July, 1877

“I can’t believe he’s gotten married! Can you believe it, Lenore?”

“Yes, I can. You’re married too, you know.” She tossed a hat box at her husband. “Look through there.”

“It’s different, dear,” Modeste replied, glowering at her as he opened the box, which was filled with papers. “He doesn’t even like the girl. I just can’t believe he didn’t consult me about any of this!”

“You haven’t seen him in at least 10 years, I don’t see why you still…” she trailed off, peeking out of the closet. Her black eyes widened in shock. “No…please tell me you haven’t been—“

His body went rigid. “No, no!” he exclaimed, looking up from the hat box and waving his hands defensively. He paused in his denial and glanced to the side of the room sheepishly. “Well, yes I suppose, a little. But I swear to you, I’ve only written him!”

“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” she hissed. She marched to the bed and furiously tore the box from his hands.  “How often?”

He smirked and gestured to the hat box, ignoring her question. “What are you looking for?” he questioned.

She huffed irritably and marched out of the room. “Something to remind me why I married you,” she shouted back, grateful he wasn’t getting up to follow her.

In one of the parlors in her mansion, she managed to find a small secluded closet to hide in and search for her ‘reminder’. The hat that once sat in the box had been a gift from Modeste; she used the box now to stow letters and papers he had sent to her over their 12 year relationship -- or at least the ones she could fit in there. She was positive the letter she was looking for was in there somewhere, it had to be. Where else would she put something like that? She needed to see it now more than ever as her husband grieved over the marriage of his ex-lover. She had read it enough times by now to know it by heart, but it was more comforting to see the words in his exuberant handwriting.
She brushed away a few loose mothballs and overturned the box, spilling its contents on the floor. She flipped through each page and envelope quickly, knowing exactly which envelope she was looking for. It was dated December of 1873 and had a little “sorry” written next to a large coffee stain, which at the time had annoyed her.

She cherished it now.

“Damn,” she sighed, letting her head fall back to the closet wall. It wasn’t there. For the first time in what seemed like years, she felt the lump grow in her throat and her eyes water. She felt ridiculous; one letter shouldn’t be enough to make her of all people cry.

Before the tears broke from her eyes, light poured in as the door swung open. “Lenore, what are you doing in here?”

“I…I was just…”

“Listen,” he groaned and sat on the rug outside the closet. “I know you’re upset I was still in touch with Pyotr but…he was very dear to me and I’m very…I-I just need you to listen, please.”

‘My dearest Lenore,’ the letter started reciting itself in her head.

“We met in Russia, while we were studying music, and we just…we connected, you know?”

She nodded slightly. ‘I remember the night we met, and how beautiful you were. No one has ever filled my soul with music as you continue to, every day.’

“He was my best friend—no, he was definitely more than that, and I thought he still was to this day!”

‘I know I do not say it as often as I should, yet you know the extent of my love for you. Even when I merely think of you, my heart feels fit to burst with music and love.’

“We never really…officially broke it off, so I’m a little upset that he didn’t ask me if I was alright with this. I suppose I am a little jealous of the girl…”

She had stopped hearing him; she liked what the Modeste in her mind had to say much more. ‘Since the night we met, you’ve become even more beautiful, for now I can call you “Mrs. Babineaux” and even hold your lovely hand as we walk down the street together, in public even! We have both had considerably shameful histories, but rest assured, my darling, that this day we start anew together. Only our Lord knows what is to come in the blessed years before us, but I pledge you my infinite, unwavering love, and even into Heaven as we pass on together, both of us old and wrinkled and just as beautiful as ever. I cannot wait until I permanently move into your house so that I may be blessed to see your lovely, sleeping face each morning. You are my treasure, my wife, my darling, my beloved.’

“…I loved him, I guess.”

‘With every ounce of love, Modeste J. Babineaux’ She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes in an attempt to hold back the tears.

“I know, I know,” he murmured. She felt his heavy hand touch her shoulder lightly. “I’ll miss him too…”