24
It was agitation, pain, pleasure; a something between delight and misery. —Persuasion
I try not to think about Freddy as I help serve brunch at eleven. I called him again this morning, and my call went straight to voicemail. Is he avoiding me because he started dating Rosie for real? Were our late-night conversations merely friendly chitchat that I mistook for something more? I don’t tell Lettie my concerns. What I’m feeling now is too scary to speak out loud. And I’m not in the mood to hear anyone else bad-mouthing or defending Freddy. My mind is furiously doing both. When Daisy and Gloria finally leave with a box of leftover pastries from the tea party, September gives me a big hug, which feels so good I never want to let go.
“Rainy!” she says, pulling back to look at me. “You completely outdid yourself. And it means so much to me that you planned a bachelorette party that met my needs and not yours. You would want something much quieter.”
“True. My party would be all in pajamas.”
“A very hygge hen party,” says Lettie, who is wiping down the white marble counter.
“Yes! That!” says September. “I’ll start planning it.”
“Don’t bother,” I say glumly. “I’m never getting married.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I saw you and Johnny Love last night,” says September. “And aren’t you two going to dinner tonight?”
“Yes, but that’s not going anywhere.” Mainly because I plan on letting him down easy tonight. I probably should have ended things sooner. But I wasn’t sure how I felt until the night on the pier. By then, Johnny had already offered his house for the wedding, and I really wanted his help planning the bachelorette party. I hope ending things with him goes okay. I like Johnny, and I’m ashamed to admit this, but he is well-connected and I don’t want to burn any bridges.
“It could, if you’d let it.” September sets down her phone, which she has been hovering over most of the morning. Responding to comments and posting more in her stories. “Not all marriages end up like Mom and Dad’s.”
“I know. The Musgroves live next door. It’s hard to find a happier couple. And Carlos is going to be a good husband.” Sometimes, I marvel at how patient he is with September. I try to muster up some enthusiasm, but I have a headache after my sleepless night, and it’s killing me that I haven’t heard from Freddy. “Let’s not talk about my non-existent love life. I’d rather think about your wedding. I’m so excited to see you in your dress today.”
***
We say goodbye to Lettie, who is going to pick up the rest of her family from the airport. We offered to have my aunt and uncle and cousins stay at our house. But Lettie declined, saying she didn’t want to give me any extra work with the wedding so close. This decision might have to do with my Uncle Frank barely tolerating my dad. Frank has always kind of blamed my dad for his sister’s death. Mom’s larger-than-life painting hangs in the entryway. She’s a young mother with September in her lap. I’m four or five and standing just to the side. My dad looks straight at the viewer, handsome and self-assured, while my mom gazes at him with such an adoring look. The expression on her face kind of breaks my heart. Why does it seem like women always love men more than they are ever loved back?
“Daddy!” September calls from the bottom of the grand staircase.
“I shall be forthwith.” He hollers from his bathroom.
September and I turn to each other at the same time. “Forthwith?” we say in unison.
“Oh, that’s right, he binged on Bridgerton last night,” September says.
“Safe to say he liked it.”
“Afternoon, ladies,” Dad says from the top of the stairs with a terrible cockney accent. He bows and removes a top hat from his head.
“Nice hat,” I say.
“Please do not wear that to the fitting?” September screeches.
He gives an enigmatic smile before leaving the hat on a side table in the entry.”
“I gather you liked Bridgerton ?” I ask.
“I did. I found it so inspiring. I called my agent.”
“What?!!!!” I gasp.
“It’s a wedding miracle!” says September.
“Calm down,” says my dad. “It’s no big deal.”
But this is a big deal. After Kellynch Farms and a couple of failed films, my dad has refused to get behind a camera. His standard line has been “I’ve done my best work and don’t want to become derivative.” My mother found this incredibly frustrating—especially since my dad spent money like nobody’s business. Her real estate job never quite cut it. After she died, I brought up the idea of Dad acting again, but he completely shut me out. He didn’t say no. He just pretended not to hear me. And now, after one night of binging Bridgerton , he called his agent?
“Is your agent even still working?” I ask.
“No, he retired to Palm Springs, but he passed me on to a nice gal who is going to help me. Even though I don’t really need an agent. Johnny Love is starting a new show, and he offered me a job.”
My mind is spinning. I literally pinch myself to see if this is a dream. I really didn’t get that much sleep last night. But the pinch I give my wrist hurts, and Dad is still talking. This must be real life.
“It’s a reality show that’s going to be a cross between The Bachelor , Bridgerton , and Survivor . I’ll be the host. The wicked Lord Harrington (I suggested the name, and Johnny loved it) who invited everyone to my manor on a private island.”
The whole thing sounds ludicrous but also (and please don’t quote me on this) something I’d watch. Also, it sounds like just the right level to showcase Dad’s talents. The audience will eat up his atrocious British accent.
“I think that’s wonderful, Daddy,” coos September.
“We Brits prefer to say brilliant.”
“Brilliant.” I echo back. And then it dawns on me that I do not need to feel guilty about using Johnny Love to plan the bachelorette party and hosting the wedding. He has been using me all along for access to my dad, which is fine by me if he can get him to work again. If there were no Freddy, I’d be tempted to give Johnny another chance. Then I recall that I still haven’t heard from Freddy.
On the drive to the dress shop, I check my phone again. Still no message. I cannot think about Freddy right now. In the front seat, Dad is telling September all about the new show. I text Johnny.
april
Dad says you have a job for him. Is this true????
johnny
Yes! Think he’ll do it?
april
He just might
johnny
Can you take a call?
We have just pulled into valet parking for the dress shop. Once out of the car, I tell my dad and sister to go ahead of me while I talk to Johnny.
He answers on the first ring. “April, sweetheart, thanks for calling.”
“Thanks for offering my dad a job. I can’t believe it.”
“So, you are in favor of this?”
“Yes! He reached out to his agent today.”
“Excellent! Your dad’s crucial to my vision for this show. Tell me, what do I need to do to get him to take this part?”
I had overheard Dad telling September about compensation and was startled by the generous offer.
“Strike while the iron is hot. He’s excited about it today, so I’d try to hammer out as many details as you can as soon as possible.”
“Great! Can I come over now?”
“Actually, we are at September’s last fitting.”
“Would it be weird if I met you there?” I think about my plans to definitively end things with Johnny tonight. Yeah, it might be weird for him to come to my sister’s bridal dress fitting, but the prospect of Dad finally working again has me willing to tell a few white lies.
“Not weird at all,” I say as I text him the address.
***
Inside, the dress shop is a fantasy of plush carpets, pink velvet, and crystal and gold adorning every square inch. They offer us drinks immediately. I take a flute of champagne, hoping to calm my nerves. I have to stop checking my phone, hoping for a text from Freddy.
September gives me a slew of instructions on how she would like me to film the fitting.
“You cannot, whatever you do, show the dress.”
“Got it! No dress filmed at the dress fitting.”
“Exactly; what we are looking for is the emotion on my face, your face, Dad’s face, and Gloria’s face (if she ever shows up).” She hands me her phone. “Also, be sure to capture the general ambiance of the shop.”
She heads to the dressing room, and I take a couple pictures of Dad, who is holding court on a pink Chesterton under an elaborate chandelier. I must say, his particular handsomeness does pair well with luxury. I can see exactly why Johnny wants him for this job. My dad’s brand of unconscious pompous vanity will provide just the right comic relief in a program that promises peak drama.
September steps out of the dressing room in a sleek cream satin gown with a plunging back. Her dress is simple, elegant, flattering, and absolutely stunning. I’m filming my dad, avoiding capturing the dress at all costs.
“Couldn’t you have chosen something a little more...” He waves his hands in the air. “... exciting?” I stop filming and quickly delete the video. September does not need this moment recorded for all time. Though I hardly think she’ll forget it. Hurtful comments usually stick so much longer than nice ones. “Look at all the dresses in this place. Why don’t you try this one.” He pulls a beaded dress off the rack. It’s admittedly gorgeous, but not the dress that filled September’s eyes with happy tears when we first came in July. Dad had been invited but couldn’t attend because he had a tanning appointment. Today, September’s eyes brim with decidedly unhappy tears.
“Be still my beating heart.” Gloria’s slightly accented voice carries through the room. Mrs. Musgrove rushes in from the front door. September stands on a pedestal in front of three mirrors. “You are a sight to behold. An absolute angel,” gushes Gloria. God bless that woman.
“I agree,” I chime in. “This dress is perfection, not too fussy but still bridal.”
Gloria turns to my dad, noting that he is holding a dress. She’s quick to read the room and do something about it. “That daughter of yours has exquisite taste. She must have got that from you, Dean.”
Dad surreptitiously drapes the dress over a chair before greeting Gloria. As always, his face softens for his old neighbor, who hugs him.
“Can you believe this day has come?” she says with a bit of a catch in her voice. “Our babies are getting married.”
“It’s hard to believe since we are so young,” answers my dad, taking a moment to admire himself in one of the room’s many gilded mirrors.
“Good grief. I am about to marry off my son and possibly a daughter. I don’t mind looking my age,” says Gloria.
“A daughter?” I can’t help but ask.
“It’s all hush, hush right now. I’ll know more when Rosie flies in tonight. But she said something to her dad about Boris being the one.” Gloria pops down on the pink couch. Dad hands her a flute of champagne.
“She’s dating Benwick?” I ask, giddy with relief.
“Yes, the sly thing. For weeks, she let Chuck and I think it was Freddy she was dating. We got our hopes up.”
“Benwick’s a good guy,” I offer as my mind swirls with joy.
“I hope so,” says Gloria. “But he’s no Freddy West.” Inwardly, I agree.
Feeling a little lighter, I check in on my sister.
“How are you holding up?” I ask her in a low tone so Dad and Gloria can’t hear.
“Why does he have to be like that?”
September’s annoyance at Dad’s behavior seems as futile as complaining about traffic on the 405. I’ve just come to expect Dad’s little slights. But maybe I shouldn’t.
“You know he has terrible taste,” I say. “The dress is gorgeous. And you look so lovely.”
“Are you just saying that?” She wipes her eyes with tissues handed to her by a very stressed shop owner.
“I am not just saying that. I love this dress. I do.” In a lower voice, I say, “You can’t take Dad seriously. He painted himself as God on the living room ceiling.”
September snorts and then cries a little more. “Sometimes I feel like he is God.” I know exactly what she means. For most of my life, I’ve been placating my father as if he were a vengeful god. Doing everything I can to make him happy. We learned it from our mother. The whole house danced to his every whim. I’ve been taking steps to stand up for myself and make my own decisions, but this has got to end. I have to move out. I am 27. I have to be my own person. I can’t believe I haven’t had the guts to tell him that I don’t want to sing anymore. He might throw a tantrum. But so what? Freddy’s surfing advice comes to mind. “Don’t hesitate. Just stand up!”
I hug September. “Sometimes it feels like he’s God.” I lean back and look at her very pretty, tear-stained face. “But he’s just a silly, vain man, who happens to be our father. And it’s time we stand up to him.”
Dad gets up from his seat on the velvet couch and joins us. “So, this is the final dress?” he asks tentatively.
September takes a deep breath before answering. “It is and I love it. I’m sorry that you don’t approve.”
“This is not about you,” he says. “It’s about the dress.”
“No, Dad, this is not about the dress,” I say. “It’s always about you! And this is about how you treat your daughters. Yes, we know you have had to be mother and father to us both. And your particular way of showing us love is to criticize our appearance. But it has to stop.”
“I am not talking about September’s appearance,” he says, looking baffled. “She looks lovely. She always does. I’m talking about this dress. It’s just so... boring.”
“It just so happens I LOVE this boring dress,” September says, looking at three reflections of herself in the mirror. She sounds completely confident. There is no trace of wobble in her voice. “I look amazing.” She turns around and faces Dad. She steps off the pedestal and takes another step toward him. “And since April is bankrolling this wedding, you will just have to live with it.”
Wow! September went right for the jugular. We never! And I mean NEVER refer to the fact that I fund most of our household. And to say so in front of Gloria Musgrove before she had a chance to turn to the rack of wedding dresses and pretend to look occupied.
Dad’s face turns an unbecoming shade of purple. A distinct muscle ticks in his jaw as he clenches his fists. But to his credit, he doesn’t burst out in anger. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He sits on the couch, looking utterly humiliated.
September scurries to his side, joining him on the pink couch. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I shouldn’t have said that in front of other people.”
He has a hand over his face as if in frustration. I think he might be weeping. He rubs his face with the back of his hands before he answers. “I deserved that.”
“You kind of did,” she says.
“I love you girls. I do.”
His comment strikes me as incredibly honest. And oddly lacking any whiff of Buck Harrington. “We love you, too,” says September, putting her arm around him. I’m not feeling quite so eager to forgive him. Possibly because it’s my little sister he was just picking on.
He catches my eye. “April, I am sorry you have had to pay the bills for so many years. I am going to find some work. If this thing with Johnny falls through, I’ll look for something else.”
I cannot believe he is apologizing. My words to Johnny run through my head: “Strike while the iron is hot.” I wet my lips. It’s time.
“I’m glad to hear that because, Dad, I’m not going back on stage.”
“You’re not?” blurts out Gloria, totally destroying the ruse that she is not following our every word.
“No, I am not. I want to start my own business. An-investment-firm-geared-toward-child-stars,” I say in one breath.
“Sounds tedious,” says September.
“Good thing you won’t be doing it,” I retort.
“I love it!” says Gloria. “You will be amazing at this.”
“She will be.” Dad slaps his knee as he agrees with Gloria. Knee slapping means Buck Harrington is back, and it’s not exactly a bad sign. “Did you know that since April took over the finances, I haven’t had to worry about money?”
I am not sure if that is much of a compliment. I don’t think Dad ever worried about money. But I’m glad to see his fury has passed and that he is already slapping his knee. The usual sign that he is about to bestow us with some Buck Harrington wisdom.
“I’m glad we had this little talk,” he says to September and me. “The world always looks better after a good thunderstorm.” He pauses and looks off to the distance, ready for his close-up. Watching him pose like this reminds me of my filming assignment from September.
“Oh no! I didn’t get any good footage of you trying your dress on.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want any of that on film.”
Under my breath, I say, “I kind of wish I had Dad’s apology on film.”
September smiles big. “Me too. Me too!”