Epilogue

EPILOGUE

“ Y ou are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read.”—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Three years later

Winnie

Platform 5 at Gare du Nord was a sea of humanity. As usual. Serious-looking business folks traveling lightly dodged tourists with mega-sized luggage on their way to the exit. The announcement from the overhead speaker was drowned out by conversations in many languages, the incoming train two platforms over, and the traffic outside.

I tucked my rainbow-hued scarf into the collar of my emerald-green wool coat for warmth, craning my neck expectantly for a glimpse of my professor. Three days apart wasn’t a big deal in the scheme of things, but sometimes it felt like an eternity .

A woman with a giant suitcase bumped into me as she herded two small children. “ Pardonne-moi. Sorry.”

“ Pas de soucis ,” I replied like a freaking native. Translation: No worries.

Uh, yeah, that was me…speaking French. Did you catch that? Don’t quote me, but I think I’d even used the correct context. I’d been taking French lessons for three years now and let me tell you, it was a challenge. There were so many ways to say, “It’s okay.”

For instance, I could go with okay, and everyone would know what I meant, but that was boring. Pas grave or “Never mind” was a solid choice, too. I’d fucked that up a couple of times ’cause grave in English also took you to a spooky place with tombs and my mind had a wonky way of mixing words that absolutely didn’t work in French. I’d thrown around the phrase “ Pas de tombe ” a few times before my husband set me straight.

“You realize you’re saying, ‘no tomb’?” Alistair had gently corrected with a snort of laughter.

“Oh. Too literal, huh?”

“ Un peu .”

I’d snapped my fingers. “A little! I know that one.”

Alistair had just smiled that gorgeous “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me” smile that turned me inside out, and everything in my world had felt one thousand percent right and good…and so much more than I ever dreamed of.

Maybe that was why these occasional weekdays apart drove me batty. Yes, we both had important business to attend to, but damn it, I’d missed him like crazy.

And there he was.

The professor emerged from the first-class train with a carry-on bag slung on his shoulder. My pulse skittered and my heart flipped the way it always did for my tall, handsome hunk of a man. He tightened the belt on his khaki coat as he scanned the area, tilting his chin and flashing a megawatt grin.

I waved both arms above my head and hurried toward him. No chill whatsoever.

“ Bonjour, mon amour. Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime !” I shouted for the entire station to hear. So what? Let them hear. We were out, proud, and madly in love. And horny too. Did I mention it had been three long-ass days?

Alistair dropped his bag on the ground between us and pulled me against his chest. Then he tilted my chin and crashed his mouth over mine. I think I whimpered, and I definitely swooned.

“Hello, my love,” he said, sweetly kissing my nose. “I missed you terribly.”

I sighed as he bent to pick up his bag. “Me too, but I did all the things. You’re going to be so proud of me.”

“I’m always proud of you.”

That was true. He was. Alistair was my biggest champion and most enthusiastic fan. He truly believed I was capable of greatness and get this…I was beginning to think he might be right. The past twelve months alone were a sign that good things were on the horizon for both of us.

We’d started a business in London, bought a house in the French countryside, and gotten married last spring in LA. How’s that for a banner year?

I won’t lie and claim it was all sunshine and roses from day one. Doing the long-distance relationship thing could be stressful no matter how much effort you put into making it work. We did it, though.

I’d had a life in LA and like it or not, I’d needed a job. I’d thought about chucking it all and relocating to London to be with my man, but that was a daunting move, and I’d wanted to be sure our version of forever was the same .

We’d racked up frequent-flyer miles jetting between Los Angeles and London for a year. I’d introduced Alistair to my friends and family, taken him to drag brunches, shopping at The Grove, hikes in Runyan Canyon, and of course, to the LA County Museum of Art.

I’d tried not to overwhelm him, but that was bound to happen to a degree. My friends were outrageous, my family was loud, and the emphasis was always on food or fun. But Alistair loved it all. He bonded with my parents and grandparents, brought gifts from the UK for Jazz and my niece and nephew, and was polite though slightly distant with Milo…wise man.

Every visit to LA had been jam-packed. I’d usually take the week off from my job at Cally McNally’s salon as a stylist to play tour guide and still allot time for us to be alone. London was calmer somehow. I could explore the city or hang out with Raine if Alistair had to work. And when he was free, we’d travel the English countryside…by train.

Yeah, that sneaky man of mine admitted he’d fibbed about having high-speed railway nerves on our initial Parisian adventure. In truth, Alistair was the type of travel aficionado who had multiple apps on his cell to track the times and routes for trains running throughout the UK. Geeky, yes…but also kind of freaking adorable.

We took frequent trips to Europe, too. Germany, Italy, Spain, Austria, the Netherlands…and always France.

Year two, I moved to London. It was a no-brainer and honestly, I thought everyone saw it coming. Maybe not Liza, though. But she settled in with us nicely at the new flat we’d bought in Marylebone—Alistair’s old one had been too small to accommodate my shoe collection, let alone me and my cat. It was bright and airy and had a fabulous bay window overlooking The Regent’s Park. Liza approved.

The only issue: my lack of employment. There were plenty of salons in the area and I actually had worked at one for a few months, but I didn’t love it. One day, Alistair had said, “Why don’t you do something you really love? Something with color and design? Something that makes you happy.”

So simple, right? And it had been there all along. In that tiny village we stumbled upon when we’d stayed at Francoise and Jacques’ house. The store with the gorgeous sweaters and quality trinkets from France. I’d figured there had to be interest at some kitschy boutique for some of their goodies, and I’d been right. I became a sort of middleman, buying clothing and accessories for a cute shop in Soho. It was so successful that I’d asked the owner, an adorable feisty old woman with blazing red hair named Martha, if she’d consider taking me on as a partner. To my utter shock and joy, she’d said yes.

Now I had my dream job. I occasionally traveled to LA, France, or anywhere Alistair needed to be for a conference to hunt for artsy, fun accessories and whatnots to sell at La Mode. I didn’t miss cutting hair at all. It was interacting with people that I loved, and I had that in spades now…plus time to be with my husband.

Can I just say…wedding of the freaking year! Gah! We were married on a cliff overlooking the ocean in Malibu on a beautiful Saturday in early May. There were flowers galore, amazing food, a champagne fountain, and a drag queen for entertainment. The grooms wore white, and our guests wore black.

Was it a lot? Yes. But Alistair had insisted. “No regrets, Win. You wanted a big wedding, and we’ll have one.” Friends flew in from all over the world to attend, including Raine and his husband, Graham. It was one of the best days of my life. Right up there with the proposal.

Alistair had asked me to marry him in Paris on the balcony of our hotel overlooking the Eiffel Tower, dazzling and sparkling away. It was romantic for sure and totally fitting. This was where we’d fallen in love.

This magical city with its amazing vistas, charming streets, and rich history would always be special to us. So was the tiny village outside of the city where we’d bought a three-hundred-year-old farmhouse with a stone facade and fields of lavender. The house was located a short bicycle ride from the shop I purchased goods from, and while it was a great-investment-slash-write-off for us, it needed a fuckton of repairs and a serious fung shwee makeover.

Renovations had begun this week, so I’d combined a business trip with contractor meetings. After a night in Paris, the plan was to head to the house so Alistair could weigh in on some of the remodeling choices I’d made so far.

“I know you don’t care, but this is our house and I want you to be happy,” I’d told him.

“As long as you’re there, I’m always happy.”

The feeling was mutual. Alistair had changed my life and opened my world, and he claimed I’d done the same for him.

We’d found a rhythm and a balance that made it possible for us to complement each other. Alistair still worked long hours at the museum and commuted to teach at Oxford one semester per year. He was highly in demand, and he loved his job. I was so proud of him and sometimes, I still couldn’t believe I was the one he’d chosen to share his life and build a future with.

Speaking of which…

“I’m going to rip your clothes off the second we get to the hotel, and in the morning, I have something to show you,” I purred, linking our hands.

“You’re being very secretive,” he chided lightly.

“I know, but trust me…it’s something you need to see, not hear. ”

The following day, we drove to our new farmhouse. Frost glistened on the rooftop and on the muddy trench in front of the driveway.

Alistair wrinkled his nose as he shut the door, shaking his head in dismay. “It’s like a bloody moat. You should have warned me to bring my wellies.”

I dug my diva sunglasses from my bag and chuckled. “Tiptoe through the puddles. Come this way.”

He trudged behind me, grumbling without heat about the warm bed we’d left in the city to skulk around a cobweb-ridden farm in winter. I couldn’t blame him. The house was in dire need of a facelift, but it had good bones. I opened the door, put my sunglasses away, and led my husband inside, past the dark kitchen to a narrow doorway.

I knocked on the wainscot-covered wall—once, twice…

“What are you doing? Is there a secret compartment or?—”

“Bingo!” The wall gave way to an inner chamber and a steep stairwell.

Alistair gaped. “A wine cellar? This is a nice surprise.”

“It gets better.” I used the flashlight on my phone and slowly navigated the steps. “Be careful. It’s safe but very old.”

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and felt for the string to the lone lightbulb the contractor had rigged down here at my request. The small cave-like area was illuminated, revealing what had once indeed been used as a wine cellar.

“Cool, huh? But look at this.” I fumbled along the wall until I located a niche built into the stone. It was half covered with a piece of wood hanging by one hinge. “This was a vault at one time. A place to store jewelry or precious belongings.”

Alistair opened the makeshift door and studied the collection of old bottles. He picked up what might have been a perfume bottle, turning it slowly in his hands. “These are initials. A and W…like us. ”

“Yes, and a heart.” I pointed at the date. “It’s a hundred years old. It’s a treasure. Kind of like the ones you examine from ancient Egypt, right?”

He grinned. “I suppose that’s true.”

“I wonder who this belonged to. Maybe a nice married couple, or maybe two lovers who had to hide their identity. Maybe two men or two women.” I paused for a beat before rummaging in my bag. “It made me think that we should leave our own mark.”

“You’re not proposing to make this into a tomb for us, are you?” he snarked.

“Ha. Ha. Nope. I made this.” I pushed some newer bottles aside to reveal the crude stick figures I’d painted on the stone. Me in a purple coat and a hat and the professor with glasses and a blue sweater.

Alistair threw his head back and laughed. “It’s perfect.”

“A hieroglyph of us. And someday, many thousands of years from now, someone will find it and know we were here. Two guys who met and fell in love and stayed in love forever. Do you think it will last a thousand years?”

“Ten thousand or more. Have I told you I love you today?”

“Yes, but say it again.”

“I love you, Win.”

“I love you too.” I held his face in my hands and kissed him with everything I had. We stared at each other, breathless and starry-eyed. I couldn’t speak for Alistair, but I was a little overcome.

He saw me. He knew me. He loved me for who I was, flaws and all. He showed me his scars, his fears, and invited me into his world…to stay.

He even gave me Paris. In return, I’d give him forever.

Thank you for reading Winnie and Alistair’s story!

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