Maria held up her small camera.
“I know. That’s why I took the pictures.”
My wife stood so quickly her chair struck the table.
“Put that camera away.”
Maria looked at me.
And I knew there was something I hadn’t been told.
“Show me.”
Bianca turned.
“Matteo.”
I held out my hand, but Maria didn’t give me the camera immediately.
She looked toward Oliver.
“Could someone stay with him?”
I followed her gaze.
My son was still standing beside the broken glass.
Still holding the ribbon.
I had questioned the accusation.
I had not moved him away from it.
That distinction embarrassed me later.
At the time, I crossed the room.
“Come here, buddy.”
He didn’t move.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“Because she said—”
“I haven’t heard anything that makes you responsible for this.”
His eyes searched my face.
Then he stepped toward me.
I took the ribbon from his hand and placed it on the sideboard.
His fingers were cramped around it.
I hadn’t noticed that either.
My sister, Francesca, came beside us.
“Would you like to sit with me?”
Oliver nodded.
I asked a member of staff to make sure nobody approached the glass.
Then I turned back to Maria.
“Now.”
Bianca moved toward us.
“This is unnecessary.”
I looked at her.
“Then the photographs won’t be a problem.”
Her mouth closed.
At the far end of the room, her brother Patrick put down his drink.
I noticed.
It was the first time that evening I had paid particular attention to him.
It would not be the last.
Maria used the camera for family occasions.
It was a compact digital model my mother had given her years earlier after complaining that nobody printed photographs anymore.
Maria liked real pictures.
