Chapter 1 #3
He turned on his heel and left quickly. It wasn’t the sort of family reunion I had hoped for.
Although I can’t be sure what I was hoping for, anyway.
His reaction to my presence was indifferent at worst and awkward at best. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to be upset with him or angry for not bursting into the room with his arms wide open.
I didn’t exactly rush into his arms, thanking him for taking in his poor orphaned niece.
Dinner was as uncomfortable as my reunion with Dan had been.
The food and place settings were much more formal than what I was used to.
I barely ate, unsure of what was before me and too nervous to really try anything or even ask what it was.
Tiffany and Dan spoke mainly to each other about work and court cases.
They both would occasionally glance at me but continued to eat and talk among themselves.
Iris continued to refill glasses and glanced at me with reassuring and encouraging smiles.
“Mari?” Dan’s voice broke me out of my reverie.
I looked over the candles and centerpiece. “Yes?”
He smiled, glancing at Tiffany again. “I know this is a difficult time for you. But Tiffany and I really want to make this work.”
He stood and took something out of the drawer of the china cabinet. He sat again, sliding the small, wrapped present toward me.
“This is just something I thought you would like to have. To make you feel a little more at home,” he continued.
“Oh.” I took the present in my hands, savoring the way the expensive hunter green paper felt against my fingers. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
“It’s not much, but I have a feeling your father would want you to have it,” he replied, his eyes softening when they met mine.
I nodded as I undid the ribbon and opened the wrapped box.
In it lay a silver, ornate frame that surrounded a photograph of my parents from when they were much younger, probably when they first met.
My mother, long blonde hair curling at the ends, stood with my father at her side, his ginger curls and beard striking against the Connecticut seaside.
Seeing the photo overwhelmed me for a moment.
“Thank you,” I muttered, my fingers clutching the frame tightly. “This means so much.”
“Well,” Dan cleared his throat, “it really wasn’t much. Tiffany picked out the frame.”
“Iris helped,” Tiffany beamed. Iris looked at me, gray eyes glistening with warmth.
I nodded, standing with my eyes still on the photo of my parents. “Do you mind if I go to my room? I’m really tired.”
“Of course, dear,” Tiffany replied. “Sleep well.”
I found my room and fell into my bed, holding the picture to my chest. I began to cry again, but this time I didn’t feel as hopeless or alone.
Placing the picture frame on my bedside table, I realized that home was a possibility again.
It wouldn’t be easy to find or achieve, but home could be mine again. If I looked hard enough.
I woke up the next morning, smothered in silk sheets and a bed so big I thought I was being swallowed whole.
I sat up in a panic, unsure of my surroundings until I remembered Nana’s funeral, packing boxes, and the airplane ride to New York.
I fell back into the pillows, trying to drown out the shaky sound of my sobs.
I wanted to go home.
There was a light tap at my door, so faint I almost didn’t hear it, my gaze fixed on the silver picture frame that held the laughing faces of the dead parents I never even knew.
“Mari?” Tiffany glanced into the room, hiding her body behind the bedroom door. “Are you awake?”
I wiped the tears roughly from my eyes, peeping my head over the covers.
“Yes.”
“I was thinking that after breakfast we could go shopping for your school uniform and other school supplies. So that way you are all set for Monday.”
Her chipper voice held such hope, I’d feel guilty if I tried to say no and that she could go without me. All I wanted to do was lie in this giant bed and drown.
“Um,” I stammered. “Sure. Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”
“No rush!” She couldn’t hide her excitement as she began closing the door. “I’ll let Iris know you are ready for breakfast. We’re having chicken and waffles!”
I tried not to roll my eyes as my feet hit the floor. Not everyone in or from the South eats that stuff.
I got ready quickly, throwing on whatever I could find in my suitcase that would be even sort of warm enough for the frigid November weather of New York. A pair of ragged jeans, work boots, a button-up flannel with my oversized sweater I wore the day before. It was all I had.
I walked down the wooden hallway gingerly, afraid my presence would cause something irreplaceable to break.
The apartment was furnished with beautiful artwork and artifacts from—I don’t know how long ago.
It felt more like a museum than someone’s house.
I settled myself in front of a painting that hung above the fireplace in the main living area.
Its colors were warm and vibrant, a contrast to the gloomy and windy day that awaited me as soon as I left this apartment building.
It was a portrait of a woman’s face, eyes closed, tears cascading.
Her lips held the small crease of a smile, as if she were remembering something precious.
The tears cascading down her face were liquid gold, shimmering under the lights.
She looked sad, but oddly hopeful. Like maybe there was a purpose behind her pain.
“It’s a Gustav Klimt.” Tiffany’s voice interrupted my reprieve. “Freya’s Tears of Gold. Your uncle bought it for me for our one-year anniversary. Isn’t it breathtaking?”
I felt awkward, hugging my sweater around my body, unsure of what to say. “Yeah.”
“It’s Austrian,” she continued. “From the early 20th century.”
“Oh,” was all I could manage.
Tiffany cleared her throat as her fingers fiddled delicately with her string of pearls. “Well, breakfast is ready.”
Breakfast was a long affair, with Iris doting on me and Tiffany sitting uncomfortably at the head of the table as I nibbled on what I could.
I didn’t really care for fried chicken so early in the morning.
I ate as much as I could, but the knots in my stomach had not subsided since the day before when I was first dropped off at the airport in Atlanta.
After breakfast, I wandered back into Uncle Dan’s library while I waited for Tiffany to get ready for shopping. Apparently, her morning ensemble was not appropriate for shopping, even though she looked good enough to me.
My fingers grazed the spines of the old law books, the spines cracking after years of use.
I inhaled the smell of the old pages deeply, feeling for a moment that I was back at the local library in Appling, a place I volunteered part-time during the summers.
On slow days, which were most days, I simply walked along the aisles of the stacks of books, my fingers rustling against the spines and wondering what new worlds these pages would take me to if I only picked one up and began to read.
While I have only ever lived in Appling, I had been to countless countries and worlds within the confines of my mind.
Reading was my escape from the small-mindedness that seemed to pervade every crevice and corner of my small town.
Besides the modest home I shared with Nana, the library was the only other place I felt truly safe.
There was a quiet stillness that seemed to be a salve to my overwrought and anxious mind.
Reading kept me grounded. It kept me sane.
Now, as my eyes and fingertips grazed over the spines of the many volumes in my uncle’s study, I couldn’t help but wonder how many he had actually read.
Were there any he wanted to read, but hadn’t gotten the chance to yet?
I only owned one book completely outright; all the others I read were borrowed from the library.
My one tattered and torn copy of The Great Gatsby by F.
Scott Fitzgerald was a prized possession, a book I reread over and over again until I finally had it memorized.
I couldn’t even imagine owning this many books all to myself.
Would I be able to remember all the titles and authors?
Would I remember each book, each story, each character?
“You are welcome to borrow one whenever you wish.” A voice broke me out of my thoughts abruptly.
My fingers had hesitated on one book when Uncle Dan had spoken.
I turned around, knocking the book to the ground.
We both reached for the book and bumped heads.
He chortled while I awkwardly fumbled to put the book back where it had fallen from.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, pulling at the loose threads of my sweater. “I didn’t mean to snoop in your office. I was just looking at the books.”
He smiled warmly, rubbing his head. “You are welcome here anytime, Mari. What’s mine is yours.”
We stood there for a moment before he walked past me to gather some papers sitting on his desk.
“Why weren’t you at breakfast?” I asked, desperately trying to find a way to fill the silence.
“I have a case I’m working on. I went to the office early, but realized I left something here that I needed,” he replied, his eyes still scanning his haphazard desk. Papers were strewn about everywhere. I wasn’t sure how he would be able to find anything.
“You have to work on the weekend?” I asked as he finally found what he was looking for, placing it inside a manila folder he pulled from his desk drawer.
“When we have a case this big, the District Attorney wants everyone on high alert. Jury selection starts in a few weeks, and then the trial should begin soon after. We want to have all our ducks in a row.”