“Is he an idiot?”
“No, Mom. Give me some credit. He’s smart. He’s educated and charming… I think you would like him actually. He’s British. He comes from a good family. He’s kind…”
“So what is the problem then?”
I hesitated for a moment. “Il a vingt ans.”
“Vingt ans?”
I don’t know why I thought telling her his age in French would lessen the blow. Evidently, I was mistaken.
“Vingt ans?!” she repeated. “Oh, Solène… Ce que tu es drôle!”
It was not the response I had been expecting. Ihumoredher? Well, I suppose it was better than disappointing her, disgusting her, disgracing her. All of which she had let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had done at some point or another. Maybe, in her old age, she was softening.
She was quiet for a moment, stopping to gaze into the window at Longchamp. And then when she resumed walking, she turned to me and said, “Well, this is just sex, right?”
I looked at her, speechless, although I should not have been. This was my mother after all. She was nothing if not blunt.
“You cannot fall in love with him,” she continued. A warning. “Solène? Youcannot…”
I said nothing.
Her face fell. “You have already fallen in love with him.Dis-donc!” She shook her head.
Nowshe was disappointed.
To my mother, falling in love was a bad thing. Not because I could get hurt, but because, to her, I was giving up my power. What a bizarre notion that was. That I could not completely open my heart and still be strong. That I was no longer in control of the relationship if I wasn’t in control of my feelings. And as if any of that actually mattered.
“Vingt ans,” she repeated, sighing. We were passing the Church of the Covenant as we neared Berkeley Street. “Eh bien… Well, maybe you are more French than I thought.”
And then I saw it, at the right corner of her mouth… the hint of a smile.
Anguilla was a magical place. A tiny slip of an island in the Lesser Antilles. Sleepy, subtle, even in its peak season. Hayes—or, more accurately, his assistant, Rana—had found us a secluded villa on the south shore with breathtaking views of Saint-Martin. Limestone, teak, exquisitely appointed. We had staff, we had security, and we had four bedrooms and seven days to ourselves.
“Do you like it?” he said. We were in the great room with its retractable glass doors opening to the terrace, the infinity pool, and a majestic panorama of the Caribbean.
“It’ll do.”
He smiled, squeezing me from behind. “Are you happy?”
“I am very happy.”
We stood like that for some time, his body pressed up against mine, his nose buried in my hair, soaking in the moment, the tropical breeze, the seascape, serenity.
“Come,” he said eventually. “Let’s see the rest of the place.”
We wandered through the various wings of the villa to see the additional bedrooms and their en suite baths, each with its ownremarkable view. Outdoor showers and bathtubs perched on balconies, and Hayes took it in with the eagerness of a child.
“I assume we’re going to christen these all. Is that the plan?”
He laughed, nodding. “You know me far too well.”
“Well, I didn’t think we were coming here for the golf.”
When we entered the third bedroom, with its cool stone floors and its walls of glass, I noticed, set up along the south wall, an easel and, accompanying it, pencils, paper, a pack of newly purchased Holbein watercolors, and Kolinsky brushes.
“What is this? Did you see these? Hayes…”
