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Isaac proffered his hand again. ‘I promise I won’t touch your piano any more.’
A noise from the kitchen door made Edward look up and he wondered how long Charlotte had been standing there.
‘I’m sorry. He only played a couple of notes and I wiped the fingermarks off...’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He turned back to Isaac. ‘How does not touching my piano unless you ask your mum or me first sound?’
‘I won’t touch your piano unless I ask Mum or you.’ Isaac sealed the bargain with a handshake and then ran over to the piano stool. ‘Can I touch it now?’
‘No, Isaac, it’s time for dinner. Go and wash your hands.’
Isaac pulled a face, but ran out of the room. Charlotte’s eye was on him all the way.
‘How do you do that?’
She’d picked up the lasagne, newly out of the oven, and was carrying it through into the dining room. Edward followed with the salad.
‘Answer all the questions? I just tell him the truth.’ She laid the dish down onto a padded table mat, her shoulders drooping suddenly, as if someone had loaded some extra weight onto them. ‘Well, most of the time. I still want to shield him, but he’s getting to an age when that’s not so easy.’
Edward wondered whether he should mention the fact that Isaac plainly wanted to do the same—to shield his mother. Probably not. He shouldn’t interfere.
She’d put a small glass vase of flowers on the over-large oval table, which Edward had never managed to fill but had bought because it balanced out the proportions of the room. He liked balance. Order and proportion helped him to think. Charlotte had laid a place for him at the head of the table, and he sat down.
It was the strangest feeling. Charlotte on one side of him, helping him to a generous portion from the dish and pushing the salad bowl towards him. Isaac on the other side, sitting on a cushion so that he could reach the table. It was almost as though they’d taken him in, rather than the other way round.
‘Would you like some water?’ Charlotte was still on her feet, leaning across the table to place a beaker of water in front of Isaac.
‘No, thank you. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll get some wine.’
She hesitated. Clearly debating whether or not she was going to allow him to contribute to the meal even in this way. ‘Um...yes. Thank you. That would be nice.’
Edward got to his feet and went to the kitchen, fetching a couple of glasses and a bottle from the chiller. When he returned he was gratified to find that she’d done as he’d asked, and was sitting, her hands in her lap.
He placed a glass in front of her, uncorked the bottle and poured.
‘Thanks. That’s enough.’
She’d only let him half fill the glass but that was okay. It was the principle of it. Something had been accepted into the routine that they were building.
Isaac was watching his every move, eyes wide as saucers. ‘Can I have some?’
‘No, sweetie, this is for grown-ups.’ Charlotte quietened him with a quick look.
‘Pleeeease.’ Isaac was obviously unused to not sharing everything with his mother.
‘I’ve got something better for you.’
Edward gave him a conspiratorial grin and the boy quietened. He went to fetch a sturdier glass from the kitchen cupboard—not the fine crystal that he’d given to Charlotte, but a nice-looking faceted tumbler—and grabbed a bottle of sparkling raspberry cordial from the fridge.
‘Here you are.’ He set the glass in front of Isaac and filled it. ‘Try this.’
He sat down, aware that Charlotte’s smile was on him. It seemed to slide into his senses, warm and tingling, like fine brandy. Isaac took a sip from his glass and gave the same nod of approval that his mother had given when she’d tasted her wine. He was a part of this little treat.
Funnily enough, Edward felt a part of it, too. Eating together...praising Charlotte on the meal. Hearing the silly jokes passing between Isaac and Charlotte, which both of them expected him to laugh at, too. He was probably expected to tell a few, as well, but he couldn’t think of any that they might like at the moment. But even that didn’t seem to matter.
The doorbell rang.
Isaac jumped and would have spilled his drink if Edward hadn’t put out a hand to steady it. Instead his fork slithered to the floor, bouncing across the rug and clattering noisily on the wooden parquet.
