My parents lived on the chemin de la Suquette, which took its name from the Occitan word for “hill.” It was here, overlooking Antibes, that the Château de la Constance had once stood, a vast estate to the east of the city. Over time, the château had been converted into a sanatorium and later into luxury apartments. The surrounding lands had mushroomed with elegant villas and housing developments. My parents had moved here not long after I was born, when the road was little more than a flower-strewn dirt track. I could remember my brother teaching me to ride a bicycle here, and on weekends the locals would often organize games of pétanque. Now, it was a wide paved road clogged with traffic. It was not exactly a highway, but it was not far off.

I pulled up outside number 74, the Villa Violette, rolled down my window, leaned out, and pressed the entry-phone button. No one answered, but a second later, the electric gates glided open. I shifted gears and set off down the narrow driveway that snaked up toward my childhood home.

My father, I noticed, was still loyal to Audi, and his current car, an A4 Estate, was parked right outside the door, strategically placed so he could take off whenever he wanted to (an inclination that I felt entirely summed up Richard Degalais). I parked a little farther away on a gravel forecourt next to a Mercedes convertible I assumed belonged to my mother.

I stepped out into the sunlight, trying to collect my thoughts and figure out what I hoped to achieve here this afternoon. The house had been built at the brow of the hill, and I was mesmerized, as always, by the view: the slender silhouettes of the palm trees, the cloudless expanse of sky and sea, the vast sweep of the horizon. I brought my hand up to shield my eyes from the dazzling sun, and as I turned my head, I saw my mother standing on the porch, arms folded, waiting for me.

I hadn’t seen her in almost two years. As I raced up the steps to her, I held her gaze and studied her closely. I always felt vaguely intimidated in her presence. I had spent a serene and joyful childhood close to her, but late adolescence and adulthood had driven a wedge between us. Annabelle Degalais—née Annabella Antonioli—was an ice queen, a Hitchcock blonde without the radiance of Grace Kelly or the impulsiveness of Eva Marie Saint. Tall and angular, her physique perfectly matched that of my father. She was wearing pants in a clean, modern cut with a matching jacket. Although her blond hair had faded to ash gray, it was not yet white. She had aged a little since my last visit.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, Thomas.”