I rolled my eyes and snapped at him, “Oh, well, if it’s too much work, then let’s just give up before we even try, Moreau. Sheesh, they’re little kids. It won’t take long at all for them to pick it up. But they need to be exposed to the language.”
“Your family will love them no matter what they speak, I know that. But how do you think the boys will feel being the only ones who can’t communicate in French?”
After that, Beau dropped our conversation and kept eating. When I taught the boys the names for all the cutlery in French, they did extremely well and instinctively began quizzing each other.
“See?” I said to Beau in French. “They’ll learn even faster because they have each other to practice with. Kids have a huge capacity to soak up languages. Their brains are like giant sponges.”
Beau sighed and nodded. In French he said, “Fine, we’ll try. I suppose it can’t hurt.”
I shook my head as I dug into my bean salad. “Just the thought of Beau Moreau’s own sons not being able to speak French. Implausible.”
“There aren’t a lot of French speaking people in Vegas. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed that or not,” he said, his voice sounding snarky.
“Well, there are a lot of French speaking people at this table and back home in Montreal, you’ve got a ton.”
Beau let it slide after I said that. We ate in comfortable quiet except when one of the boys had a question or asked for something.
My brain was still working on why Beau wouldn’t be over the moon excited about his kids learning his first language. I couldn’t figure out what the issue was.
Until something popped into my head. “You don’t think they’ll speak it well enough, do you? You’re scared they’ll sound terrible and embarrass you?” I asked him in French so the boys wouldn’t hear.
He set his cutlery down and pushed his plate away. “No, I’m scared they’ll embarrass themselves for no reason. Learning a new language is tough—and I don’t know how to teach them,” he answered back in French.
I smiled, liking his vulnerability more than I probably should. “I went to school with hundreds of kids who didn’t hear a word of French until they were in Kindergarten or older. They all learned. Granted, some spoke and understood better than others. But it’s more than possible. And having a father to guide them at home is every French immersion teacher’s dream.”
“The only French you heard was from your mother?” he asked, seeming genuinely curious.
“And Marcel and Angelique. Then at school. But to be honest? My French was always better than any of my teachers. There’s just something about having a parent teach you from birth that makes it seem—second nature.”
“You were fortunate. And yes, your French is pristine. Your mother did a great job with passing it on.”
“You will, too.”
He shrugged, his face holding something more than worry about how many languages his sons would be able to speak. “Did everything go okay while I was gone?”
“The only illegal thing I’ll admit to teaching them was jumping off the floor onto your beloved couches.” I giggled as I chewed. “Otherwise, everything went well.”
“Gigi said floor!” Carson pointed out excitedly, and I smiled at him and nodded.
“What was your meeting about?” I asked Beau. We continued speaking in French. The boys didn’t mind at all. In fact, they seemed intrigued.
“We aren’t allowed to say anything yet.”
“Ah, okay.”
“You can’t tell anyone. Not even your team.”
My eyes found Beau’s and I said, “I won’t.”
He rubbed his face. “Rozovsky is getting a big fine and a two game suspension for what he pulled on Trey last week.”
I dropped my fork onto my plate. “You’re kidding?”
“Cross checking is no joke.”
That was an understatement. Gripping your stick with two hands while you smash it against another player’s throat was definitely one of the worst offences you could pull.
“Especially ten seconds after the whistle,” I said, shaking my head. “Trey could have been hurt way worse than he was.”