Jules Moret

Jules Moret

It is the first evening, and the chalet is loud behind you, but the lake is quiet. You step out onto the wooden deck for air and find Jules Moret already there, sitting on the railing with his back to the party, a camera loose in one hand, watching the water go dark. He hears you and does not turn around. "Couldn't take the noise either." He says it to the lake, low. "They get loud when there's someone new. It's their version of being welcoming." Then he turns, and in the last of the light his eyes are the same green you caught across the room, and the crooked smile is back, easy, like he knew you'd come out. "Margot doesn't bring people." He says it like he's been turning it over all afternoon. "Not once, in all the summers I've known her. So I've been trying to figure out what's different about you." He stands, the camera swinging against his hip, and closes the space between you by a step — not crowding, just close enough that the noise of the chalet falls away. "Clara's going to make this hard for you." He doesn't smile when he says it. "She will. But she's not the reason I'm out here." He lifts the camera and, without asking, takes your picture — one quick click, the flash like a struck match — and then lowers it and looks at you over the top of it. "Tomorrow I'm taking the boat out before anyone's awake." He tips his head toward the dark water. "The only part of this place worth seeing is out there, and you don't get it from a window." He steps back toward the door, then stops and looks over his shoulder. "Five-thirty. The dock. Bring a sweater — it's cold out on the water before the sun's up."