Chapter 7
7
“I HATE SAD SATURDAYS,” Hayley muttered.
“Me too.” I rang the doorbell to my parents’ home in Old Metairie, an elegant suburb on the outskirts of New Orleans. Deep, somber chimes rang, setting the tone for the evening. Several years ago, we’d officially named the last Saturday of every month, our standing dinner appointment with my parents. “Name one good thing.”
Hayley effused a long-suffering sigh only a teenager could manage. “The desserts.”
“You sound like your mom.”
Her lower lip rolled in, her gaze plummeting to her feet, as though realizing she’d actually conversed with me on a topic that didn’t involve getting a dog.
“My one good thing is this will be over in a few hours.” And I could feel my parents out for a loan. Or at least begin dropping breadcrumbs about the potential expansion. They were my plan C. My plan A was the New Orleans Redevelopment Authority. I’d reach out to them for a meeting, hoping to utilize their Small Business Grant Assistance Program. Plan B was a federal SBA loan, as long as it didn’t require using Mawmaw’s mansion as collateral. In her will, Mawmaw had been adamant her house not be lost because of a forfeited loan.
“If we had a dog waiting for us at home, that would be something to look forward to.”
I smothered a sigh and turned, surveying the shallow front lawn.
This plot of land had been the site of my childhood residence. But twenty years ago, when the next-door neighbors had listed their place for sale, my parents had snatched it up and demolished both homes, right along with my and Claire’s memories (not that there were many happy ones). I think that was partially why Mawmaw had willed her mansion and belongings to us. She didn’t trust my parents with them.
Now sat a monster of a house, where just two people resided. The only things remaining from our early years were the trees near the street. Ones we hadn’t been allowed to climb, which was torture since live oaks were the best kind for scaling. Especially on a road with little traffic.
The doorknob twisted, much like my stomach.
My mom appeared, wearing a tweed skirt suit she’d no doubt purchased from Saks Fifth Avenue. Mama hadn’t been a religious person, save for Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday. But she faithfully attended Saks every Saturday. And dragged Claire and I along up until our late teens. It was her version of church, except instead of grape juice for the Lord’s Supper, they gave her champagne to sip while she shopped.
Mawmaw once said that my mom’s parents, who passed before I was born, had died on purpose to escape my mother. I believed it. But just about every Sunday morning Mawmaw picked Claire and I up for church. It had irked Mama, but not enough to risk her objecting for fear of exclusion from her mother-in-law’s will. I never knew if it was the threat of public shame of them being cut out or the fact that Mama wanted more money to sit in their already fat bank accounts. In the end, they’d still been excluded from receiving anything from Mawmaw’s estate. Because of that jilting, Claire had started our monthly dinner gatherings as a hopeful way to mend our relationships.
Mama scanned me and Hayley, her Lanc?me-colored lips pinching to one side. The style of her dark auburn hair was an exact replica of Nancy Reagan, circa 1981. The greens and browns in the tweed suit complemented her pale complexion. Though I’d bet her personality tonight prickled more than the fabric. Her low heels (yes, she wore heels at home, even when she wasn’t expecting company) completed her polished appearance.
Mama’s silent inspection continued.
I fought the urge to squirm beneath my simple teal wrap dress and flats. Hayley remained mute beside me, having donned black slacks and a dove-gray sweater.
Mama’s hazel gaze met mine. “You’re late.”
“Only by ten minutes. There was an accident on the interstate.”
“We’ll have to go straight in to dinner.”
Well, that was another one good thing. We’d missed the appetizers and strained conversation portion of the evening.
Our footsteps echoed against the marble floors as she ushered us past their formal living room, Daddy’s study, and into their opulent dining room.
Daddy stood from his seat at the head of the long table, looking like he’d just returned from golfing with the president. “Girls.” His greeting was much warmer than Mama’s, his unusually casual outfit no doubt annoying her. Every month she wanted everyone dressed as though we were posing for a Christmas card.
Hayley and I took turns kissing Daddy’s cheek and taking our assigned seats. The table could have easily accommodated twelve, but was only set for four, forcing us to sit across from one other. Somewhere in this elaborate mansion sat eight chairs that belonged in this room. Eight chairs that would be hefted back by their poor maid after we left.
Mama took her seat, snapping out her cloth napkin and laying it over her lap. She rang the bell next to her silverware (yes, a bell), signaling her personal chef (yes, a personal chef) to begin this torturous meal. “You’ll have to excuse your father’s appearance this evening.”
“You look great, Daddy, like you got some sun today.”
My father had always been a doppelg?nger for Michael Douglas, which he loved, especially when Michael Douglas had snagged Catherine Zeta-Jones. He sipped amber liquid from his scotch glass. “Thank you. And I didn’t have time to change because we got held up at the last hole.”
“The last hole or the club bar?” Mama muttered to the ornate crown molding.
Daddy took another sip of his drink. Before retiring, he’d been a cardiothoracic surgeon, always at work or on call. Nights and weekends he’d be swept away without a moment’s notice, which never bothered him. If anything, it had been the opposite. I never could blame him for not wanting to be home, where Mama was. But I could blame him for being an absent parent and a doormat to Mama. When Claire had moved out, she’d asked him why he stayed, and he’d simply said that Mama made life easy for him. All he had to do was go to work. Disappear into a challenging job he desperately loved. She took care of everything else.
“How did you play?” I asked.
He gazed at his scotch glass. “Better than yesterday.” If Mama was a member of Saks’ congregation, upon retirement, Daddy had become a dedicated deacon at the neighborhood golf club.
Their latest personal chef entered, wearing a white coat and carrying a large tray. He placed a plate before each of us, only Hayley and I thanking him, and left. From the scent of Tabasco and cinnamon, I knew it was a sunburst salad. And since Mama dictated every meal, it was her doing. My neck stiffened. I lowered my fork, ready to remind her, once again, that spicy foods upset Hayley’s stomach.
Hayley caught my eye, shaking her head imperceptibly.
I raised my brows. Are you sure?
She gave a slight but resolute nod.
I sighed and forked a bite of baby lettuce, spearing a cranberry that would’ve been soaked overnight in port wine. The explosion of tastes was instant. Sugary juiciness with a hint of heat.
Daddy chewed and swallowed. “How’s business?”
“Good.” I sipped water from my crystal goblet, sending up a quick prayer over the breadcrumb I was about to drop. “I’ve actually come across an interesting opportunity.”
Daddy’s expression held intrigue, Mama’s leeriness.
Hayley stopped pushing her uneaten salad around, her full attention on me.
I set my water down. “There’s a property in the French Quarter that’s coming on the market soon.” Playing it cool, I took another bite of our first course. A contradictory texture of smooth blue cheese and crunchy sliced almond.
Hayley resumed fake eating.
“You’re looking to expand already?” Daddy cut through his salad, his knife grating against the fine china. “Isn’t your money tied up in the courtyard?”
“It is.”
Mama gave Daddy a knowing look. She had always controlled everything in this house. Claire and I when we lived here, my dad, their money. Would she offer a loan, or watch me squirm until I asked for help?
Mama dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Then it seems you’ve missed an interesting opportunity.”
Watching me squirm it is.
She continued. “I told you renovating the courtyard was a colossal waste of money. People don’t like eating outside with the heat and bugs. You run a respectable café, not a BBQ.”
I muffled a scoff. As if there was something wrong with BBQ restaurants. “I only use the courtyard for special events.”
Daddy shifted in his chair. “You invested into something you’re not using all the time?”
“Special events are picking up.” Sort of. “And those catered parties lend themselves to controllable costs, which means a high profitability.”
Mama sniffed, and her gaze caught on her plate. With a scowl she grasped her bell and rang it.
Oh, heavens.
The chef reappeared, uncertainty in his features. “Ma’am?”
“Is this Stilton or gorgonzola?” Mama gestured to her dish. Her tone gave no indication as to which cheese was the correct answer.
“Stilton, ma’am.”
For a beat, her gaze narrowed further at the poor guy, his job resting on which form of blue cheese he’d served. “Very well.” She dismissed him with a condescending wave.
I had a feeling when this chef was fired, he’d steal her bell like the last one had.
Mama placed a piece of the cheese in her mouth, concentrating on her bite as though she still didn’t believe her cook.
Hayley accidentally knocked a cranberry off her plate and quickly returned it.
It was just enough to turn Mama’s attention her way. “Hayley, how are your grades right now?”
“Good, ma’am,” Hayley answered, low but clear.
Mama leaned forward. “What does ‘good’ mean? What’s your GPA?”
Hayley avoided direct eye contact with her, as though she were a dangerous monkey.
I straightened, pitching my voice. “She’s doing great in school. She turned in a really fascinating social studies project on Hurricane Katrina.”
Mama waved that praise away, her unrelentless stare on Hayley. “What’s your GPA?”
Hayley lifted a slim shoulder. “Average, ma’am?”
Although her usage of ma’am with Mama was a sign of respect, it also bore a sign of the tense formality between them. The only times I’d ma’am ’d Mawmaw had been with a simple yes or no answer.
Mama rang the bell and projected her stern voice toward the kitchen entrance. “Next course, Andre.”
Andre arrived in a flash, removing our salads and replacing them with pork tenderloin, roasted potatoes, and brussels sprouts. He refilled our drinks and vanished. Hopefully to search the classifieds for another job.
Hayley took a tentative bite of potatoes, relief washing over her features. She shoveled in another morsel, chewing while cutting a portion of meat. Daddy followed suit, quietly eating his meal.
Mama pointed her fork at Hayley. “Average grades would be Cs.” She flipped her gaze to me. “You need to push her. Get some tutors.” Her stare returned to Hayley. “Your mom’s grades started waning in high school until we got her a tutor. She graduated with a 4.0.”
Claire had graduated with a 4.0 and a stomach ulcer.
Hayley stilled, studying her untouched brussels sprouts. And seriously, who served brussels sprouts to their grandkid?
I clenched my fork and knife, striving to maintain an unaffected voice. “Her grades are fine.”
“What about extracurriculars?” Mama’s regard swept over each person at the table. “Colleges look at extracurriculars.”
Releasing my grip on my utensils, I switched to strangling the napkin on my lap. “She’s in seventh grade. College isn’t on her radar yet.”
“It was on your radar at her age.”
Because it was my ticket to moving out of here.
Daddy rose and refilled his scotch at the bar cart.
Mama returned her attention to Hayley. “Are you in any clubs? Or student council?”
Hayley’s big blue eyes lifted from her plate to the floral centerpiece, and she shook her head.
Mama sighed. “Hayley, do you think you can grace us with more than shaking your head and two-word answers?” Mama stared at me while she pointed this question. Another jab at my subpar parenting.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll try,” Hayley said.
I stopped strangling my napkin and took up my utensils again, the desire to bear weapons surging. “You need to take it easy.”
Mama pulled a face. “How is she supposed to develop her social skills unless she contributes to conversations? Participates in clubs?”
“There’s nothing wrong with her social skills,” I said. “Hayley has friends, helps out at the café, volunteers at the library.”
“The public library,” Mama muttered, sipping from her goblet. “One can only imagine the cast of characters there.”
Micah came to mind. I’d avoided seeing him earlier by staying in the car and texting Hayley when I’d arrived to pick her up. Pretty soon it would be obvious I was steering clear of him. Especially since—thanks to the embarrassing period voice mail I’d left—he knew I’d forged a somewhat friendship with the former librarian.
“Kate, stop rubbing between your brows,” Mama scolded. “It’s unladylike.” She turned her gaze to Hayley. “Hayley, you’re wearing the same thing as last month. Why don’t you wear any of the clothes I’ve given you?”
“Mama,” I cautioned.
Hayley had worn the most conservative of her wardrobe. She’d even donned a pair of flats she loathed. It’d prompted my change from heels to flats in a show of solidarity. She was completely appropriate for dinner with her grandparents. And uncomfortable. And she’d done it for them.
Mama scrutinized Hayley. “You’re so scrawny.”
“Mama.” Even I heard the warning growl in my voice.
Mama continued. “At least the outfits I gave you would accentuate the positives of your body.”
Hayley, still invoking the dangerous monkey rule, stared at her vile veggies.
“Mom.” Heat, having nothing to do with hot flashes or a hot man, raced through me. I gaped at Daddy, wishing, not for the first time in my life, he’d come to my rescue.
He met my gaze.
Vulnerability encircled my heart, squeezing tighter and tighter. Choose me this time. Choose Hayley.
A sad emptiness overtook his expression, and he dropped his sights to the table.
My heart withered, my eyes growing hot. After a lifetime of him being a coward to Mama, it was foolish of me to hope it’d be different this time.
“And your hair,” Mama said to Hayley. “Do you own a brush?”
I shot to my feet. “We’re finished here.”
“Katherine, really.” Mama all but rolled her eyes.
“You’re being rude.” I dropped my napkin on the table.
“ You’re being rude,” she said. “Sit down.”
If I didn’t sit, I’d ruin any chance of a loan. My plan C would be destroyed. But unlike my parents, I believed some things were worth more than money or taking the easy route. I looked at Hayley. “Let’s go.”
With our dramatic exit complete, I pulled my parent’s front door shut behind us and took a breath of the cool night air.
Hayley leaned into me, her thin arm wrapping my waist. “Thanks.”
Wonder struck, and a gust of love so deep and full and true surged. How long had it been since she’d hugged me on her own? A year? I knew that was expected with teens, but I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed all of those childhood snuggles until this very second. I returned the gesture as we took the walkway to my car. “Anytime, kiddo.”