One Good Man

I crossed my arms under my camera. “So happy to hear you approve.”

Sophie turned to me. “Would you like some lemonade?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” I said quickly.

“Please. It is so warm out.”

“You don’t have to, really…”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Sophie said cheerfully. “I’m not as fast as Adrien, but I’m happy to bring you some. Let me…”

“Yes, let her,” Adrien said in a low voice, meeting my gaze steadily.

I sucked in a breath. “Thank you, Sophie, lemonade would be lovely.”

Sophie made her way back into the house and shut the back door. I sat in the other wrought iron chair, across from Adrien.

“Let her bring me the lemonade,” I said. “Let her answer the door while you sit in the sun and read…”

“Yes? And?” Adrien returned, unruffled. “She has cerebral palsy; she’s not in a coma. She’s capable of answering the door to her own house or bringing a guest a drink.”

I sat back in my seat. “But it seems difficult for her—”

“Sophie does what she wants. I’m not going to stand in the way of letting her take on any task she feels she can handle.” His blue eyes clouded over with bitterness. “No one should.”

“You’re right,” I said, biting each word out. “I apologize. I didn’t mean any offense.”

Adrien sighed and tossed his book—a French translation of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest—face down on the table. “You’re not the first to try to coddle her. She seems weak and soft, I know, but she’s got more strength in her than you and I combined.”

I stared at this man, and for some reason, Helen’s words about finding a big story within a smaller one whispered in my ear. I bent to extract the heavy cassette recorder from my bag.

“Is this okay?” I asked, readying the recorder. “Standard procedure…”

I tried not to think about how I was about to capture Adrien’s bedroom voice on tape, and inwardly scolded myself again.

His lazy smile returned. “It’s fine.”

“Groovy.” I pressed down the play and record buttons, and the cassette wheels turned. “Interview with Adrien Rousseau—”

“I saw you at La Cloche,” Adrien said. “A few days ago? You don’t remember me?”

“Uh, yes. I was there,” I said and stiffened. “But no, I don’t remember you.”

His cocky grin broadened. “I find that hard to believe.”

I rolled my eyes. My fleeting sliver of a hope that this interview might not be like any of the athletes I’d done before, died a swift death.

“I don’t remember you,” I said, “but I know your type.”

“My type? Please, tell me my type.”

“Rich, arrogant, cocky. A different girl on your arm every weekend…”

“Sometimes two girls,” he said with a wink.

“Of course. Using your God-given soccer talent to—”

“Score on and off the field?” he said, with brows raised. “I hope you’re less clichéd in your writing.”