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“So I am.”
“So?”
“You would just like me to monologue?”
“Why not?”
“Where should I start? As a three-year-old, I broke my arm, whilst riding my bike. It was…”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, that’s not funny.”
“Actually, the way my father tells the story, it is. I wasoutragedat the bike for failing me. I had considered us to be such good friends.”
“The betrayal,” she said with a tone of mock surprise.
“That is how it seemed to me. I can still recall my anger, in fact.”
“Even though you were so young?”
“Strong emotions stay with us, I think.”
Charlotte’s eyes dropped to the pudding mix and she frowned. “Do you think so?”
“You disagree?”
“I suppose I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You are thinking of your little ward?”
“Yes,” surprise at his perceptiveness made her eyes wide.
“Worrying about him?”
“His parents died suddenly.” She bit on her lower lip. “It was traumatic.”
“For everyone.”
“Yes.”
He finished his coffee, placing his cup to the side. “Life is unpredictable. It is a shame he had to learn this at such a young age, but perhaps it will make him stronger, protected a little, against the pain of future loss.”
She blinked across at him, the pragmatic approach one she hadn’t really considered.
“Maybe.”
“You cannot change what happened.”
“I know that.”
“But you worry about him.”
“It’s normal.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“I take it you don’t have kids?” She asked, wondering why she was putting so much emphasis on his response.
“Cristo,no.”
