The Night That Started It All

‘From Neil.’ His voice dried. ‘Forgive me. I see this was a mistake.’

‘Another mis—’ she started to say, but Luc Valentin, the man who felt disdain for her, the man who knew her shame, disconnected before she could finish.

She lay awake until dawn, staring into the dark, alternately regretting her anger, then burning with it all over again. If only he hadn’t surprised her that night without her make-up. If only he’d left her some shred of dignity, she might not have had to feel so angry with him. She might have been able to hear his voice without all this agony.

It seemed her agony was never-ending. The excruciating reports of the efforts to reclaim Rémy went on for days before he was recovered. Messages flew thick and fast between Sydney and Paris. Luc’s name came up so often in Neil’s conversation, Shari wanted to cover her ears.

It was hard enough trying to squash down her memories of the party night. Shari didn’t care if Neil thought Luc was a great guy. But she couldn’t say so. She just had to grin and bear it all. And of course, poor Emilie needed to reminisce and talk about Rémy and her other family members. The least Shari could do for her grieving sister-in-law was to listen.

Emilie produced some photos of a visit she and Neil had made to France as newly-weds, before Rémy emigrated. One in particular smote Shari’s eye. It was of a foursome, leaning against a ramshackle fence in some rural setting. Rémy and Emi were linking arms with Luc and a spectacular-looking brunette with cheekbones and long, straight, shampoo-model’s hair.

‘See, Shari? Here’s Luc and Manon. This was the day we visited Tante Laraine’s farm. Do you remember, Neil? How happy we all were?’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh, Em.’ Shari put her arms around her and stroked Em’s hair. Naturally, anyone in tears always brought hers on as well.

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