| your heroic act.” The sarcasm was invisible, but Hugo was pretty sure it was there. “I did, yes.” “Did she know at the time an American was the shooter?” “We still don’t know that.” The gun, on the other hand… “Is that so? My sources mislead me then.” “As you can imagine, they’re not telling me much about that investigation.” Hugo shifted, wanting to change the subject. “Have you heard anything from your son?” A flicker of worry passed over Lambourd’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “Not yet. As you’re one of the investigating officers, I was hoping you may have an update.” “No, sir, I’m afraid not. I promise the moment I do, I’ll let you know.” “I’m sure he’s just gotten into some scrape with his friends.” The veneer cracked a little, and the look of worry returned. “Everyone thinks I’m too soft on him, and maybe I am. He’s my only child, my son. And despite all of this”—he waved at the splendor around them— “he’s not had an easy life. Maybe because of all this.” “I’m in no place to judge or advise,” Hugo said. “I don’t have kids, so I wouldn’t know what I was talking about.” “All I can tell you is, most parents would do pretty much anything for their child.” “Most?” “You’ve met my mother, have you not?” Lambourd didn’t smile because, Hugo assumed, he wasn’t trying to be funny. “When Fabien was born, I vowed to do |
better cook than me. I take care of the wine, and bought the most expensive foie gras. She’s making a steak and kidney pie with mashed potatoes.” “That’s what I’m smelling,” Hugo said, his mouth almost watering. “Delicious.” “It’s all a little heavy for my palate, but I grant you it smells heavenly.” “For dessert?” Hugo asked. “Ah, for dessert she’s making bread pudding.” He grimaced a little. “Sticking with the theme of heavy food, it seems.” “And yet, still delicious.” “Perhaps. Of course, the foie gras and the wine had to be French. English pâté is… lumps of meat, no better than dog food, and their wine is worse than vinegar. And we can hardly drink beer for dinner.” Hugo smiled. “Hardly.” “You Americans drink beer with dinner, n’est-ce pas?” “Americans don’t discriminate. They drink beer with lunch, dinner, snacks, whenever they want. We are less bound by tradition, perhaps.” “Or taste, perhaps.” Asshole, perhaps, Hugo thought, but just smiled, and asked, “Your mother, how does she feel about English food?” “Unless it’s high tea, then not much.” “I would imagine she’s not going to eat the pie or the pudding.” “Probably not.” Lambourd smirked. “But then again, neither will I. I think I told you, I’m a vegetarian, so just Erika and Marc will have that pleasure. After all it’s for him, n’est-ce pas? Mother will enjoy the foie gras, I’ll have a salad and maybe some pudding, and everyone will appreciate the wine |
