“No, it’s almost done, thanks. How are you?”
Philip lowered himself into the chair he hoped Iris would permit him to occupy for the evening. She had strong ideas about seating plans and might well, though it was only family, have a configuration for this dinner scrawled on the back of a notecard. She was not above asking people to move, if they’d installed themselves somewhere that displeased her. “Fine, thank you. How have you all been?”
James gave Philip a long look. “Put it this way. Blood. Frogs. Pestilence. Cattle disease. Whatever. It all sounds better than twenty-four hours in our house. I must tell you, I’m ashamed. I feel I must apologize to you for my son’s part in all this. You and Iris must have been very shocked.”
“Yes,” said Philip, simply. “But you have no need to apologize.”
“Well, I’m deeply sorry nonetheless. And now we must set it all aside this evening to contemplate the Exodus, so I’m told. I’ve been deputized as bartender; can I get you something? I intend to drink heavily; I advise you to join me.”
“Nathan’s not here this evening?”
“No, we decided . . . He’s studying at his friend’s house for the night. I felt . . . Do you know where the corkscrew is? I just felt he needed . . .” James seemed unable to complete any of these sentences. It seemed likely that Nathan was avoiding Gwen, or all of them, and Philip found it hard to blame him. He, too, had dreaded this evening. He began the arduous process of standing from his seat and abandoned it with relief when James said, “Here it is. There’s only red, for the seder.”
“Red,” Philip said. “Thank you.”
Philip did know where Giles had kept the corkscrew, as well as the several other places between which it migrated in the time since Iris had reclaimed sole stewardship of this house, none of which were where he himself had filed it when he’d lived here, on the shelf beside the bottles. Giles and Iris had shared a distain for his regime and though it had been many years since Giles had moved to Provence, much of the disarray he’d introduced still remained.
Giles had died shortly after moving to France full time, and the two states—being dead and residing in a French farmhouse—had fused in the family lexicon so that between Philip, Daniel, and Julia, one had become a euphemism for the other. It was not kind. Philip had in fact been friends with Giles, and Daniel had also been on cordial terms with him, but the phrase had nonetheless evolved, and stuck. Philip could only hope that, as a man who’d loved the reassuring intimacy of a private joke, Giles would have been forgiving. Daniel had spoken of moving to France himself in the last months of his illness, and had studied his father’s countenance, insisting, with his eyes, upon a small returned smile. Cool, insouciant, hiding his fear to spare them. His brave boy. It’s an obscenity that he is gone and I’m still here. With effort, Philip recalled himself to the kitchen, and to James.
Philip liked James. James was likeable. He put Julia at ease and made her laugh. This year she had become beautiful again, recalling the fragile, striking girl she had been when he’d first known her, where for years she had begun to look—it was Iris’s uncharitable word, though he had had to admit a truth to it—slightly haggard. Now she looked young again, and luminous. James exuded a sort of Viking strength and vigor and, searching for a description, Philip found his first true use for the term “in rude health.” He understood, choosing to steer his thoughts firmly away from his own son’s swift waning and diminishing, why Julia would be drawn to such a man. Now, under extraordinary circumstances, James was proving himself over and over, tested in his kindness, his generosity, his understanding. He had found a clinic, he’d spoken to the psychologist in his department, he’d been the one to source online videos for Gwen to watch, to help her understand the realities of teenage motherhood. Not once, Julia said, had he raised his voice. He was kind to Gwen, and liked her. He understood that gentle steadiness was their only hope for persuasion. He was taking care of all of them. Still. Daniel.
“Pamela told me that she dispatched her travel agent to hunt you down. I’m sorry about that, she’s not very good at taking no for an answer. I don’t think the assembly will be for you, if that’s okay to say. It’s not for me, anyhow.”
“Yes, she sent along a great deal of unusual literature. I’m afraid Joan, the woman she sent, was rather misled to believe that I was simply a nervous traveler in need of a little coaxing so she was terribly embarrassed once she realized. I tried to reassure her that I was interested to hear the details nonetheless. Apparently”—he began to laugh—“Joan’s had terrible trouble finding a source of dairy-free croissants for the breakfasts. It’s made the hotel manager very cross.”