Rosalie nearly threw the box away without opening it. In the weeks since her father's death, she had been clearing out his attic and had discovered that Michael was an incorrigible packrat. Initially, she had pored over every slip of paper, every ticket stub, every handwritten note, but she had found it too sad -- both because it made her miss her dad and because it made his life seem more mundane than she liked to imagine.

And so she had begun to throw things away, grabbing fistfuls of files and photos without even seeing them. Then she found the box.

It was the clasp that made her pause -- a small metal flap fitted for a suitcase lock. The flap had a shiny patch in the middle, a thumb-sized spot worn smooth from years of opening and closing.

Rosalie fitted her thumb along the metal -- too small to fully cover the shine -- and flipped the top of the box. The letters were all the same stationery -- each one tucked into its envelope and filed in neat rows. Rosalie pulled out the first one, noted the French postmark and the careful script, and opened it.

*                 *                 *

Aug. 13, 1967

My dearest Clay,

I went into town today and bought the largest box of stationery I could find. There must be hundreds of sheets and envelopes in here. I have decided that they will only be used for you. This way, I know there is something -- another thing -- that you and I share with no one else.

I have begun to settle in here. The house is nice, though a little cold, and there is a sun-filled window where I have set up my easel.

I admit that a provincial French town was never where I saw myself, but there is a charm to it. Every day I ride my bike to the fromagerie and select a new cheese to enjoy in the swelter of the afternoon. The bonne femme at the bakery has taken it upon herself to teach me French. And, I might add, to try to discern whether I am an old maid, a widow, or just plain crazy to be living alone at the top of the hill.

It's quaint, and a bit like living in a painting. I feel like if I stare too long, I'll be able to break down the brushstrokes and unexpected color accents.

The only thing missing is you, Clay. But I know that will change. I must be patient.

With love,

  V.

*                 *                  *

June 30, 1968

Dear Clay,

Your last letter has left me melancholy. I understand the circumstances that hold you at home -- the passion you have for your beliefs -- but when I am out here by the creek, I can't help but feel selfish about your absence.

I want to have memories of you here, rather than the months I have been alone. I want to see your face next to mine when I lie in the middle of the sunflower fields down the road. I wish you could see them -- the stalks rising proud to bring their moon-faces closer to the sky.

I have completed several paintings. The south of France is certainly conducive to art -- though it is also little wonder to me that it drove van Gogh mad.

I have had some interest from a collector in London -- Jonathan -- in my series of triptychs. He wants to display them in his home, but I feel they need to be shared, to be public, to live free. We are in negotiations at the moment.

There is only one painting that I am unable to finish -- a portrait of you that I started when I got here. The lines are starting to blur, Clay.

Love always,

V.

*                 *                 *

When the cancer began to take hold, Michael began to say strange things. They were just mutterings at first, more to himself than to anyone else. Rosalie couldn't actually make out any words, just the sudden slackness in her father's face as she lost him into his thoughts. She attributed these moments to the delirium that eventually enveloped him, but the truth was that the mutterings began long before that.

The first time Michael said something loud enough for Rosalie to hear, it was a number. 4962. When she repeated it back to him, he responded quickly, "Don't forget your passport." He paused for a second and then resumed the thread of their previous conversation, seemingly oblivious to his outburst.

Rosalie heard the number repeated so many times over the last few months of her father's life that it became a sort of refrain.

4962. 4962. 4962. The number began to symbolize Michael's illness -- to reinforce the fact that Rosalie was losing him, was losing her daddy.

*                 *                 *

Sept. 14, 1969

My darling Clay,

The grape harvest is in full swing, and the area is filled with seasonal workers. In a move that has surprised and confused the town residents, I have rented my extra room to two Moroccan brothers who seem as lost as I am. Every evening they come home with the sweet smell of grapes on their fingers, and I feed them rice and lamb broiled with the spices they brought from home.

The locals are gearing up for the wild boar hunt, which will begin in a week or two. The distant gunshots don't scare me any more, but I find myself dreaming of war. Every day I read about the American soldiers coming back in body bags, and every day I am thankful that none of them is you.

Jonathan came to visit from London last weekend. He is interested in my new work, and has proposed to rent a gallery in Toulouse to show my paintings. He has proposed other things, too, but I push his hand away every time he touches my knee.

The tomatoes in my little garden are thriving in this delayed summer. Every day I pick one and eat it like an apple -- the juice running down my arm like when I was a child.

Come to me soon, Clay. I am beginning to grow mold.

All my love,

V.

*                 *                 *

Nov. 12, 1969

My dearest darling wonderful Clay!

I read your letter while still at the post office, and could not contain my joy. The bonne femme at the bakery -- who long ago decided I was indeed crazy -- only rolled her eyes when I came in from the brittle air in my T-shirt. But I am unaware of the cold. I am unaware of everything but the words you have written. You are coming. You are actually, really, truly coming.

The last two years have melted away, and I feel fresh and new again. But the month ahead seems an eternity.

It is 26 days from today that your plane will touch down in Paris, and only hours after that you will be home. Home -- what a strange concept. I have built a home here for both of us. You have never been here and yet it is empty without you. Soon, very soon, you will be here and I will be home.

Love,

V.

*                 *                 *

Rosalie never knew much about her mother, only that she had died shortly after Rosalie was born. Her father had never talked about it much. Whenever Rosalie asked, Michael's face would contort in such a tortured way that she would drop the subject as suddenly as she had brought it up.

Her mother, Justine, had been a fluid woman -- at least in pictures, where she appeared to melt into her surroundings, or drape over the other people in the photograph.

Justine and Michael, from the little that Rosalie knew, had fallen in love before the Vietnam war, but circumstances had kept them apart for several years. These circumstances, Rosalie imagined, had something to do with Michaels's anti-war involvement, his arrest at a protest, and his subsequent sojourn in Canada.

Rosalie was unclear on the details, but she knew that Justine had died in Canada, and that Michael had brought Rosalie to Chicago as a baby.

*                 *                 *

Dec. 8, 1969

Clay-

You never came. I stood at the station, my heart in my hands, but you never came. I watched the number of your train flicker onto the board, scrolling through the permutations, the 9 the last to land. And then I stood there through the hours, watching the numbers sink ever lower on the board until they disappeared.

And still, your face did not appear.

I have come home and filled myself with wine, and still I am empty.

Jonathan is on his way over. I see no point in refusing his offers now. There is nothing left of me -- I can give Jonathan my emptiness.

I am still yours, Clay. Always.

V.

*                 *                  *

In the last days of his life, Michael began to have conversations with people who weren't there. He had endless arguments with his long-dead mother, blaming her for abandoning the family. Some of the conversations were with people Rosalie had never heard of.

When Jonathan's name came up, Michael seemed to give it an extra weight. He even introduced Jonathan to Rosalie, indicating the empty chair across the room with a touch of sadness that bordered on guilt.

Michael's conversation with the non-existent Jonathan was carried out mostly in whispers. On more than one occasion, Michael turned his head to the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. Rosalie contemplated ringing for the nurse, thinking perhaps her father was in pain. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, wringing her hands, when Michael broke into violent sobs.

"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm sorry I took Vivian away from you. I didn't know."

With a strength that he hadn't exhibited in months, Michael grabbed Rosalie's hand and stared directly at her. "Find your father," he pleaded. And again, vehemently, "find your father ."

Michael would live several more days, but that was the last time he spoke.

*                 *                 *

Nov. 20, 1970

My dear Clay,

Your letter has taken me by surprise. To think that all these months I have thought you abandoned me. And now this tale of intrigue -- a flight to Canada! You are truly living a novel.

You have asked me to come to you, and how can I refuse? I must leave Jonathan, but I think he has always known I didn't belong to him.

Clay, it will be difficult to adjust. I have felt bitterness about you for a long time now, and I must turn that to happiness now.

I will arrive in a week. Flight #4962 -- it will be my own flight to Canada, my flight to the life I will begin with you.

There is one more thing: I will not be coming alone. I am bringing with me the other love in my life -- my daughter.

Yours again,

V.

*                 *                 *

Rosalie let the last letter drop. She had been letting the pages fall from her hands as she read, and they lay in a pile around her --lives made and destroyed in this collection of paper.

In the bottom of the box was a yellowed piece of newsprint. It was a small item cut from an old daily -- the paper pulpy from too many fingertips.

Written neatly in the corner, in her father's unmistakable script -- were the words "Toronto Star", and a date: Dec. 2, 1970.

Visit cut short

A fairy-tale reunion took a devastating turn when a car collided with a streetcar on Bathurst Street last night. The driver, Justine Vivian Richardson, 32, was killed on impact. Also in the car was Ms. Richardson's two-month-old daughter Rosalie. Rosalie survived the crash without a scratch.

Ms. Richardson arrived in Toronto just 4 days ago to reunite with her long-lost beau Michael Clayton Miller, 35. Mr. Miller, who did not wish to comment to reporters at the scene, has stated that he will provide for the baby.