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"Why Annecy?" she asks reaching for a grilled ear of corn.
I answer by taking a long, deep breath. "How can you take a breath like that and not want to spend time here? I like to think of it as a composite of some of the best things about France. The food, wine, proximity to Switzerland, culture, architecture, but without the chaos of Paris, the dust of the central region, or the sunbathing tourists of the south. It gets busy in summer but not in this spot right here. Not sitting right here. It's just clear water and mountains as far as the eye can see. You'll see.”
"I will?"
My chest sinks a little. There should never ever be any question.
"Of course. You can be here whenever you like. With me preferably. But even without me. You can stay at any of my properties."
She beams, and then tilts her head. "Maybe I'll want some of my own."
The thought of her thinking about her future rewarms me. "Can I come stay at those?"
"Of course. I'll need someone to carry my bags."
"That's right. I'm essential."
I get up to make some tea, enjoying the sound of the rushing of water from the tap into the little dented copper Georgian kettle I’d bought at an antique shop the first time I’d come here after the cottage was built. It’s funny to think about how the kettle has had so many lives, but in mine, this is the first time I’ve ever used it to make tea for someone other than me.
She watches me from the deck, her face thoughtful when I come back with a tray with sugar and cream. "I don't know where I'd settle down. I'm so used to jumping around. Always felt safer that way. From him. Even though I guess in the end it didn't help, did it?"
I don't push.
I don't want her to have to bring up her attack until she's ready. Damien and I left her attacker in the motel room, calling the police with an anonymous tip and have made sure he was arrested. But that's not going to be enough to give Luna the peace of mind she needs.
Especially now that I know the real reason she's been jumping from place to place.
The fact that there is anywhere on this earth she doesn't feel safe is the biggest injustice I've ever heard of. When she has never done anything but try to make every interaction she has with people a pleasant and kind one.
Surely, Ernest had to have known.
And yet...
My anger with my late mentor grows as I learn more and more about how he conducted his relationship with his only biological child. How could the man I knew, trusted, emulated, have sat back and let her live this life when it was well within his capabilities to keep her safe?
"Do you know where he is now?" she asks, the first time she's directly brought up the topic.
I nod, checking the color of the tea before pouring two cups. "Yes, he's in custody. Damien is keeping an eye on things."
"He knows?"
I drop two spoonsful of sugar into her cup with a dash of cream and put it down in front of her. "Yes. Only him. He came with me when I tracked your phone," I confess. "I haven't been checking in regularly. I only looked when I couldn't find you at the gala. And then again when I wondered if the mugger, your attacker, had taken it with him."
She looks down at the cup, watching the spoon cut through the liquid as she swirled it one way, and then back the other way. "You met him?"
"Yes."
"What did he tell you?"
As much as I’d rather not recount my run-in with him, I know she needs to know. I want to know the details of her attack, too.
"Not much. We didn't talk much. I was more my fist conversing with his face for a while.” I grimace, remembering. “He just alluded to knowing you and your mother. Called you ‘big sis’. And that he'd been harassing you for a while."
"Big sister," she snickers humorlessly. "We weren't anything of the sort. His dad dated my mother for a few years when I was in my early teens. He was an okay guy, but... his son.” She shivers in disgust or fear, I can't quite tell. “At first he was totally fine and we got along. But then he just starting causing so much trouble. He tried to attack my mother one time, and me another time. His dad intervened both times before anything serious happened. But my mother, she would never have let me stay in a situation like that. I always felt guilty though. He wasn't a bad guy. But his son was the scum of the earth. His dad died a few years before my mom did. And he kept popping up in our lives, drug addled, asking for money. For help. We always did help, hoping he would eventually either leave us alone, or just grow up.”
I sit back, ruminating over her words. Angry that she’d ever been in that position but glad that she’d had the support she deserved from her mother. "So, your mother wasn't married to his father?"
"No."
