Page 52 of The Stranger

“I am sorry for using bad language,” he says.

“I’ll be with you shortly to discuss your behavior.” I watch as he leaves the room, then turn my head Primrose’s way. “Pardon?”

She looks up—she so rarely looks at me, the moment feels like an unexpected gift. “Nothing,” she murmurs. “Ignore me, please.”

I’ve tried, I think with much chagrin. “Please.” I make a gesture. “What did you say?”

“It’s just, well, being a teenager is hellish.” By her expression and her word choice, there’s definitely some kind of story there.

“He is not a teenager yet.” Setting down her fork, Sylvie picks up her napkin. “Not for three more months. But Papa will be fair. He will tell Felix to help the gardener tomorrow or maybe wash all the cars⁠—”

“All the cars?” I put in, amused.

She nods. “Of course. He said a very bad thing.” Her attention turns to Primrose. “Then Papa will give him a hug and tell him he will always love him. Even when he is a teenager.”

“I think that’s lovely.”

“Yes. But sometimes it is hard to love a poophead.”

“Sylvie.”

“Sorry, Papa,” she says without an ounce of contrition.

“Poor Sylvie,” Primrose says quite suddenly. “You only have three more months until your brother turns into a true grouchasaurus.”

“He will turn into a dinosaur?” she asks, delighted. Her head swings my way. “Does that mean we can keep him in a cage?”

“You will understand some day what it feels like to be outgrowing your own skin.”

“His skin is too tight?” Her expression matches her distaste.

“I think it might be.” I reach for my daughter’s hand. “Please, when you become a teenager, promise you won’t stop kissing your papa good night.”

“Never!” She clasps my hand between hers.

“Thank you,” I say rather than we will see.

“But, you know, Papa, it really is true that he asked me to leave them. And then he asked Sophia if she would like to go for a walk—without me.” Her little mouth puckers, incredulous. “But, of course, she said non because Felix is a boy. He’s not fun.”

“You used to have fun together.” Fuck. Maybe Felix’s interest in the opposite sex won’t be academic for much longer. I reach for my glass to drown out the thought because his pre-teens years haven’t been all easy sailing. Add sex and hormones into the mix and I’ll be completely gray before he’s fifteen himself. And then there will be Sylvie’s teenage years. I shiver and resist the urge to cross myself.

“Une oie a marché sur ta tombe?” Sylvie asks, reaching out to touch my arm.

“A goose did indeed walk over my tomb.” This is why he was so keen we come to Mallorca for the summer. Sophia is tall, raven haired, and pretty. Thankfully, she’s also several years older than him. The danger has yet to come.

“Papa?” Sylvie’s tone signals a change in the conversation. “Do you know that Sophia is a virgin?”

I almost spray my mouthful of wine across the table, making a grab for my napkin just in time.

“Bless you!” my daughter offers.

“I think I might need to be blessed.” In holy water. I pat my mouth, my words rasping and rough. Meanwhile, Primrose is almost certainly laughing behind her napkin.

“But we are blessed,” Sylvie says. “You always say it is so.”

“That’s right. We have a lot to be thankful for.” This gets the nanny’s attention. Briefly.

“Even if Maman is in heaven.” Sylvie’s tone is quite matter-of-fact as she chases the last piece of tomato around her plate. “We are lucky that she is watching over us.”