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Summary
“You spoke at length about your mother today,” Armand says.
“I talked about her a lot, didn’t I?” Louis acknowledges. It had been a languid and surprisingly painless conversation about a sore topic: how Louis had spent his life trying with all his might to be his father, and to a degree had succeeded, but deep down, had always seemed more in possession of the essence of his mother, even as a little boy… tidying Paul and Grace up when they got scruffy, getting sentimental over the house’s flower patch, smoking more than he drank, sighing more than he spoke. He’s at peace with it now, how much of Florence he sees in himself. The thought doesn’t itch anymore.