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Remy wasn’t about to run in that humidity.
Once, he wouldn’t have felt it.
Now?
No fucking way.
Instead, he went to the kitchen in search of coffee and found Melisande, his parent’s housekeeper.
She’d been with them for nearly seven years, lived in the carriage house across the drive and did everything for them from cleaning and laundry to cooking and running errands.
They’d always had a live-in, and as far as he knew, Guillaume had only fucked one of them. Her name had been Angela. She’d been there a very short time, and before her, and after, the rest were much older, and never conventionally pretty.
Melisande was different, however.
She was probably in her early thirties. She had a nice figure. And she was attractive.
She was also evidence his mother was slipping, as was his father, because, due to her no-nonsense personality, Remy was in no doubt Melisande wouldn’t allow Guillaume to touch her.
Which was why she’d lasted that long.
“Good morning, Remy,” she greeted.
“Morning, Melly.”
“Sleep well?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Coffee and breakfast?” she offered.
He nodded again.
“Your father’s at the table. So is coffee. Traditional southern? French toast? The House?” she asked after what he wanted for breakfast.
He smiled at her. “The House.”
She smiled back because she knew that would be his answer, and Remy moved into the dining room.
His father’s reaction to the news his grandchildren knew what happened in this house being too fresh, Remy was unprepared to see Guillaume at the dining table as he now was.
The last of a breed, sitting at a table with a live-in in the kitchen who made breakfast to order, coffee at hand in a silver pot that was used regardless that it had been crafted in Paris in the nineteenth century, reading an actual newspaper.
It was the newspaper that dug under Remy’s skin.
Colette had always slept late.
But Guillaume had sleep needs like Remy.
So whenever his father was home, even if their housekeeper would be the one to wake Remy so he’d get ready for school, Guillaume was at the table before Remy in the morning.
And every time, the moment he saw his son, he’d cease reading and go direct to the funny pages, which he’d hand Remy to read when he was little, or the sports section when he got older.
And even as a little boy, so he could be like his dad, Guillaume made sure Remy had a cup of coffee.
It was a café au lait, and it was always more steamed milk than coffee. Caffeinated or decaffeinated, he never knew. He just knew drinking it, he felt grown up, like his dad.
And Remy never forgot how important he felt, lounging at the breakfast table with his coffee, his paper and his father.
Even as a little kid, if his dad was home, he’d get up early so he’d have time to do that.
And when he was in his teens, drinking real coffee and reading the paper, he’d never lost that feeling of silent, morning, man-to-man camaraderie he shared with his dad.
So now, when Guillaume’s eyes landed on Remy, Remy was feeling a lot when his dad shook the paper closed, sat straighter in his chair, and said, “I suggest you consider your time at home with us a vacation from the news. It’s far from pleasant.”
“Comme c’est le cas ces jours-ci,” Remy replied, (as is the case these days), heading to the table, and reaching for the coffee.
This so he could ignore the warmth hitting his father’s expression that he’d spoken French.
Remy poured his coffee and sat down opposite his dad, who was seated not at the head, but at the side of the table.
And it only occurred to Remy right then that this was another man-to-man thing with his son.
When Colette was around, he took the head, Colette sat to his right side, and Remy sat where he was, middle to the left.
Separate from his parents.
More aptly, at distance from Colette.
But when Guillaume knew it would be only him and Remy, he sat opposite.
Not the man of the house.
In a position where they could look right at each other when they spoke, and no one was lording over the other.
“Sleep well?” Guillaume asked, setting the paper aside.
Remy answered, thinking instead of what he did after he woke, “Very.”
“Good,” his father said quietly. Then he cleared his throat and began, “About Yves—”
Remy swallowed the sip of coffee he’d taken and cut him off. “This is not an issue and I’ll not have it made an issue.”
He had more to say, but Guillaume spoke, surprising him with his words.
“Of course it’s not an issue.”
“You don’t—”
“Remy, stop being so American,” Guillaume drawled, and Remy felt his neck tighten. “When I was at school, half the boys did things with other boys. Most of that was what your mother said, experimentation. But some of it was because they simply liked boys. It’s exceedingly puritanical to think some mortal man interpreted the words of God to state this is wrong, when some men have loved being with men, and some women have loved being with women, and some love to be with whomever they please, since time began. I would think, considering this has always been the case, more than likely since history was even recorded, it’s quite naturally the case. And since God made us this way, that’s really all to be said, don’t you think?”
