"I shouldn't be in this room," he said. "You told me to stay. I'm staying until you tell me I can go. But I'm not going to do this in front of your daughter. Neither should you."
"Don't tell me what I should do in my house."
"I'm not." Andre's dark eyes were steady. There was no smile left anywhere in him. "I'm telling you what I won't do."
Carol made a small wounded noise, as if the grammar of the affair had finally reached her. Richard put a hand on her elbow, not to steer her, only to prove he was still beside her. The balloons ticked against the ceiling in the draft from a vent. Somewhere in the frosting, gold script still spelled a fragment of the word anniversary, the rest buried under the silver frame.
Rachel took one step toward Sophie and stopped when her daughter flinched — not away, exactly, but inward, a contraction of trust. The flinch undid her more cleanly than Jason's question. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. The camel coat felt like a costume she could not remove without becoming more naked than she already was.
"Sophie," she said. "Baby, Mommy is — this is a grown-up mess. You didn't do anything wrong. The card is beautiful. I see it. I see you."