“Help me explain myself,” Ade whispered to Sylvie.
“You’re right: getting me to quit smoking is about encouragement, not taking the moral high ground.” Sylvie pointed at Elda and stuck out her tongue, generating more knowing giggles between them.
Ade orbited the circle of old friends with a familiar envy. “Boys, would you like to play ball outside with me?” She had to escape. The room was so full of knowing looks, Ade couldn’t interpret the conversation that she could actually hear above all the deafening subtext.
“Yes!” Elijah ran out first with his little brother not far behind him.
Ade grinned. The acceptance of little people was far easier to win than grown-ups. She followed them to the cottage garden and a patch of lawn big enough to throw a ball around. “Wait, what’s happening?” Ade stopped in her tracks as the boys kicked a ball to each other.
“Football.”
“That’s not football, guys. It’s soccer.”
Elijah giggled. “Don’t you know how to play football?”
“Of course.” Ade ground her heel into the soft lawn, determined to make a good impression on at least half of this family. “We just call it something else.” There was no point in getting into it. It didn’t matter anyway; Arlo was now picking winter berries from a tree. “You okay there, buddy?”
“Smell nice,” he said, lifting the tiny spheres to her nose.
Ade couldn’t detect any scent. “Whatever you say, little dude. Don’t eat them though. They won’t taste nice, and they might make your tummy really sick.” Ade did her best vomiting impression.
“Sadly, Arlo’s at the age that if you tell himnotto do something, it’s like a green light to try it,” Charlie said as she wandered out.
“Sorry about pretending to vomit.” Ade stepped back. “You guys probably don’t need a copycat of that kind of thing either.”
“They’ve both done far worse, don’t worry. Two boys, two years apart is a recipe for social humiliation of many and varied flavors. We’re immune, in a way.”
Ade stalled her reply while she digested Charlie’s food-based metaphor. British people really did love a long and flowery sentence.
Charlie dropped her sweater in a pile on the grass. “Let’s set up two goals, boys. We’ll have a little match. Me and Arlo against you and Eli.”
Grateful for the respite in conversation, Ade found a plastic pot for one of the makeshift goal posts.
They played for half an hour, kicking softly so that no one lost control of the ball. In the end, Arlo was running in faster and wider loops around the patch of grass.
“He’s getting tired,” Charlie said, stroking her hand through her cropped hair. “He probably needs a refuel and a little rest before all hell breaks loose.”
Ade feared the worst. Her own meltdowns proved that the absence of food, hydration, and rest could spell disaster for anyonearound her. She didn’t want to mess with a three-year-old ticking time-bomb.
She wiped her brow.
“Have you worked up a bit of a sweat there with the preschoolers?” Sylvie stood against the open French doors, her hands on her hips.
“A little. It’s harder than it looks.” Ade’s heartbeat spiked again.
“Come on into the den. I’ve made us a drink,” said Sylvie, leading the way into a small living room which they had to themselves.
“I’m not doing well with Elda and Charlie, am I? Is it obvious?” Ade asked.
“You’re fine. Those two are very British. Even if they noticed your nerves, they’d never say anything.” Sylvie stepped forward. “Come here.” She held out her arms, inviting Ade in.
Ade hesitated, not trusting herself with the moment. Every fiber of her being ached for Sylvie to hold her, to feel the warmth of her embrace, and to slow her heartbeat to match her rhythm. She moved closer, conscious of her own limbs and awkwardness.
“Shall I feed the dog, Sylvie?” Elda’s voice carried through the adjoining hallway.
Sylvie’s shoulders dropped with a sigh. “Sorry, I’d better go and sort Henri. He’s only just woken up.”
“Let me.” Despite the spike of another interruption, Ade jumped at the chance to fuss over an animal. “I want to meet him.”
