“Oh. Well, thanks. I was looking for it today. I mean yesterday.”

“You’re welcome.”

There is a pause, then, “Are you okay?”

“I’m...” What am I? I’m not sure. But it’s something good, whatever I am. Which is odd, given the circumstances. I feel sort of, I don’t know, intensely present. Like I’m an undiluted version of myself. Condensed. I can’t say that. I can’t say, I’m intensely present. Who says that?

“I’m okay,” I tell him.

“And your dad? And Iris?”

“They’re okay too.”

“Okay then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

And because it’s goodnight and not goodbye, I say it just the once and then I hang up.

The quiet of the night after the phone conversation is tremendous. It takes a while for the conversation—the echo of it—to fade away, to lift and dissolve into the fabric of the blue-gray sky.

21

You should always take the prevailing road conditions into account.

Breakfast is served on the terrace outside the dining room on a rickety wooden table that has been covered with a red-and-white gingham tablecloth. The tablecloth is an old one that has been preserved by years of careful laundering.

People underestimate the importance of careful laundering.

The table has been set for three. Three brown speckled eggs in three silver eggcups. Three china cups. A jug of orange juice; freshly squeezed. A baguette, still warm. Triangles of Brie, starting to ooze. Berries from the garden. A pot of coffee. Pats of unsalted butter. A jar of sticky black currant jam.

“Please,” says Jacques, gesturing to the table and pulling each of the chairs out.

I examine his face for signs of Iris-induced fatigue, but he is spring-clean fresh and still smells delicious.

“He’s like some kind of...mythical man,” I whisper when Jacques spots that we have scraped the last of the jam out of the jar and replaces it with a full one.

“He’s no myth,” says Iris, grinning. “I can attest to that and so can my vagina.”

“Your vagina?” asks Dad.

“My vagina,” says Iris, still grinning.

“Can we all stop saying vagina?” I hiss at them. Mostly at Iris. I refill our coffee cups, stir sugar and milk into Dad’s.

“Did you stay in the garden for long after I left?” Iris asks, steering a strawberry towards her mouth.

“Eh, no, no I didn’t.”

“What’s wrong?” asks Iris. “You’ve gone as red as these strawberries. Which are delicious by the way.” She spoons some into a bowl for Dad. “Try them, Mr. Keogh. You won’t regret it.”

I pick up my glass of juice, press it against my flushed face. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. Nothing happened. And even if it had, it would have happened with my own husband. Of twenty-five years.

Perhaps that’s why I’m embarrassed. Nothing happened.

“Your mother loves strawberries,” Dad says. I look at him. He rarely remembers little details like that. He has his stockpile of stories—like Frank Sinatra—but the inconsequential details of his life evade him.

My mother loved strawberries.