“That is a horrible story,” she said, frowning. “Absolutely awful. I hate them both, just listening to you. But not the children. They are the victims of all this, as you have been. They've obviously been manipulated into shutting you out and forgetting you. It was your wife's responsibility to help them maintain their relationship with you,” she said sensibly, and he didn't disagree with her. And amazingly, he had never blamed his children for their defection. They were too young to know what they were doing, and he knew how convincing Sally could be. She could turn anyone around in a hot minute, and confuse them forever.

“That's not Sally. She wanted a clean break from me, and she got one. Sally always got what she wanted, even from Hamish. I'm not sure whose idea their children were, but knowing Sally, she thought it was a smart thing to do to lock him in. Hamish is a little naïve in some ways, it was one of the things I always liked about him. Sally isn't. She's as clear and calculating as it gets, and she always does what's best for Sally.”

“She sounds like a very evil woman,” Ophélie said loyally, and it touched him. Telling her about his life had been somewhat emotional for him, and as he stoked the fire again, they were both silent for a moment.

“And what about since then? Has there been no one important to you?” It would have been the only possible consolation, but there was no evidence of a woman in his life. He seemed to lead a very solitary existence, or at least that was her impression of him. There could have been someone, of course, but she didn't think so.

“Not really. I was in no condition to get involved with anyone else for the first few years after Sally left. I was a basket case. And after that, I was commuting to Auckland to see my kids, and I wasn't in the mood. I didn't trust anyone, and I didn't want to. I swore I never would again. There was a woman I liked very much about three years ago, but she was a lot younger than I, and she wanted to get married and have kids. I just couldn't see myself doing that again, or trusting anyone enough to put myself in that position. I didn't want to get married and have kids, and risk getting divorced again and losing them. I couldn't see the point. She was thirty-two years old, and I was forty-four at the time, and she gave me an ultimatum. I don't blame her. But I couldn't make a commitment to her either. I bowed out gracefully, and she got married about six months later, to a very nice guy. They just had their third baby this summer. I just couldn't go there. I hope I'll get back in touch with my own kids again someday, when they get a little older. But I have no desire to start another family, or open myself up to that kind of disappointment. Going through that once in a lifetime has done it for me.” Ophélie had to admit that very few people would have survived what he'd been through. And in some ways he hadn't. As gentle and caring as he was, he was emotionally shut down, and not willing to open up again, but she couldn't really blame him. It also explained why he had opened up to Pip so much and reached out to her. She was almost the same age as his children the last time he saw them. And he was obviously hungry for some kind of human contact, even from a little girl of eleven. And she was safe for him. He had no real investment in her, other than friendship. There was nothing wrong with it, and it met Pip's needs at the moment as well. But it was hardly enough emotional sustenance for a man of forty-seven. He deserved so much more than that, in Ophélie's eyes at least, but he wasn't brave enough at this point to share more than he did with a child on the beach, whom he could teach to draw a few times a week. For a man of his caliber and abilities, it seemed a paltry existence. But clearly, it was all he wanted.

“What about you, Ophélie? What kind of marriage did you have? I get the feeling that your husband wasn't entirely an easy person. Geniuses usually aren't, or so they say.” Ophélie looked gentle and accommodating to him. And from what she had said about her husband's relationship with his sick son, he had the feeling that her late husband hadn't given her an easy time. He wasn't far from wrong, although she didn't often admit it to anyone, and hadn't over the years, sometimes even herself.

“He was a brilliant man. With incredible vision. He always knew what he wanted to do, from the beginning. He was single-minded in his purpose, and he refused to let anything stop him. Absolutely nothing. Not even me, or the children, not that we wanted to stand in his way. We did everything we could to support him, or I did at least. And he finally got what he wanted, and achieved what he'd always dreamed of. He was a huge success in the last five years of his life. It was wonderful for him.” But not necessarily for her or their kids, other than materially.

“And how was he to you in all that?” Matt asked persistently. It was obvious that he'd been a success, even from the little Matt knew of him. He had achieved greatness in his field. But the real question, in Matt's mind, was how was he as a human being and a husband? Ophélie seemed to have dodged the question.

“I always loved him. From the very first moment I met him. I had a huge crush on him as a student. I always admired him, his brilliant mind, his singlemindedness of purpose. He was a man who never lost sight of his dreams. You have to admire someone like that.” Whether or not he had been difficult had never been the issue for her. She accepted that about him. She thought he was entitled to be.

“And what were your dreams?”

“Being married to him.” She smiled sadly at Matt. “It was all I ever wanted. When he married me, I thought I'd died and gone to Heaven. And it was difficult certainly at times. There were years, many of them, when we had absolutely no money. We struggled for about fifteen years, and then he made so much we didn't know what to do with it. But that was never what was important to us, or me anyway. I loved him just as much when we were poor. His money never mattered to me. He did.” He had been the sun and the moon to her, along with their kids.

“Did he spend time with you and the children?” Matt asked quietly.

“Sometimes. When he could. He was always incredibly busy, doing far more important things.” It was obvious to Matt that she had worshiped him. Probably far more than he deserved.

“What's more important than your wife and kids?” Matt said simply, but he was very different than Ted, in a lot of ways. And she was light-years from Sally. Ophélie was everything Sally wasn't. Gentle, kind, decent, honest, compassionate. She was locked in her own miseries at the moment, but even with that, he could tell she wasn't a selfish person. She was lost and grieving, which was different. He knew it well. He had been there himself. And grief could be allabsorbing when you were in the midst of it, which was why she was less attentive than she had previously been with Pip. But she was aware enough to berate herself for it.

“Scientists are very different people,” Ophélie explained tolerantly. “They have different needs, different perceptions, different emotional abilities than the rest of us. He wasn't an ordinary person.” But in spite of her excuses for him, Matt didn't like what he was hearing. He suspected that the late Dr. Mackenzie had been narcissistic and egocentric, and possibly even a lousy father. And he wasn't at all sure he'd been a decent husband to her. But if not, Ophélie was clearly not prepared to see it, or admit it to him. Death was different from divorce, Matt knew too, with a deceased spouse came early sainthood. It seemed to be hard to remember the flaws and failings of someone you loved who had died. In divorces, all you remembered was what had been wrong with them. And over time the remembered flaws just seemed to get bigger and worse. When they died, all you remembered was the best part, and then you improved on it. It made the deceased spouse's absence seem that much more cruel. And Matt felt genuinely sorry for her.

They talked for a long time that night, about their childhoods, their marriages, their kids. Her heart ached every time she thought of Matt's estrangement from his children, and as he spoke of it, from the look in his eyes, she could see easily what it had cost him. Nearly his sanity at one point, and eventually, his faith in the human race, and desire to be with people, a woman especially. It was a high price to pay for two children, and a marriage he had lost ten years before. Ophélie suspected his ex-wife had stolen the kids from him, more than likely by some kind of manipulation. It was hard to believe that without prodding or prejudice from her, children that age would decide not to see their father. There had to be some foul play in there somewhere, although Matt didn't say much more about it, and didn't seem to want to wage war with her. As far as he was concerned, he had lost the war, and for now at least, it was over. All he could hope was to see his children again someday. A distant hope he thought of at times, but no longer lived for. He lived day to day, and was content with his spartan existence at the beach. Safe Harbour was a refuge for him.

Matt was about to leave when it occurred to him to ask her something. He had been meaning to mention it all evening.

“Do you like to sail, Ophélie?” he inquired cautiously, looking hopeful. Along with art, it had always been one of his passions. And it suited his solitary nature.

“I haven't in years, but I used to love it. I sailed as a child, when we went to Brittany in the summer. And in Cape Cod, when I was in college.”

“I have a little sailboat in the lagoon that I take out from time to time. I'd be happy to take you with me, if you'd like that. It's very simple, it's an old wooden boat I restored myself when I first moved here.”