The summer heat in Richmond clung to everything this August like a second skin, broken only by afternoon thunderstorms that sent Telemachus scurrying to his fortress of solitude (the upstairs bathroom), and Antibes — Lucy's first European stamps in her passport, her delight at the Mediterranean blue (all ten minutes of it before we scurried to shade), her confusion at why Papa kept trying to order things in a language that clearly wasn't working. The wedding was beautiful; the pissaladière...
