At first, I told myself it did not matter. People say unkind things in private. That is one of adulthood’s ugly truths.
Everyone has thoughts they would be ashamed to see written on a wall. A passing remark about a lake house was not a crime. I had lived long enough to know the difference between arrogance and cruelty.
So I smiled. I watched the water. I let Hélène and Philippe have their small European joke about American rusticity.
The house sat on a quiet lake in Maine, all cedar siding, old beams, screened porches, and a flag that moved lazily from a neighbor’s dock whenever the wind crossed the water. It was the kind of place wealthy people called simple because they had never had to live simply. Adam loved it because the floors creaked, the windows still had their original brass latches, and the stone fireplace looked as if it had survived three generations of winter arguments.
Adam came out with a tray of drinks, and Sophie followed with a bowl of olives and crackers arranged like something from a magazine. Philippe switched immediately to English. “Adam,” he said, “Sophie tells us this house was your choice.”
Adam shrugged.
“Joint decision. She found it online. I liked the old beams.”
“Of course,” Philippe said.
“An architect would.”
It sounded pleasant. It was almost pleasant. Sophie sat beside Adam, touching his wrist lightly when she spoke, and I could see how much he loved that small contact.
My son had never been a man who demanded attention, but around Sophie he seemed illuminated by being seen. For his sake, I wanted the weekend to succeed. I wanted the introductions to go well.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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