“This is Hamlet and me age twenty-one.” Juliet points at an old, photo in the big album on Sophie’s lap. “This picture was taken in Beirut a few months after our wedding.”

The women sit next to each other on the couch, looking at Juliet’s family pictures. Hamlet and I lounge in roomy armchairs on either end of the coffee table.

Oscar and Cannelle have fallen asleep at our feet—Cannelle balled up on top of her favorite cushion and not making a sound like the gently bred lady she is. Oscar is lying on his back, hind legs wide open, and snoring happily. Being himself.

We’re sipping post-dinner coffee from tiny cups. It was brewed Oriental-style which, according to Juliet, is “the only sensible way to drink coffee.” While we’re at it, we also wolf down a large number of small honey-soaked baklava.

The coffee was home-roasted, ground, and brewed by Hamlet. His lovely wife baked the baklavas. The Derzians know I’m not a big fan of desserts. I know that leaving their house without eating at least one baklava is simply not an option.

I crane my neck to look at the photo. Hamlet wears flared pants and a red shirt open down to his stomach to reveal a hairy chest. His hair is big and his mustache reminds me of Tom Selleck. Juliet is dressed in a ridiculously short skirt and platform shoes. Her long hair is parted in the middle. She wears a braided headband around her forehead.

Sophie gives our hostess a surprised look. “A miniskirt? In Lebanon?”

“Of course.” Juliet shrugs. “Every self-respecting fashionista had one of those back in the day.”

“You’re the coolest hippie I’ve ever seen,” Sophie says.

Juliet lets out a nostalgic sigh. “I used to have such pretty legs.”

“Me, too,” Hamlet echoes from his armchair, misty-eyed.

Sophie giggles.

Hamlet turns to his wife. “She thinks I’m kidding. Show her our Saint-Tropez pictures.”

Juliet turns a few pages until she finds the Saint-Tropez pics. It’s a series of four color photographs immortalizing the couple on the famed Riviera beach. Their bodies are fiercely tanned. Juliet is clad in a tiny, low-cut bikini. Hamlet stands next to his wife with an arm around her shoulders, proudly hairy everywhere with only a tiny scrap of bright blue fabric covering his boy parts.

My water polo Speedo would qualify as conservative next to Hamlet’s Chippendales outfit.

I open my mouth to thank God that the Borat-style mankini wasn’t invented until this century, when he gives me a narrow-eyed don’t-you-dare look.

“It’s true,” I say. “Both of you have pretty legs.”

Hamlet turns to Sophie. “Told you.”

“You’re a beautiful couple,” Sophie says.

Juliet smiles. “We were destined for each other, and not just because we both had Shakespearean names. We were born the same year and our mothers were best friends.”

“That’s a good start.” I grab the chance to give an outlet to my censored sarcasm. “But from there to call it destiny…”

Hamlet leans in. “When I proposed to Juliet for the first time, I dropped to my knees and asked her to be my wife before God and man.”

“I said ‘no way,’ ” Juliet says.

Hamlet nods. “My heart sank. Had I been blind? Could it be that Juliet didn’t love me the way I loved her? So I asked her, my voice trembling, ‘Why not?’ ”

He marks a pause.

I glance at Juliet, expecting her to pick up the tale, but she gazes at her husband, clearly unwilling to interfere with his show.

“What did she say?” Sophie asks.

Hamlet waits a few more seconds before answering. “She said, ‘Because proposing on both knees is lame.’ ”

Sophie gasps at such extreme shallowness and turns to Juliet. “Really?”

Juliet nods.

“What did you do?” I ask Hamlet.

“What else was I supposed to do?” He shrugs. “I rearranged myself in the proper kneeling position and asked her to marry me again.”

Sophie smiles. “And she said yes, right?”

“She said no.”

I wonder why this time. Was he too poor for her liking? A cabinetmaker with no connections and no family money, did she believe he wasn’t good enough for her? Was she hoping to snag a sheik or, failing that, a wealthy homme d’affaires?

A smile turns up the corners of Hamlet’s lips. “I asked her why not again. She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Because we’re twelve, silly.’ ”

Sophie bursts out laughing.

I chuckle, too, absurdly relieved.

“I proposed again when we were eighteen,” Hamlet says, grinning.

Juliet smoothes her hair back. “I said yes, but I made him wait two more years until we turned twenty.”

Hamlet reaches over and pats her hand. “You were totally worth the wait, sweetheart.”

Sophie and I thank our hosts and stand up.

“She’s a keeper,” Juliet whispers in my ear while she cheek kisses me good-bye. “Don’t mess it up, boy.”

I think of all the omissions, half-truths, and outright lies I’ve fed Sophie about who I am and where I come from, and my stomach knots.

It’s quite possible I’ve already messed it up.