Juliet accepted the compliment with a small nod and carried on eating. For a woman used to being flattered, she was surprisingly modest about her achievements.
"Would Michel approve?" Eileen asked.
Juliet smiled wryly. "He'd find something to criticize."
"How old were you?" I asked. "When you were in Paris."
"Nineteen."
"And Michel?"
She looked up. "Why?"
I held her gaze and said nothing. She laughed.
"He was sixty-two years old and built like a barrel," she said. "Does that ease your jealousy?"
Eileen grinned knowingly and reached for more bread.
When we finished eating, Eileen excused herself and left us to it. Juliet began stacking the bowls and carrying them to the counter. I followed with the glasses and the bread board.
Juliet loaded the dishwasher. I put the leftover bouillabaisse into a container and found space for it in the refrigerator.
"Tell me about your father," Juliet said without looking up.
I leaned against the counter. "What makes you ask?"
"I get the impression Eileen doesn't like him much."
"That's putting it mildly. What did she say?"
"She called him an asshole."
I nodded. "He is."
Juliet waited for me to go on, but I wasn't ready to share much about the man who'd sired me.
"He's a cold man, hard to please and harder to love. Eileen had to step in and take care of me because he wasn't equipped for domestic life. He's never thanked her for it."
Juliet frowned. "What about your mother?"
"She left when I was seven. I don't blame her."
Juliet offered me a sympathetic smile but didn't comment. I was glad for that. My mother leaving was an emotional can ofworms I didn't want to open. Juliet leaned against the counter next to me, close enough that her shoulder touched mine. I appreciated her silent support.
"My father is too gentle for my mother," she said quietly. "She runs everything, and he lets her, and I think it diminishes him a little more every year."
The more I learned about Caroline Caldwell the less I understood how she had managed to raise a woman as sweet and kind as Juliet.
"Have you spoken to her since that first call?"
"No." She paused. "I wouldn't know what to say."
"You don't have to call her," I said.
"She's still my mother."
"I know. But you don't owe her anything."
