One Summer in Paris

He hadn’t mentioned divorce since that awful night back in February, but Grace assumed he was going to raise it again at some point. Whatever happened, he’d always be Sophie’s father.

“Please, Sophie.”

“Mom—”

“Sophie!”

“Fine.” Sophie grabbed her laptop and headed for the stairs. “I don’t want to see him anyway.”

Grace thought about all the times Sophie had listened for her father coming home. She’d race through the house, filling it with her joyful yells, Daddy, Daddy.

She opened the door, hating the fact that she felt nervous. It seemed unjust that she should be the one feeling that way.

It had been weeks since she’d seen him, and her first thought was that he didn’t look like himself.

David was always clean-shaven, but today his jaw was darkened by stubble. On another man it might have looked as if he hadn’t bothered to shave, but on him it looked annoyingly good. The touches of gray in his hair looked good on him, too. He was broad shouldered and solid. The kind of man people leaned on in a crisis. She’d leaned on him. She wanted to lean on him now, but as he was the cause of this current crisis that impulse made no sense.

If he was suffering, it didn’t show. She, on the other hand, was fairly sure that her suffering was as visible as a drop of blood on fresh snow.

If he looked closely he’d probably see the nights she hadn’t slept, the tears she’d shed, the food she hadn’t eaten.

She made a note to always wear makeup from now on, even in bed. That way she couldn’t be caught out.

“Grace.” His voice was gentle. He might have been speaking to the victim of a traffic accident. I’m terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news. “Can we talk?”

“You should have called.”

“I did. You didn’t answer. Please, Grace.” In that split second, she saw the old David. The David who had supported her through unspeakably tough times, the David who understood her.

She opened the door wider. “Five minutes.”

He stepped through the door and had the good manners to pause, waiting for her to direct him even though he’d lived here with her for twenty-five years. They’d bought the house together and when they’d picked up the keys he’d carried her over the threshold. They’d had sex in every room in the house, including the bathtub.

“Kitchen,” she said, and saw him glance into the living room as they passed the door.

“You moved the sofa.”

“The light was fading the fabric.” She didn’t tell him that she’d moved things around in the hope that she wouldn’t feel his absence every time she walked into a room.

He waited until she sat down before he sat, too.

“Where’s Sophie?”

“Upstairs, working.”

“How is she doing?”

“How do you think she is doing?”

“I don’t know. She won’t talk to me.”

For the first time she noticed he looked tired, too.

Too much sex, she thought bitterly.

“It’s been a shock for her. You have to give her time.”

David stared at his hands. “Hurting you both was the last thing I wanted to do.”