But even now, after all these years, Ludovic was wary of being thought to be encroaching.
“If you don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said, “simply tell me.”
“Very well. Portia, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you go to La Vigne d’un Dieu.” He looked at me hopefully. “We’re not still going, are we?”
“Yes, Ludovic, I’m afraid we’re still going.”
He laughed reluctantly. “Very well. But may I ask why?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Excuse me?” He looked completely perplexed.
“For twenty-two years, my son was under the misapprehension that Armand Bauchet was his one love. The odds of him finding it at the age of fifteen were so slim as to be ridiculous, but he could very well have been happy with Armand. Armand could have been happy with him. Instead…”
“I pity Armand. You’re not an easy enemy.” His smile was faint. “I’ll fill the car’s tank with petrol, and we’ll be off.”