And he talked, and talked, and talked. And all I could think about was that maybe he had approached me to get first-hand information about his friend.
But I also thought that if that were the case, he would have already tried to pry something out of me. And he hadn’t.
“Was it here?” I asked at last, deigning to look him in the face.
“What?”
“Your childhood,” I clarified. “That story you just told me.”
Enzo smiled, as if the memory brought him conflicting emotions.
“Yes. I spent most of my time here until… Until I was fifteen, I think. Then I moved to London.”
I nodded.
“Was it hard for you to leave Bordeaux?”
“Hard? In what sense?”
I shrugged, though I had a clear idea of what I wanted to know.
“I mean… You had to leave many friends here, right? Or were your friends already in London?”
“I had friends everywhere,” he replied, tilting his head, downplaying the question. “I suppose you understand that, Vera. Must have been hard leaving your old life behind forCutnam.”
Change of topic. Well thought out, Enzo.
“No,” I lied. Leaving my hometown had been the hardest thing I had ever done, but also the easiest.
You can’t move forward when you’re busy looking back.
Just as I was about to press on and dig deeper into questions about his friends, Enzo placed his hand on my chin, tilting my face upward just a fraction, and brushed his thumb across my lower lip.
“You had a chocolate stain,” he whispered.
It was such a tender, simple gesture…
I turned my head away and looked down, telling myself I wouldn’t be fooled again. But the memory of those same hands on my body the night before made the concerns I had—Julian, the money, Enzo’s lie—take a back seat.
I let it go. I let the conversation with Enzo die, avoiding looking at him, avoiding responding to his attempts at conversation.
If he noticed the change in my demeanour, I didn’t care.
We both finished the brunch in silence.
Laurent Dubois rose to make a toast. “To those who are no longer with us,” he said with a serious tone.
The other guests echoed the sentiment. “To those who are no longer with us.” We drank. They drank, but I left my glass untouched.
The clouds rolled in over our heads, first creeping in, then in as fast as a shadow fades at dusk.
“To those who are no longer with us,” we echoed.
As we rushed into the mansion, a frenzy of raindrops and squeaky shoes on the parquet floor, with the staff struggling to save the food from the rain, those words replayed in mymind. Unable to stop myself, I tacked on an ending:
“To those who are no longer with us; to the life of a woman, a member of this family, murdered. For Antonia Hawtrey-Moore.”
Chapter 26
