“Hello,” they chirp in unison.
“Mylan’s my oldest; he’s nine.Elias is seven,” Henri adds, ruffling the taller one’s hair.
“Are you from America?”Elias asks with a soft accent.
“Yes, I’m from New York,” I reply, kneeling slightly to meet his blue-eyed gaze.
“Wow!”Elias gasps.“I’ve never met anyone from New York before.”
“Well, I’m pleased to be the first New Yorker you’ve met.And I must say, you speak English really well.”
Elias smiles, revealing a missing front tooth.“Really?You think so?”
I nod enthusiastically.“Absolutely.”
“We’re learning in school,” he states proudly, puffing out his little chest.
“Red or white?”Henri interrupts, flashing me two half-filled glasses.
“She’ll take the red.”Luca reaches for the glass, swirling the liquid before passing it to me.
Oh dang.He knows me so well already.Total turn-on.
“Merci,” I respond, tilting it toward my host.
“Can I see Jemma my room?”Elias winces, presumably noticing he messed up his English.
“Sure.You canshowJemma your room,” Henri responds, correcting Elias.
Eagerly, the boys lead me down a narrow, dark hallway and into a small room with two neatly made beds.It’s simple yet tidy; everything has a home, perfectly in its place, just like their Uncle Luca’s home.
Taking a large gulp of my wine, an untamed thought flits through my head.“Hey, can I ask you boys a question?”I glance between the two of them.
Mylan and Elias excitedly nod.
I step further into the room, careful that my question won’t be overheard.“Who is Colette?”
“Eh ...um,” Elias stutters, letting his gaze drop.“Dad said we’re not supposed to talk about her around Luca.”
“Oh?Why is that?”I press gently, feeling ridiculous for trying to press an answer out of these sweet innocent boys.
“Because Colette and Luca are”—he looks to his brother—“what’s the word, Mylan?”
“Fighting,” Mylan responds, playfully punching the air.He giggles, tossing himself onto one of the neatly made beds.
“Fighting,” Elias repeats under his breath, as if he’s locking the English word into his memory.He’s a smart kid.
It’s several seconds before my mind wraps around the word.Fighting.A partial fit of relief withers through my veins, making me feel less guilty for the desires coursing through my body.
“Why are they fighting?”I probe deeper, desperate for more information.
“I don’t want to talk about that.Can I show you my toys instead?”Elias takes my hand and leads me to a wooden toy chest.
“Of course.”I smile.
He drops down to the rug, swiftly plunging his hands into the deep box.
As I wait for him to resurface with something grand to show me, an object catches my eye.Above the chest, resting on a beautiful wooden shelf, is a framed photograph.Reaching up, I pluck the frame from its place.A woman with mid-length dirty-blonde hair, vibrant red lips, and wide blue eyes caught mid-laugh stares back at me.
