Page 121 of The Stranger

“Don’t,” he answers immediately. “I think it makes him feel sad.”

My heart squeezes for the motherless boy who looks so like his father right now that I find myself looking away, back to the screen where the rat chef is teaching his rodent siblings the art of making a beurre blanc, whatever the heck that is.

The blanket tightens and, as I glance down, Sylvie’s fingers splay over my wrist then tighten. I wonder if she’s thinking about when I’ll leave. And I will. Soon. But Emmy will be back then and I’m sure the children would much prefer her presence over mine.

The thought causes a tiny ache in my chest. It feels like regret. But this isn’t my life, and you don’t have to be a logician to realize it never will be. And suddenly it feels uncomfortable sitting here with these two. It’s not exactly a moral code I can feel poking at me, but all this longing isn’t safe for any of our hearts. And all this lust. Well, it isn’t sustainable.

These children deserve better. Emmy deserves better. And, heck, I deserve orgasms, but not to the detriment of my sanity. Luc is paying me to look after his children, so if I’m sleeping with him, what does that mean, exactly? Where’s the line?

This doozy of a revelation came to me earlier as I rinsed out the blender for the milkshakes. I’ve had sex with the man who pays me. The realization was not only sobering, but it made me feel quite icky. There was a whole host of other stuff that swam through my brain that I’m not ready to unpack yet.

“I would teach a rat to cook.”

Felix makes the huffing noise he seems to reserve for dealing with his little sister. But I am grateful that the temperature, the tone, has turned.

“Sylvie, rats do not have thumbs,” he says, leaning around me to flex his. “Or hygiene.” He mutters something under his breath in French that sounds suspiciously like he’s questioning his sister’s intelligence.

And there’s my cue.

“As you well know yourself, Felix, a lot of things on the big screen are vastly exaggerated.” While my meaning sails over Sylvie’s head, it’s not lost on Felix, who peers back at me, red-faced, and waiting for me to dare say another word on his viewing habits.

I flick a stray kernel from my own lap. “You also know that, sometimes the TV shows us things that would never happen in real life.”

“Yes.”

“Wild things,” I add. “Silly things. Improbable situations. It’s called artistic license.” I widen my eyes just enough to suggest that the last term is a euphemism in itself, then I turn, slow and casual, in Sylvie’s direction. She’s watching the screen, rapt, sad topics forgotten. Ah, to be a child again. “But we’re all individuals, and we like what we like, so…” I turn back with a shrug.

Felix slouches deeper under the blanket, then furrows his brow like he’s trying to kill me with brain-lasers as, in French, he mutters, “That is not what you said to me the other night.”

I mean, he’s got me there, but I’m not supposed to understand so I don’t have to answer.

29

LUC

It’s late when I get back after the meeting became more contentious than I’d planned for, though I’m sure my mood didn’t help. Things were smoothed over by late afternoon, and I’d thought it best to stay for pre-dinner drinks. To unruffle feathers and show how I’m not always an insufferable ass.

One dinner became two, and two became four, though I was able to extricate myself from the group by citing my children’s vacation. As a family concern up until the ink dried on the contract, the members of the group’s new acquisition were sympathetic. Not that it truly mattered. I’d leave regardless.

So now it’s late, I’m a few wines in, and I’m sitting at the piano with a glass of cognac wondering what the fuck I’m doing when my fingers drift to the keys of their own accord. A handful of notes break the silence, hesitant but full of melancholy. The tune is familiar, but the moment is not. I can’t remember the last time I even looked at a piano, let alone played one. Yet here I sit, coaxing music from an instrument I’d long since convinced myself I had no interest in.

My hand hovers over the final chord. I don’t play it, and the melody trails off too soon. It’s an old song, and it isn’t mine. It isn’t even Allegra’s anymore. I reach for my glass, and my heart swoops like a swallow surrendering to gravity, only to find itself carried upward again as I spot Primrose on the far side of the room.

I should stand, but if I do, I’m not sure what will happen, what I will do. So I ignore the dictates of etiquette and keep my seat, though my fingers are no longer on the keys.

It’s gone midnight. The house was silent. I thought I was alone.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly from the arched entryway. The hall behind her isn’t quite dark, the light from upstairs creating an almost ethereal glow over her golden hair. She’s dressed, thank God. No shorts the size of underwear tonight. Her arms are folded across her ribs. Not in defense but because she’s holding something. A book, perhaps. “I didn’t think you were coming home tonight. You said you were on the mainland tonight.”

“Change of plans,” I say, my voice unintentionally gruff. I keep my eyes from hers not wanting her to know the truth. That I couldn’t stay away. “Did you need anything?” Don’t let your eyes wander. Don’t let your mind wander.

The way she folds in her bottom lip looks like reluctance. “I was looking for glue.” She tilts the thing she’s clutching, and I realize it’s not a book but a photo frame. A broken photo frame.

“What happened?”

“It was an accident,” she says brightly. Far too brightly for someone looking for glue.

“Primrose,” I chide. “Like I give a fuck if something is broken.” Provided it is not my heart.