.’ The way she’s labouring this doesn’t bode well and her voice is unusually firm.
‘Was he, now? Manipulative is another word for it,’ I retort, barely able to keep the bitterness out of my voice. There was no way I could tell Mum what happened.
She leans across the table, placing her hand on my arm to grab my attention.
‘My gut feeling is telling me that if you don’t read it, it’s a decision you might regret forever. I have no idea why, but I can’t shake it off and it’s worrying me. So, no ifs, no buts, please, honey, just do as I ask as a favour to your old mum. It’s only a collection of words strung together, after all. What harm can it do? Humour me, because, whatever he’s done, he feels this is meaningful to you. And to him.’
Withdrawing my arm, I prise off the parcel tape securing the flap of the padded envelope and reach inside, sliding out a hardback book. Turning it over and glancing at the cover, I look across at Mum and see that her eyes are sparkling.
‘A Year at Versailles by Ronan O’Byrne. Oh, my! It’s not what I think it is… is it? I mean, I know he was helping you with your research, but you said it didn’t really go anywhere. I will admit I was more than a little disappointed. I felt the time had come and I’m curious to know what happened.’
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out as a crushing feeling wells up in my chest. He published it even though I had hoped he’d respect me enough to avoid putting me and my family through this.
‘Oh, and Ronan asked me to make sure you read the inscription first,’ she adds, insistently.
With trembling fingers, I turn over the first two or three pages until I spot a hand-written note. It’s penned in ink and signed by the author, as if it’s an official copy from a book signing.
‘What does it say, Lexie?’
I read the words out aloud in a faltering voice.
‘From Ronan to Lexie.
Copyright Alexandra Winters 2018.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise, without the prior consent of Alexandra Winters.
Copy #1 of a print run of one.
The author holds no rights whatsoever to the content contained within.’
‘Oh, that’s not really an inscription at all, is it? Don’t they usually print the copyright details as standard?’
I gaze across at Mum, my eyes smarting as I hold back the tears. I feel a mix of anger, loss, self-pity even, and most of all regret for my part in this. And now he’s dragged Mum into it without understanding how it might change the way she remembers her mother. Mum’s hopes are up and now she’s intrigued.
‘One copy, Lexie, that’s all that exists,’ she utters excitedly. ‘He’s written this just for you, honey.’
‘And you believe him when he says that there’s only one copy of it?’ I scowl, holding it up and staring at it as if it’s some sort of booby trap.
‘I do. Why would he have any reason to say that if it wasn’t true? Now I understand why he rang to enlist my help. You aren’t speaking to him any more, are you?’
Mum is looking at me and trying to work out why I’m being so negative.
‘No, I’m not, and he can’t earn any money from a print run of one, can he? So that makes no sense at all. Have you considered that there might be information in here that isn’t true, or was never meant to be shared?’
The look Mum gives me makes me cringe. Her frown tells me I can’t wriggle out of this. She’s known from the moment I returned that I was keeping something from her.
‘Ronan said that once you’ve read it, he hoped you would allow me to read it too, so I doubt that’s the case. Obviously, he doesn’t want to upset you, but if you destroy it then it’s lost to us all, forever. He’s taken the trouble to write an entire book just for you – that thought rather takes my breath away.
‘Look, Lexie, I don’t know what caused you to fall out, but this means a lot to him and I think you should do as he asks. Can’t you do this one little thing for me? If you don’t like or agree with what he’s written, you can burn it. But a man who goes to this much trouble deserves to be given the benefit of the doubt. If only once.’
What has he done? Now he has Mum on his side, and she’ll think less of me if I totally ignore her advice. Guilt tugs at me as I can’t ignore her right to read this for herself, because everything in that box belongs to her, first and foremost.
‘How did he get your number?’
‘Now don’t be cross. People do things for all sorts of reasons and someone close to me gave it to him. I don’t want to tell you who that was, until you’ve read the book. I’m not going to say another word, but when you’ve read it, I hope you will at least share your thoughts with me.
‘Now, drink your tea and let’s enjoy a wonderful lunch. I want to ask your opinion about something, just in case you think what I’m planning is a little… silly.’
Mechanically, I stir the tea and then sip it as if what I’ve just learnt isn’t in the least bit upsetting. Mum knows what she’s doing, and she won’t let up until I’ve read the darn book.
Annoyingly, my eyes keep straying to it on the table next to me. The cover is a photo of the florist’s shop where we eventually discovered Grandma had stayed when she was in Versailles. It’s one of the photos Ronan took and texted me when he popped back to his car that day.
‘Right. I’m ready to go whenever you are,’ I inform Mum in the brightest voice I can muster.
Casually sliding the book back into the padded bag, I pop it into my handbag, knowing that I’m going to need nerves of steel before I can begin turning those pages.
29
A River of Tears
Oh, how I cry. Throughout virtually the whole one hundred and eighty-three pages. I read through the night and don’t finish until other people are getting up and thinking about breakfast.
I retired to bed early, armed with a fluorescent-pink highlighter pen, more than ready to challenge every single assumption and accusation. Instead, I spend much of the time wiping off the tears I miss that end up plopping down onto the pages, for fear they will leave a stain.
I cry for Versailles, for the trees, for Fabien the Terrier, for my grandma – the Rose – and for the Bulldog too. Even the Spaniel, George, brings a tear to my eye as I realise, as brusque a manner as he has, he tried his best to be a peacemaker and calm the often- troubled waters.
When I read the final page, I sit and sob my heart out. Instead of the recriminations I expected to find, Ronan pays tribute to each of the characters who were involved in my grandma’s year at Versailles.