“Why?”
“He’ll need things to do.”
“Where?”
Camille glanced toward her mother.
Judith sat beside the fireplace, a dessert fork resting untouched against her plate.
“My house,” she said.
Vincent turned.
“Tonight?”
Judith looked uncertain now.
“That was the arrangement.”
“What arrangement?”
Nobody answered immediately.
I felt Oliver’s fingers close around my sleeve.
He was staring at his father, waiting to see whether the conversation would end with the suitcase being carried outside.
Vincent came back to the table.
He sat in the chair beside his son.
“Oliver, you are staying here tonight.”
The boy looked toward Camille.
“Dad?”
“I’m listening.”
His mouth worked around the next word.
Camille shifted.
Vincent held up one hand without looking away from his child.
“We have time.”
Oliver swallowed.
“For good?”
His father’s expression changed.
“This is your home. You aren’t being sent away.”
The boy watched him.
Then he looked at his cake.
“Can I still have that?”
Vincent reached for the plate.
“Yes.”
He placed it in front of Oliver.
No condition.
No instruction to finish the greeting.
No suggestion that saying it once more might make everybody feel better.
I gave the child his fork.
He didn’t eat.
“Do I have to say sorry?”
Vincent rested his hands on the table.
“For what?”
Oliver shrugged.
A small, practiced movement.
“For making it take ages.”
His father took a breath.
“You don’t have to apologize for how long a word takes.”
Camille gave a sharp laugh.
“That isn’t what I was teaching him.”
