Seven Letters from Paris (25 page)

Jean-Luc came home from work to find me in the garden, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, prodding the fiery blaze with a rebar pipe. His eyes darted to the massive pine tree above the grill. “Sam, what in the world are you cooking?”

“I'm burning all my old letters.” I turned to face him, poker in hand. “Except for yours, of course. And a couple from Tracey.”

His laughter started off slow then it boomed. “But we could have read them together. And we could have laughed.”

He already had all the dots making up my life; he didn't need to connect them. My brows furrowed. “But I thought it was a romantic, a symbolic gesture…”

“It is.”

Jean-Luc popped his lips, put his hands on my waist, and pulled me in for a kiss.
Soupe
de
langues!
The honeymoon period was far from over. I withdrew from his embrace before we overheated. “Do you think it will last? This passion?”

Jean-Luc stifled another laugh. “Sam, like I told you in one of my letters, a life without passion is like a sky without a moon or the stars, like a sea without little fishes.”

“But you don't write me love letters anymore,” I teased.

“I don't have to. You're here with me, right now, right where you're supposed to be.”

Yes, there I was, in the here, in the now, living in the South of France, married to a man I'd met over two decades before. As my parents had told me shortly after my adoption, love didn't come from DNA; it came from opening up your heart, just like my real dad, Tony, had done for me. Just like I could do wholeheartedly now. The rest, as they say, was history.

Twenty years ago, I was terrified of love, of letting myself be loved, and I left Jean-Luc standing alone on a platform at Gare de Lyon. But the train had finally stopped at my station. When I let go of anger, guilt, and fear, I finally let love in. For once, my entire life jumped onto the right track, and it was cruising along, moving full speed ahead.

L'amour! Encore l'amour! Toujours l'amour!

Sometimes it takes a village to transform a book from a dream into actual publication. I'd like to start by thanking Anna Klenke, my fabulous editor, who picked my story out of the Sourcebooks slush pile and believed in it enough to take it from a mere dream to a finished project.
Merci
mille
fois!
Likewise, I'd like to thank the Sourcebooks team. Thank you all so much for believing in my story and in me.

To my parents, Anne and Tony Platt, where do I start? Thank you for your unwavering love and for not letting me sink when life dragged me down. And Dad? Thank you for turning the page at the sexier parts. The same goes to Dottie Thomas, my grandmother. Also, I raise my glass to my two best friends in the entire world, Tracey Biesterfeldt and my sister, Jessica. This story is your story too.

A special shout goes out to all the wonderful writers who have been with me on this journey from almost day one. Thanks to my alpha readers Susan Oloier and Christine Sarmel, whose candor and honest critiques helped my book to grow. Thanks to my army of beta readers: Sara Raasch, Jill Hathaway, the Roecker sisters, Kelly Polark, Jaye Robin Brown, Stephanie Hayes, Rachel Eddey, Pam Ferderbar, Judy Mintz, Colene Beck, Mary Metzger, Robin Tolbert, Stina Lindenblatt, Wendy Forsythe Van Dyk, Stephen Fisch, Diane Lotny, M. C. Callaghan, Debra Wolf, Kim O'Brien, Pam Serp, Stacy Mahoney, Karla Wheeler, Liz Johnson, Meg Vernon, Michelle Cassera, Christina Schmitt, Kristin Gaudio, Judy Ravitz, Karin Barnes, and Edina and Rob Markus. And, finally, thank you to the expert advice of industry pros Stephanie DeVita, Jay Schaefer, Candace Walsh, Victoria Twead, and my aunt, Randi Platt. Whether you delivered a full critique, took my author photos, taught me to mambo, read a few chapters here and there, or just cheered me on, I need for you all to know it meant (and still means) the world to me.

Moving to a new country can be a daunting experience. So a huge and heartfelt thanks goes to the Toulouse “
les
chicks
”—Monique Nayard, Oksana Ritchie, Trupty Vora, Lindsey Hebblethwaite, Zoe Levi, and Melissa Hall, who not only read for me but also became instamatic friends.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention all the lovely souls I've met thanks to social media—on AbsoluteWrite.com, on Verla Kay's blueboards, on Twitter, and on Blogger, especially my French contingency of expats—Sara Dillard Sylvander, Sarah Hague, Kasia Dietz, Lindsey Tramuta, Kristin Espinasse, and Aidan Larson, whose blogs provided much needed friendship and advice.

Thanks to Jean-Luc's parents, Marcelle and André, to his sisters Isabelle and Muriel, and to their spouses and children. To my adoptive French parents, Christian and Ghislaine, and their daughter, Anne; and to all of Jean-Luc's friends. Thank you all for not placing bets on how long my marriage to Jean-Luc would last.

To Max and Elvire, I am the luckiest woman in the world to have both of you in my life. As for Jean-Luc, I know you wanted for me to tell our story as a fictional account, killing you off in the end! But the truth is
always
better than fiction. You have my heart in your hand.
Je
t'aime très fort. Je t'aime.

Finally, I'd like to thank you, dear reader, for joining me on this love adventure. Now put this book down and live and love your life to its fullest—without fear, without anger, and without regret.
L'amour! Encore l'amour! Toujours l'amour!

Photo credit: Stephen Fisch

Samantha Vérant is a travel addict, a self-professed oenophile, and a determined, if occasionally unconventional, French chef. She lives in southwestern France, where she's able to explore all of her passions, and where she's married to a sexy French rocket scientist she met in 1989 but ignored for twenty years.