Chapter Eight Nate #2
“Now come on,” Mom says and ushers us into the formal dining room, where the table is set with a white tablecloth, fine china, and fresh flowers. Helium balloons adorn all four corners of the room. A family tradition.
“Sit wherever you want,” she adds. “Hot waffles are on the way.”
I’m relieved, at first, when the conversation over brunch is directed at the grandchildren.
Dad asks Andy about his soccer team, and Mom talks to the twins about their swimming lessons.
Blueberry waffles and bacon arrive on shiny silver platters.
(My parents employ a housekeeper named Jane, who also cooks and serves.) We talk about the rainy weather while we douse our plates in maple syrup and spoon dollops of fresh whipped cream on top of the waffles.
I’m comfortable keeping quiet, under the radar, because brunch is delicious and I’m starving.
I help myself to a second waffle, spoon some mashed blueberries and whipped cream on top, drench it in maple syrup, and shovel it into my mouth.
No sense letting the bacon go to waste. I grab some more of that too.
And then the conversation takes a turn that I wasn’t expecting.
Andy—my nephew, whose secret I promised to take to the grave when he clogged the toilet with his toy dinosaur—betrays me.
“What do you get when you cross a plumber with a jeweler?” he asks.
I glance up from my plate. My mouth is full, so I can’t respond, but I stop chewing.
My father, clearly enthralled, sits back in his chair. “No idea, Andy. Do tell.”
“A ring around the bathtub!” Andy shouts.
I direct my gaze to my brother. Arthur is beaming with pride, as if he fed the joke to his son at some point, probably when they were discussing me and my new girlfriend.
Everyone laughs, and my mother sits back in her chair and claps her hands. I immediately lose my appetite.
“Priceless!” she says with laughter.
Andy looks pleased with himself, and I worry for him.
“How about this one?” my father asks. He turns his sneering eyes to meet mine. “What do plumbers and economists all have in common?”
I sit back and toss my white linen napkin onto the table beside my plate. “No idea.”
“They all deal with gross domestic product.”
“Eww!” Alex cries, and everyone bursts into fits of laughter. My father grins with satisfaction as he reaches for more bacon.
“Why was the plumber depressed?” Andy asks. “Because his career was going down the toilet!”
My gaze sweeps around the table. For the life of me, I can’t understand why my family is so intent on making fun of an amazing woman they’ve never met. A woman they know nothing about, except that her father is a plumber.
Are any of these people capable of acknowledging that Sienna’s father built a thriving plumbing business from scratch, which now employs hundreds of workers?
Would they appreciate that, at the family level, the MacKays are kind and loving toward each other?
Sometimes they leave dirty dishes in the sink until the following morning, and no one gets yelled at.
The dogs are allowed to jump on the furniture whenever they want.
A scratch on the hardwood floor is considered a normal part of life.
I feel as if my heart has gone cold, and for the first time, I don’t give a damn about my father’s approval.
Hell, I did what he wanted. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and got into law school.
But sitting here now, I feel like I’m still spinning my tires.
What else do I have to do to earn this man’s respect?
Funny. I used to think I had everything—because my parents were rich and there were no obvious struggles. But since meeting Sienna’s family, I’ve come to realize that I was raised with a different sort of deprivation.
The persistent laughter sends my thoughts into a tailspin.
“Dad, can I talk to you?” I ask.
Laughter fades. Everyone’s uneasy eyes land on me.
“I’m sitting right here, aren’t I?” he replies.
“In private.” My tone is hard, demanding, and I think he might be in shock because I’ve never stood up to him before.
Certainly, I rebelled in my youth, but this is different.
It’s happening in front of the family at the Birthday Brunch table.
His wife, his son, his daughter-in-law, and his grandchildren are all witnessing the event.
“Let’s go into my office.” He rises from his chair at the head of the table, and I follow. “This had better not be what I think it is,” he warns as he shuts his office door behind us and strides heavily toward the credenza.
I glance around at the dark leather furniture and his monstrous mahogany desk. As children, we were rarely permitted to enter this room, but I try not to think about that. I’m not a child anymore.
“What if it is?” I ask with a note of challenge.
He pours scotch from the crystal decanter and hands the glass to me. Though I’m not normally a day drinker, I accept it and watch while he pours another for himself.
“Go on, then,” he says, facing me. “Let’s have it. Give me what you’ve got.”
Suddenly I’m afflicted with some sort of emotional paralysis, or maybe it’s just plain old terror because my father is a grizzly bear. He’s bad tempered, loud, and hungry for blood. When he’s angry and he speaks, he growls.
I down the scotch in a single gulp, and he laughs at me. “I figured you were going to need that.”
As I wipe my mouth and set the crystal glass on the edge of his desk, I hate him for being right. “We spoke about it before,” I say, “when I told you I didn’t like law school.”
“No one likes law school, you twit. But you man up and get through it. Like the rest of us.”
“I don’t want to get through it,” I reply, “because I don’t want to be a lawyer. I want to be a chef and open my own restaurant.”
Dad glares, then stalks to the window, where he stands with feet apart, gazing out at the bay. I’m surprised at how relaxed he appears as he sips his drink. I suspect he’s confident that I’m going to back down and give it another shot. At the very least, finish out the term.
“I sent notice to the registrar’s office on Friday,” I tell him. “I’ve informed them, in writing, that I’m quitting. Friday was my last day.”
I might as well have dropped a grenade into the space between us. Dad swings around and roars at me. “You did what? Without speaking to me first?”
“I already spoke to you about it,” I remind him, “and it was clear you didn’t support the idea, so I didn’t see the point.”
His face reddens. His broad shoulders stiffen visibly. “I’m the one paying your bills. I deserved to know before the damned registrar.”
“I knew you’d only try to talk me out of it.”
“Damn right I would!” He waves his arm about. “I don’t want my son throwing his life away to work in a kitchen, chopping onions for a living. Do you have any idea how much a cook makes?”
“It’s not about the money.”
He laughs bitterly, as if I’m a fool. “Everything’s about the money eventually. You’ll discover that in about five years when you’re broke and living in a dump with cockroaches. Then you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I tell him vehemently. “I’ll make it work.”
I want desperately to convince him that I can do it, even though, when I came here, I was certain that I’d never get his blessing. I had come prepared to accept that I’d have to make my own way, that he’d never support me or believe in me.
“I’m confident that I’ll be more successful doing something I love,” I try to explain. “Something I’m passionate about. Can you try to understand that?”
“Oh, for the love of God. You sound like an infant! The world doesn’t work that way. And you’ll get nowhere without my support.”
“Financial support, you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares at me with those black, beady eyes.
“Then give it to me,” I say, point blank. “Give me a chance to prove myself. Fund my education. Send me to Europe to learn from the best, and I swear, Dad, I’ll make you proud. I’ll come home and make a name for myself. I’ll open the best restaurant in the city.”
My father’s face hardens. His expression turns cold as stone. “You don’t know the first damn thing about opening a business or running a restaurant. You don’t know that it takes a lot more than knowing how to cook a decent steak. Frankly, it’s beneath you.”
My throat tightens, but I stand my ground. “It’s beneath you, you mean. You want me in a suit, carrying a briefcase. Or maybe a surgeon’s scrubs would have been good enough. But not much else.”
We stare at each other intensely, and it takes every measure of courage and resolve I can muster to not look away.
“Is this about that girl?” he asks callously. “The plumber’s daughter.”
My hackles rise. “Stop calling her that.”
“Sienna, then. Did she put these dreams in your head? Is she the one who made you think it was a good idea to quit law school?”
“No,” I firmly reply. “I wanted to be a chef long before I met her.”
“But you knew it wasn’t an actual career option.” He speaks with loathing and malice. “You always knew a law degree was the best path for you.”
“No, Dad, I never thought that. You thought it was the right path for me, and I just didn’t want to fight you. I wanted to make you happy.”
As I speak the words, I hear traces of affection in my voice, a weakness.
He inclines his head, and something in his expression softens.
“You did, son. You did make me happy. I was never more proud than I was on the day you received the acceptance letter from the law school.” He sets his glass down on the desk, approaches me, and rests both hands on my shoulders.
He looks me straight in the eye, and something inside me trembles.
“You went through a bad time in high school,” he says, “and it was rough, especially on your mother, but you came through it, and you were better for it.”