Hélène looked at Claire. “She is sweet,” she said in French. “Perhaps a little simple, but pleasant.”
Luca’s face tightened. “Please don’t call the woman I’m marrying simple.”
“I mean uncomplicated,” Hélène replied. “She doesn’t pretend to be more than she is.”
Claire, understanding nothing, offered them more bread.
That hurt worse than the insult. She had spent her whole afternoon honoring them. And they were evaluating her like a piece of furniture they had reluctantly agreed to keep.
Then Philippe looked at me. “At least we understand where it comes from.”
Hélène followed his gaze. “Her mother seems kind.”
“But not terribly worldly.”
“There is nothing shameful about an ordinary life.”
“No.”
“Not everyone has ambition, curiosity, or courage.”
My hand tightened around my fork.
Claire noticed. “Mom? Everything okay?”
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