“I am sorry to disturb you,” he repeated, with a nod at the correction, as he gathered up the cat against his chest. I heard the rumbling as the cat began to purr. “Thank you, madam. Good-bye, madam.” He made a swift retreat into the entry hall and left me on my own again.
I felt both relieved and a little surprised that he hadn’t displayed any interest in what I was doing. The diary spread on its cushion, its pages held open with small leather weights, dominated my desk but was vulnerable to any person who thought it looked curious, and children in my experience liked to explore things by touch. Then again, it admittedly wasn’t that easy to touch things while holding a cat.
I carried on working. It took several minutes before my brain—no doubt egged on by my stomach—connected enough dots to realize that Noah Sabran being here in the house meant Denise must be home, and Denise being home meant a better than average chance I would be greeted with food if I found my way into the kitchen, and food would restore both my spirits and my concentration. I set down my pencil.
The kitchen was warm from the wood-burning cooker and lit with a brightness that banished the wet gray world outside the multipaned windows, creating a cozy and comfortable haven of cream-colored walls and red brick and dark beams, with the old vintage cupboards and old flagstone floor and, in front of the fireplace, a plain sturdy table where Noah sat petting Diablo and playing a video game.
Denise was busily unpacking bread, fruit, and vegetables from an assortment of bags, but she paused to greet me cheerfully, saying in French, “Did you hear us? We tried to be quiet and sneak in the back so we wouldn’t disturb you. I knew you’d be working.” She said to her son, “Noah, this is Madame Thomas.”
Noah had set down his video game and was standing politely and watching me with those blue eyes that were so like his father’s.
I nearly replied that we’d already met, but I caught myself just in time, realizing from what Denise had just said that her son hadn’t told her he’d been in my workroom ten minutes ago. And from how he was holding his shoulders, so square and so still—like my cousin did when she was bracing for something unpleasant—I guessed he’d be happier if Denise didn’t find out.
“Hello, Noah,” I said, still in French, as I held out my hand. “How are you?”
He blinked and accepted the handshake. “I am very well, madam. Thank you.”
“Sit down,” said Denise. “I was just getting Noah a snack, would you like one?”
Her “snack” was the same as the ones I’d been served in the home of my childhood best friend—bread and butter and chocolate in generous proportions, except with a hot mug of coffee in place of the milk Ricky’s mother had given me then. I could feel my inner self regressing happily to that remembered time, that other kitchen where I’d spent so many afternoons in warmth and comfort, lovingly accepted as a member of the family.
Denise asked me, “How did you enjoy your time at Saint-Germain-en-Laye? Did you find inspiration?”
“No, but it was very interesting.”
“And Luc came to meet you at the proper time? He wasn’t late?”
Across the table from me Noah said, “Papa is never late.”
His mother smiled. “Well, not with you. And not for meals. But when he’s working he forgets to watch the clock sometimes.”
I told them both, “He was on time. A little early, actually.” I didn’t bother saying that I’d been surprised to see him, because if in fact Denise had told me yesterday that she’d be heading off to Chinon, I was not about to look a fool for having failed to listen.
Noah, looking vindicated, fed the cat a bit of bread beneath the table. “Did he bring his motorcycle?”
“No. He drove a car.”
“I like the motorcycle best,” his son said. “It goes very fast.”
A rebel then, as I’d suspected. If I’d needed further proof, just watching how he made sure that his mother wasn’t looking before breaking off another bit of bread to give Diablo told me he was fond of testing boundaries. The cat looked furtive, too. He’d sunk so low on Noah’s lap his eyes and ears were all that showed above the table’s edge.
I smiled a little, and when Noah smiled back I reasoned he was probably acknowledging the bond between conspirators.
Denise, who hadn’t noticed, brought the coffee pot across to fill my cup again, and glancing out the windows said, “He won’t be riding it today, not in this weather.”
“He can ride the motorcycle in the rain,” said Noah. “There are tunnels on his way to work.”
I gave in to my growing curiosity. “He works in La Défense, he said. What does he do?”
“He’s a financial accountant for Morland Electronics,” she told me. “It’s an English company, do you know it?”
The bloodred Morland logo was familiar to me. “Yes.”
“Luc’s brother works for Morland, too, in California. They have offices worldwide. In Luc’s division, here in Paris, they do tactical and sonar systems special for the military and defense.”
“But Papa doesn’t build them. He just keeps the books.”
Denise corrected Noah patiently. “It’s rather more than that. Your father has to manage and prepare all the reports. He does the budgeting and forecasting and keeps the ledgers balanced. It’s important.”
“But it’s still too many numbers,” Noah said. “I’d rather do what Uncle Thierry does.”