Chapter 4
Venus
“Venus! They’re here!” My father’s voice bellows from the bottom of the stairs. The front door opens and closes, excited greetings are exchanged, and the unmistakable yap of a dog adds to the chaos.
I’ve been home only a few hours. I had tea with Christie, assisted my father with the groceries upon his return, unpacked somewhat, and showered. I’m rundown from travel and nerves, but I’ve ticked the necessary boxes.
A dinner with Ivy and her new boyfriend adds tension, as it will take every iota of my remaining energy to be pleasant. Ivy’s the pleasant one. She’s so skilled at it that anyone in her vicinity has to make a concerted effort not to seem awkward and unsociable by comparison.
It’s a cosmic irony that we ended up in the same family.
I rush downstairs so as not to be rude.
Ivy looks as lovely and perfect as always.
Her brown hair falls like a satin sheet around her shoulders, and her blue irises sparkle under her pristine makeup and thick lashes.
She wears sandals that showcase her pink-painted toenails and a form-fitting sundress covered in pastel polka dots that even I find adorable, although dresses, polka dots, and open-toed shoes don’t exist in my wardrobe.
The tall man beside her looks equally well-dressed, as do Dad and Christie, each wearing varying shades of chinos and button-down shirts, though Christie’s is silky, and he wears a floral scarf as a tie.
A glance at my cut-off jean shorts and Be Kind to Nature t-shirt assures me that I’m underdressed, not that I own anything suitable for a dinner party.
“Venus, I love that you’re here!” Ivy coos while a dog barks at my feet. She hesitates before lunging for a hug. I allow her embrace, and jasmine perfume tickles my nose. “I’m so excited for you to meet Gil. Don’t be weird.”
She whispers the last part, and I’m yanked to the past again, when she used to say the same thing whenever her friends came over.
Gil Tripp offers a gentle handshake, smiling affably. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Venus. Nice ink.” With an unsure glance at the others, he adds, “Not that I have ink. Or mind that someone else does. Two of my brothers have tattoos. I’ve just never… needles, you know.”
He releases my hand with a nervous flourish, as if he couldn’t tell if he’d shaken it too long. It’s nice not to be the only awkward person in the room.
“Those are her design,” Dad says, blank-faced, though sounding proud. “Venus is an artist.”
“I’m an environmental scientist and botanist,” I counter.
His hands go into the pockets of his gray chinos, and he teeters on his feet. “Hmm, you think you’re a scientist who dabbles in art. I believe you’re an artist, determined to be a scientist. What you should be is an artist and a scientist—equally and equally important.”
“Are you suggesting that a wall painting is just as important as a scientific discovery that betters people’s lives?” I challenge.
“Art betters people’s lives, too,” Dad returns in his typically calm voice. “The effects may not be as measurable as in the scientific community, but everyone needs beauty and inspiration.”
“You surprise me with your vague generalities. A safe and healthy environment is infinitely more important than pretty decorations,” I huff, but my heart palpitates when I take in their distressed expressions, as if I’ve said something wrong. Did I? “But…”
They watch me like I’m a ticking bomb, nearing the end of its countdown.
I try to formulate a better response, but it gets tangled up in memories. My father’s perpetual mild-manneredness, while a comfort, proved irritating growing up. He never got mad—and I don’t use absolutes lightly.
Even when I was angry.
Even when I needed him to be angry, too.
In early childhood, before I knew or understood myself, Dad would try, calmly, to explain my hurts to me.
The other kids teased me for my big words, dirty hair, and muddy boots, and called me every variety of the word annoying because “People often ridicule what they don’t understand.”
My teachers didn’t like my questions… or couldn’t answer them because “Your questions often fall outside the curriculum and exceed their knowledge set.”
I didn’t feel I belonged because “The intricacies of group dynamics don’t favor those who are exceptional.”
Or difficult, I’d tack on in my head.
My frustration led to impulses I struggled to control, often failing.
Screaming, at no one in particular, just to give the energy surge somewhere to go.
Stamping my feet.
Fisting my hands.
Pulling my hair.
Running.
Always running. Racing through the woods flickers through my thoughts. In the rain. In the snow. In the heat. Sunlight. Grayness. Darkness. Boots. Bare feet. Socks. Scratches on my arms and legs from whipping through branches. Tripping. Hurting. Panting.
My head shakes, breaking me from the thought cycle. My control increased with age. But my worst moments are most remembered, as if it takes a million positive encounters to cancel out a single negative one. They still expect the worst from me.
Ivy and Dad almost appear to be holding their breaths, awaiting my response. I wonder how Dad and Ivy explained me to their significant others. Evidence suggests that they may have said something like, “She’s smart but difficult.” That’s how they’ve explained me before.
Always with a but.
But I understand—I often say the wrong things.
I have a lazy, unreliable filter with a low efficacy rate.
At least, that’s what Dr. Broderick and I have concluded.
I sift through years of my therapist’s advice for an answer that I hope isn’t weird or difficult.
“Your thoughts are intriguing and worth consideration.” I tack on a toothy smile for good measure, though it feels incorrect on my face.
Everyone relaxes at once. Well, except for Dad. He maintains his usual composure.
A white and black puppy paws at my leg, demanding attention. I lean over and give it a customary rub behind the ears—I’ve read that dogs appreciate that.
“That’s Buster. He’s a Border Collie.” Ivy reaches into her bag for a ball and tosses it across the room. The dog races after it, fishtailing across the wood floor. He retrieves the ball dutifully, drops it at her feet, and races around our group, barking.
“Hmm, I do believe we’re being herded,” Dad says, amused.
Gil presents Dad with a bottle of wine. “Christie said we’re having lasagna. I thought a pinot might be a good pairing.”
“Ah, excellent.” Dad scrutinizes the label, though he’s not a wine connoisseur. “A good wine pairs perfectly with good company. I’ll get this open.”
“I’ll help with glasses,” Gil says, following him into the small kitchen.
“Okay, girls,” Christie coos conspiratorially, “let’s hurry outside to the table and dish about how cute and nervous Gil is.”
Giggling ensues as they rush through the living room to the glass doors. Buster yaps, trailing behind them. I hesitate, unsure if I want to engage in that conversation.
But when Christie holds the door open and waves me along, I comply. Christie is an excellent conversationalist, as he demonstrated earlier when he “spilled the tea” about his relationship with Dad.
They met several months ago when he and his daughter, Wren, discovered Venus flytraps around a swamp near their home in Seagrove. Interested in preserving the discovery, they emailed the expert for advice. Dad drove out to see for himself.
“He expected a woman. I signed my emails Christie, you see,” he laughed as he explained, “but he wasn’t disappointed at the surprise. We’re both single dads with daughters named for something in nature—funny, right? It was an instant connection. It’s never too late to find your soulmate.”
“Um, if you believe in that sort of thing,” I said, though I do. “I’m happy for you both.”
“I knew you would be,” he grinned. He went on to tell me about Wren, who recently graduated from high school and has gone to Europe. It was his gift to her, funding her travel during her gap year.
“We’re meeting her there,” he explained after telling me about his planned trip with my father.
“The International Horticultural Society’s convention in Belgium, followed by a week in Paris, time in Spain, and then backpacking with Wren.
It’s the trip of a lifetime. But you know all about that—you’ve been everywhere. ”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so he solicited my help in setting the table for dinner.
This involved linen napkins, a rustic, floral tablecloth, silverware, and a vase of wildflowers as a centerpiece.
At first, I thought these items were superfluous, more to clean up.
But now, I understand how it makes the table more pleasant.
We sit in mismatched chairs at the round table overlooking the garden and woods. It’s warm and humid, but Christie, who was an electrical engineer before retiring to be a stay-at-home dad, has made several upgrades to the property, including installing ceiling fans along the underdeck and pergola.
He’s also installed an ingenious misting system in the greenhouse that recycles water from our in-house dehumidifiers. He calls it the Misty Christie.
Ivy’s full laughter pulls me into the present. She leans closer to Christie. “He tried on four shirts before finally deciding on that one, and they were all the same, just different shades of blue.”
They laugh.
“I appreciate a man who dresses up,” Christie says. “It’s not every day that you meet your love’s father. It’s a dressy occasion.”
“I don’t own a dress,” I blurt. I run my finger over the long oval of my mood ring, finding some comfort in its smooth surface. “Or dress clothes.”
Ivy smiles. “Don’t worry about it, Vee. You didn’t know about tonight’s dinner, either. We understand.”
“You’re here,” Christie smiles. “That’s all that matters.”