to be too hard on her.” He planted his elbows on the table. “I’m not saying that because I’m her brother, you know. Far from it. But you don’t know all she went through. I don’t mean just Sophie. The divorce, too. If I had a cent for every time I had to hold Yvonne while she wept . . .”
The vision of Yvonne sobbing on Roger’s shoulder flashed through Philip’s mind, but it felt false, artificial—a Photoshopped image, one that clashed with the sleek and controlled woman he had seen at the party just the other night. “She seems to have gotten over it,” he stated. “She’s built herself a new life. One that doesn’t resemble the old one.”
Roger snorted. “You mean her marriage to Hervé? Yes, I’d say he’s pretty different.”
“It’s natural enough. She’d had her fill of foreigners, so this time she married a man from home.”
“Home?” Roger’s smile broadened. He glanced right and left as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned in. “I wouldn’t repeat that too loudly. Hervé may be a Norman, but he hails from Rouen, and in small towns like Yvetot and Fécamp, Rouen is considered the enemy.”
Philip stroked his beard. “So she wanted a place to live that was different from both Paris and Yvetot. Something that was home, and yet not home. Rouen must have seemed like a successful compromise.”
“Perhaps. In a way.”
“But then there were things she couldn’t control. Like Margaux. My guess is she was hoping for a boy. Anything to avoid reminders.”
“Can you blame her?”
Blame was not the name for the emotion Philip felt. “I don’t hold it against Yvonne that she wanted a new life. I just resent her for being so damn good at it.”
While they ate, Roger turned to the topic he’d brought up the other night: Olivier Morin. Just over three years ago the man had retired from his position as a press operator at a local printer. Not long after that, word got around that he had cancer.
“The pancreas,” Roger said. “As you can imagine, it didn’t take very long. But to be honest, I didn’t feel too sorry. He was an odd little fellow, and there’s no doubt that he’d had a hard time of it because of his son. I don’t think he actually minded dying. But afterward, I got to wondering about what his death would mean. He’d worked so hard to protect Édouard, barring all access to him. And suddenly that obstacle was gone.”
“So you made some inquiries.”
Roger nodded. “Not right away. But then I realized you’d be coming back for Mother’s funeral.”
“And what did you learn?”
Roger paused to fill his wineglass, taking another long sip, holding the fluid in his cheeks before swallowing. “As you probably know,” he began, “Édouard passed through a number of clinics. Turns out he’s back in the region, in the psychiatric hospital outside of Rouen. It took a while to get hold of the right doctor. But I finally got there. He’s under the care of a fellow named Suardet.”
Philip prompted him. “And you’ve spoken with him?”
“He was a bit reluctant at first, but, well, you know me.” Roger grinned. “I know how to stroke people the right way. In the end he agreed to look into it. He wasn’t sure offhand what the legal situation was—that is, whether there were any restrictions about who could see Édouard. And, of course, a meeting could only occur if Morin himself consented to it. Today, since you were coming back, I left another message for our good doctor—along with your number at the hotel. I don’t suppose he called yet?”
Philip shook his head.
“That boy, he must be thirty years old by now,” Roger said.
“Thirty-two,” Philip muttered, lost in thought.
“That sounds about right.”
“Not about. Exactly.”
Roger took another gulp of wine. “Anyway, now that the father is dead, the door to the son is open. Theoretically, at least. So what do you think? Will he agree to meet?”
In his mind’s eye Philip saw Morin’s face as it
The vision of Yvonne sobbing on Roger’s shoulder flashed through Philip’s mind, but it felt false, artificial—a Photoshopped image, one that clashed with the sleek and controlled woman he had seen at the party just the other night. “She seems to have gotten over it,” he stated. “She’s built herself a new life. One that doesn’t resemble the old one.”
Roger snorted. “You mean her marriage to Hervé? Yes, I’d say he’s pretty different.”
“It’s natural enough. She’d had her fill of foreigners, so this time she married a man from home.”
“Home?” Roger’s smile broadened. He glanced right and left as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned in. “I wouldn’t repeat that too loudly. Hervé may be a Norman, but he hails from Rouen, and in small towns like Yvetot and Fécamp, Rouen is considered the enemy.”
Philip stroked his beard. “So she wanted a place to live that was different from both Paris and Yvetot. Something that was home, and yet not home. Rouen must have seemed like a successful compromise.”
“Perhaps. In a way.”
“But then there were things she couldn’t control. Like Margaux. My guess is she was hoping for a boy. Anything to avoid reminders.”
“Can you blame her?”
Blame was not the name for the emotion Philip felt. “I don’t hold it against Yvonne that she wanted a new life. I just resent her for being so damn good at it.”
While they ate, Roger turned to the topic he’d brought up the other night: Olivier Morin. Just over three years ago the man had retired from his position as a press operator at a local printer. Not long after that, word got around that he had cancer.
“The pancreas,” Roger said. “As you can imagine, it didn’t take very long. But to be honest, I didn’t feel too sorry. He was an odd little fellow, and there’s no doubt that he’d had a hard time of it because of his son. I don’t think he actually minded dying. But afterward, I got to wondering about what his death would mean. He’d worked so hard to protect Édouard, barring all access to him. And suddenly that obstacle was gone.”
“So you made some inquiries.”
Roger nodded. “Not right away. But then I realized you’d be coming back for Mother’s funeral.”
“And what did you learn?”
Roger paused to fill his wineglass, taking another long sip, holding the fluid in his cheeks before swallowing. “As you probably know,” he began, “Édouard passed through a number of clinics. Turns out he’s back in the region, in the psychiatric hospital outside of Rouen. It took a while to get hold of the right doctor. But I finally got there. He’s under the care of a fellow named Suardet.”
Philip prompted him. “And you’ve spoken with him?”
“He was a bit reluctant at first, but, well, you know me.” Roger grinned. “I know how to stroke people the right way. In the end he agreed to look into it. He wasn’t sure offhand what the legal situation was—that is, whether there were any restrictions about who could see Édouard. And, of course, a meeting could only occur if Morin himself consented to it. Today, since you were coming back, I left another message for our good doctor—along with your number at the hotel. I don’t suppose he called yet?”
Philip shook his head.
“That boy, he must be thirty years old by now,” Roger said.
“Thirty-two,” Philip muttered, lost in thought.
“That sounds about right.”
“Not about. Exactly.”
Roger took another gulp of wine. “Anyway, now that the father is dead, the door to the son is open. Theoretically, at least. So what do you think? Will he agree to meet?”
In his mind’s eye Philip saw Morin’s face as it
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