The woman, Emmaline Rochefort, must have lived here in Giverny. The man, Jack St. Claire, has an address in Paris. How did an English-speaking man in Paris end up writing a love letter to a French woman in a small village? The answers might be in the letter itself, but for some reason, it feels forbidden to read it. It’s so personal. So intimate. Whatever he wrote on that paper is meant for her eyes only, even if it did somehow end up in the bookstore where I work.
