Page 40 of Dream House
“Oh, so you’re makingChateaubriandor something? Twice-baked potatoes and seared asparagus?”
“Funny, Dad,” I deadpan. If I tell him it’s kabobs and rice pilaf, he’ll wind up staying.
“You know I’m just kiddin’. C’mon. Help me out. It’ll take ten minutes.”
He does have a point. I’ve already spent precious time on the phone trying to get out of something I already know I won’t get out of. But I’m not going to let him bring us crappy food and think we’re square.
“Fine. Come over. Skip the burgers. But you’re washing your hair first—”
“Aww,” Dad grumbles. “That’s the best part.”
“Well,” I tsk. “That’s the part that comes with making an appointment.”
His laugh ratchets over the phone. “Dang—” And here it comes… his favorite line. “If only God had given you as much sense as sass.”
“I get it honest,” I say, as usual.
“That you do,” he mutters. My dad may dish it out—he may do little else besides dishing it out—but he can also take it, which may be one of the only things that makes him bearable. I know I have Nanna Estelle to thank for that. “I’ll see you in twenty.”
Dad’s twenty minutes is my forty, so I get busy with dinner, and while I do, I tell Maisy and Tyler about Lark Bienvenue renting the third bedroom. Maisy barks in response. Tyler just stares into the empty dining room. Of course, Dad shows up right when I’m serving their plates, so I fix him one too.
“I probably shouldn’t have the rice,” he says, rubbing his gut. He’s standing in Nanna’s kitchen with his wet hair curling over his collar. He was right. He looks a bit like an 80s country singer instead of director of marketing for a multi-million dollar oilfield tool fabricator. “Marjory says I’m getting too fluffy.”
Pen snorts from the table, and my father shoots her a glare.
Did I mention that Pen and Dad don’t much care for one another? It’s been like that since, oh, my sixteenth birthday. When Dad cancelled our day trip to New Orleans where the three of us were supposed to have brunch at Commander’s Palace and see the matinee performance ofWicked.
He blamed it on work and said he’d make it up to me another time. Did that ever happen?
Nope.
Dad did, however, buy me a car. But even then, Pen had said that anyone who valued possessions over experiences was not to be trusted with one’s hopes.
She had a point. I can’t say that my Dad and I have shared all that many experiences.
“You sure, Dad?” I say, holding out the plate I’ve prepped for him, bearing two kabobs on a bed of pilaf.
He eyes the dish with obvious longing. “Well, I suppose I have to eat dinner, right?”
“Who doesn’t like a little fluff?” Pen asks, and then quickly turns to Maisy so she can avoid the daggers I send her way.
Ignoring her, Dad takes my offered plate and chooses the spot at the table next to Maisy, who’s at the head, and across from Tyler.
“How you doing, son?”
My brother says nothing, but at least he shrugs, acknowledging the question. Dad studies him for a second, looking like he’s waiting for more, but when it doesn’t come, he dives into his dinner.
That’s pretty much the way it is now between the two of them. Tyler is hesitant to talk, but he will if he’s given time. But Dad hasn’t figured that out yet. Probably because he doesn’t give Tyler the time. And since he doesn’t give him the time, Tyler’s not going to put in the effort to try to get any words out.
I serve my own plate with a sigh.
There’s two empty places left at the table, and I take the one at the foot, which was where Nanna used to sit. I expect it to feel strange, taking her place, but it doesn’t. It feels right. Over Maisy’s head, I can see clear through the formal dining room to the front hall. I can’t help but think that Nanna staked out this spot so she could not only see everyone at the table but watch the comings and goings of the house. Maybe being able to keep an eye on everyone gave her the sense that she had everything under control.
Or maybe that’s just me.
The dinner table isn’t a buzzing hive of conversation. I can usually count on Pen to keep us entertained, but not with Dad here, I guess.
For a few minutes, it’s nothing but forks scraping over plates and thethump-thump-thumpof Maisy heels against her chair legs. Even she’s quiet, too busy poking holes in a mushroom cap with her wooden skewer.
