A Single Daffodil [Harry Styles]

Saint-Malo, France (Part II).

Claudine didn't speak English.

We learned this rather quickly when Elodie, the waitress, had to continuously translate Claudine's part of the conversation.

"She wants you to come upstairs," Elodie said as Claudine beckoned the three of us towards the back of the cafe.

I tried to swallow but my mouth was much too dry. Instead, I nodded and started to follow them—Harry kept his hand on the small of my back the entire time. It was reassuring to have someone familiar around me. It was exactly the kind of security blanket I needed.

When we reached the last step of the spiral staircase, we were led into what looked like a small apartment with a very minimal aesthetic. I chewed my bottom lip nervously as I looked around. Everything was creme-colored: the bare walls, the furniture, even the door frames. The only color in the room came from the crimson-colored roses, that sat in a vase by the living room window.

Elodie directed us to sit at the kitchen table while Claudine busied herself near the countertop. It smelled like a mixture of coffee, cigarettes and banana bread. A few seconds later, Claudine came over to the table with a fresh pot of French Pressed coffee and three mugs.

While Harry politely thanked her, I couldn't prevent myself from staring at her. Claudine has aged in the most beautiful way one could. She was thin, had greying hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, and was wearing a black, fitted shirt with jeans. She was intimidating, but at the same time, felt very warm and welcoming. A strange combination.

Claudine looked right at me and spoke fluently in French.

Elodie quickly spoke. "She said she knew you were Bridgette's Granddaughter zee second you walked in. You look exactly like 'er"

I sucked in a breath, nodding. Grandpa Gene always told me that, ever since I was little. It was strange hearing it from someone else, especially when you only met that someone ten minutes ago.

Claudine said something else in French to Elodie and my heart started racing when I heard Grandpa Gene's name being mentioned. Elodie responded back in French too before turning back to me and Harry.

"She ez sorry for your loss too." Elodie paused for a moment, struggling to translate the words. "Gene was someone sheez grown to admire...over ze years."

"How did...how did you know he passed away?" My voice quivered as I directed the question to Claudine. I couldn't believe it. How did she know Grandpa Gene wasn't alive anymore? Grandpa Gene didn't talk to anyone outside of Miami. He was very introverted in that way.

"Becauz she no longer received heez letters."

"Letters?" I repeated, amazed by this new piece of information. "He sent letters?"

Turns out, Grandpa Gene and Claudine have been sending letters to each other for years.

Years.

As I gingerly sipped on my cup of coffee, I listened to Elodie's translated version of Claudine's story. Apparently, Grandpa Gene and Claudine weren't always on the best of terms. In fact, they kind of hated each other when they first met. Claudine found my Grandpa to be an "annoying and idiotic American fool". She didn't even think the blind date was a good idea, to begin with because Bridgette was on the rebound. She then proceeded to describe what it was like being around my Grandparents when they were together.

"Terribly annoying." Elodie giggled when she translated Claudine's words. "She said zey were zee most annoying lovesick couple she ever 'ad to be around."

Harry and I laughed when Claudine jokingly pursed her lips and gave a pointed look.

She went into detail about what it was like when Bridgette moved to Florida with Grandpa Gene, and how Bridgette would often send letters describing how happy she was because she finally got married. She would also talk about Grandpa Gene developing a passion for painting and how they were expecting their first child.

"My dad," I whispered, watching both of them in awe. Claudine, who watched me carefully as Elodie translated, nodded. I wonder if my dad ever knew anything about Claudine and her relationship with his parents.

Probably not.

And then she got to the part about Bridgette passing away, which was clearly hard for her to talk about, even to this day. Claudine and my Grandmother were best friends, it showed clearly on her face as she spoke about it. It made me sad suddenly, seeing Claudine miss my Grandmother. I somehow felt myself missing her too, even though I never met her.

"Zat was when your Grandfather would start writing 'er." When Claudine said something else in French, Elodie quickly added. "Gene would write for Bridgette. Once a year, she would receive a letter and a drawing from heem."

"I never knew," I said solemnly. I began wondering why he never told me about it. I thought I knew everything about Grandpa Gene. I even checked his mail every once in a while when I would visit him and not once did I ever come across a letter from Claudine. Maybe it was the one thing he wanted to keep to himself, although I couldn't figure out why.

I looked over at Harry to see how he was taking all this. He wasn't even looking at Claudine or Elodie. He was watching me, his green eyes ever so brilliant underneath the sunshine that cascaded through the kitchen window. When our eyes met, he offered a lopsided smile and at that moment, I desperately wanted to know what he was thinking about.

"Claudine," I said, tearing my gaze away from Harry. "how did you know my name? When I walked in, you said it with such confidence. It was like you were waiting for me to walk through your cafe doors this whole time."

After Elodie translated my question to Claudine, her expression changed gravely. It was like she was having an internal battle with herself, arguing whether or not she wanted to share the information with me. A moment later, she quietly stood up and disappeared into the living room. Shuffling could be heard in the distance.

Harry and I shared a look before I turned back to Elodie. She was just as confused.

"Ça va, Grand'mere?" She called out, leaning back into her chair to get a better look into the living room.

"Oui!" Claudine replied, before waltzing back into the kitchen. My eyes fixed onto the small object she was holding in her hands. A cream-colored envelope, with a shaky scrawl written over it.

My hands began to tremble in my lap when I realized it was Grandpa Gene's handwriting.

Claudine said something I obviously couldn't understand, but the tone in her voice was easy to interpret. Her French dialect was saturated with worry and remorse, which made me feel even more anxious about what was in the letter.

"Zis es zee last letter my Grandmozer received from Gene." Elodie said carefully, taking the letter from Claudine. "She wants you to 'ear it."

I exhaled a long breath and turned to Harry, wondering what I should do. When our eyes met once again, he didn't have to say anything. I could already see it on his face. You're gonna be okay no matter what.

"Okay." I finally said, nodding.

"Oh! It's in French!" Elodie exclaimed with surprise as she unfolded the letter. "It's in...terrible French."

"French?" I repeated, gobsmacked once again. "He could write in French?" I looked over at Harry again, completely in disbelief. "I didn't know he could do that either."

"I can translate it," Elodie said after a moment.

I sat quietly, anxiously wringing my hands. The anticipation of this letter was killing me.

I watched Elodie's eyes scan the page quietly, her mouth silently pronouncing every other word as she read. She studied it only a second longer before sitting up straight and clearing her throat. With that, she slowly began to read:

Claudine,

It is early, much too early to be writing a letter, but as always I find myself unable to sleep. Outside, the sun is slowly rising and the day is finally new, and yet, all I can think about in the past. About Bridgette. About how much I miss her. Dear Claudine, if there is one thing I need you to know, it is that I always find comfort in our letters. These letters would make my darling Bridgette very happy, knowing that after all these years, we still speak to one another. Oh, how I miss Bridgette this morning, just as I have missed her every day for the last forty years.

How are you, dear Claudine? I hope that you are well. Strange to think it has been so long since we've last seen each other. When I think back, there is so much to remember. Now we are older, frailer and much more complicated, health-wise. I am no longer the strong, healthy, tenacious soldier I once was. The trying twitch in my left hand is alive and well—too well, in fact. I fear that at my age, it is getting even worse. I am afraid that it will lead to something much more complicated and cruel, so I am to write this letter with great detail as if it might be last.

Elodie stopped reading to look at me because I involuntarily let out a small whimper behind my hand. I could feel myself freezing up and the color draining from my face as I tried to process Grandpa Gene's words. Suddenly, I felt a shift of something heavy on my lap. I looked down to see Harry's hand, palm facing upwards, waiting for mine. I gratefully took it, lacing my fingers tightly through his. Elodie, remaining patient and poised, continued reading.

I want you to know that I love my son very much. It is hard for me to admit that somewhere along the path of life, I disappointed him as a father. It was always difficult for me to connect with him after Bridgette passed. We were nothing of the same. We did not have a typical father-son relationship. He did not let me show him how to shave like a man, he did not let me help him with his homework or problems he faced as he grew older. My son has the world on his shoulders, day in and day out, and he will not, to this day, let me help him hold the world up. At times, it frustrates me, other times, it hurts. It hurts to think that he cannot trust his own father with his life. I have failed him somehow, and I wish I could tell him just how sorry I am about letting him down. I do not see him anymore, once every six months perhaps, and then I do not see him until the seasons have changed.

But I have Vita.

I know I have spoken about Vita, my Granddaughter, before. I remember writing you a letter the year she was born because I felt so much joy as I wrote it. Vita is so special to me because she is a gift from Bridgette. And I know somehow, Bridgette planted a piece of her own soul into Vita when she was born. They are much of the same person. Kind, loving, selfless and most importantly, she sees the good in everyone. I worry sometimes that my son does not see it and I hope so desperately he does not push her away as he did me. She is always happy, my Vita. She does not believe in misery. She knows that that type of emotion should only be seen on stage or the screen or on a printed page. I confess that I am not a very emotional person, and maybe that is where I went wrong with my son, but my dear Vita has carved a place inside my heart. I dream about her happiness every day. Her victories are my victories, her defeats are my defeats, her worries are my worries. Vita gave my existence meaning once again. And on the cusp of this, I think I now understand why Bridgette was taken away from me. It was to show me how special life can be. And through the long process of grieving, Vita reminded me how important it is to love and to be loved.

I write this to you in a letter because it feels as though the end of an era approaches me. I would never say that to Vita because I do not want to worry about her, but it is true. My time on this earth is limited. And I want you to know, my dear friend, that I hope you get to meet Vita one day. I hope that one day, Vita will find her way to Saint-Malo and experience the wonder, the magic, the amour of your town, just like I did. And when she does visit you, let her know that I and Bridgette will be watching over her in heaven. Because in the end, if there is a heaven, Bridgette and I will find each other again, for there is no heaven without her.

With all my love,

Gene Spoelstra.

There was no point in fighting back the tears. When she finished reading, I could no longer see her through my blurred vision. I cried, I cried, and I cried.

"Don't cry, Vita," Harry whispered as he leaned into me, his hand moving in a circular motion on my back. I covered my face with both hands now, my body shaking uncontrollably. "Please, don't cry."

But I couldn't help it. Everything in Grandpa Gene's letter left me feeling so sad. He thought he was a terrible father to my dad and he wanted to apologize for being...himself. I couldn't stand it. Grandpa Gene longed for a normal father-son relationship this entire time and what made it worse was my dad didn't even care. And now I felt guilt, almost selfish, for taking advantage of my time with Grandpa Gene. I should have spent more time with him, I should have paid more attention to the signs of him getting sicker, I should have been there more. It feels like I didn't do enough.

"It ez incredible to me zat he could predict you coming here." Elodie spoke softly as she carefully reinserted the letter into the envelope. "Gene zounds wonderful, Veeta."

"He was." I choked out, nodding slowly. "He was everything."

Like a precious piece of history, Claudine delicately held the envelope in her hands. She stood up then, and leaned over the table, reaching for my tear-stained hands. She put the envelope in them and made me hold onto it tightly.

And then, out of nowhere, Claudine spoke English for the first time.

"Keep."