This thought made her smile. She felt an enormous respect for her mother now because she had kept her child against the opposition of her own mother and family. Kerry, as weak as she could be, was strong enough to brave the world for her. For that alone, she deserved every ounce of respect Liselle had inside her and she would get it.

She had felt the estrangement between her mother and father and was sorry, desperately sorry, because she had seen her mother’s happiness at bringing them together. But something had happened to change that, and Liselle would dearly love to know what it was.

She sipped her cold coffee and grimaced. Evander smiled at her. He looked at her all the time, and far from embarrassing her, she quite enjoyed it. It was the look of a man who really knew her for what she was.

‘Why is my mother so against you now?’ Her voice was low, with the same huskiness as his. Evander thought hard. Should he tell her?

‘I think I’ve a right to know.’

It could have been Kerry, all those years before. Wanting to be told about his family, his mother, his life.

‘Listen, child. Your mother and I ... Well, all I can say is I did something bad to her. Real bad. If I tell you, then you might look at me differently.’

‘I need to know. My mother has been there for me all my life. I know she drinks, and she can be selfish at times, but I really need to know everything. Everything to do with the three of us. It’s the only way I can ever really be myself.’

Evander nodded, seeing the logic of what she said. She was wise, this child of his. She had the same candour as her mother, and just a hint of his own mother, a woman who had brooked no nonsense from her big sons and even bigger, more aggressive, husband.

‘It’s a long story. It began when I got back to the States.’

He told her quietly and calmly about the life he’d had there, leaving out some of the least savoury parts but not ducking the truth either. He told it like it was. Until Liselle, in her imagination, could smell the dirt, feel the heat. Could feel the decline of this once proud man as he tried to pick himself up in a country where his colour was burden enough without being crippled. She could feel the stale enclosed atmosphere of each chocolate town he drifted to, his hands growing stiffer, his piano playing more laboured. His life descending on to a plane of poverty most English people only heard about. When he got to the part where he met Skip he faltered and Liselle poured him a glass of scotch, waiting patiently while he sipped it, gathering himself together.