When Marcel did come home, he was not trailing sunshine and lollipops. The charming, attentive, flirty Marcel had elected to stay in town, and had sent a rather grim and surly replacement. One who was wholly unfamiliar with the phrase café au lit; one who frequently used my name as a swear word on the shooting range, but who often forgot to praise or even watch for what skills I could muster; one who retired to his office the second practice was over without saying so much in Luxembourgish as “f**k off.” I couldn’t stand it, but I didn’t know what to do. I certainly hadn’t brought Peder home to hurt Marcel in any way, but nor had I presented myself as anything less than the jock slut I was. Marcel even teased me about it. So why was he so put out?
“I’m not,” he snarked one night when I co
