That evening, Margot signed at Evan insistently, her hands slicing the air with unusual sharpness. It took him a moment to interpret her meaning: “That girl is smart for a waitress.” He wasn’t surprised. His mother sensed things with uncanny accuracy. She, too, seemed to be thinking of Lena.
Margot signed again, slower this time: “When I spoke about a certain delicacy in Paris, it was as if she knew, or had experienced it herself.” Evan knew exactly what she meant. Lena did not belong in a cafe, no matter how she tried to hide it. It seemed like she wanted to shrink into not being noticed. He couldn’t figure out why.