FIVE
FAMILY SUNDAY DINNERS had been of paramount importance when Isabel’s mother was alive. Her fight with breast cancer had been fierce, but after she passed away, George Baxter had insisted on continuing the tradition, claiming she would have wanted it that way. After Isabel left for college and George married the young second Mrs. Baxter, family dinners evaporated along with half the furniture and the painted portrait of his first wife. So when her father called on Sunday morning, asking if she’d come for a family dinner, Isabel felt torn between nostalgia and misgiving.
Isabel stood in her miniscule kitchen, eating a bowl of strawberry yogurt with chopped banana. It was a favorite snack.
“Family dinner?” she asked incredulously, her cell phone pinched between her shoulder and cheek. “Do we still do that?”
“Yes, we still do that,” he retorted. “Be here at six. On the dot.”
“And Britney is okay with it?” she asked, entertaining some images of her young stepmother pouting through the whole thing. She licked off her spoon and gave her yogurt another stir.
“She’s fine. She likes the idea now that she’s pregnant.”
Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Okay. I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”
“Like what?” he asked.
“Jell-O salad?” she asked teasingly. They had an aunt who used to bring Jell-O salad to every family gathering—wedding, funeral, picnic. It was a standing joke between father and daughter.
“Change that to wine, and you have yourself a deal.”
“Britney drinks while she’s pregnant?” Isabel asked.
“No. Shoot.” She could almost see her father’s discomfiture. He was as smooth as ice in anything business related, but when it came to family affairs, he fell apart. “Whatever. You and I will drink it. Just come.”
Isabel laughed aloud. “See you at six, Dad.”
Hanging up, she stood still for a full minute, staring down at her cell phone. A family dinner with Britney. She’d endured a mimosa at lunch, and that was about as far as she cared to push things, but her father seemed to want something more... And what could he really expect? If he’d at least married someone older than Isabel, she’d have a better idea of what to do.
It might not be as bad as it seemed, she thought wryly. She’d always liked family dinners—before Britney, at least. They were a good start to repairing her damaged relationship with her father. She turned back to her yogurt, determined to simply let the evening unfold without too much worry...if that was possible.
* * *
AT SIX O’CLOCK SHARP, Isabel stood on her father’s doorstep, a bottle of sparkling apple juice in hand. She’d had a moment of generosity in the grocery store and had decided to get something they could all share, something she was seriously regretting now that she was faced with a wine-free evening with her stepmother. Isabel wore a pink summer dress with a full skirt and a cinched waist. She wore her dark waves up in a messy bun at the back of her head, and she tucked up a stray tendril as she rang the doorbell. There had been a time when she would have just opened the door and gone in, but that was back when this old house had been her home. Perhaps it was her new, tiny accommodations, but the house seemed ominously large these days. Too big. Too sprawling. Too empty.
The door swung open to reveal her father, a surprise, since she’d expected to see the housekeeper. He ushered her in. He wore a pair of khaki pants paired with a dress shirt, open at the neck. His hair rose up in tufts on top of his head, and she smiled fondly.
“It’s good to have you home, Princess,” he said, leading the way into the sitting room.
“It feels different now,” she admitted quietly. “Where is Britney?”
“Upstairs. On the phone with her mother.”
Isabel attempted to hide her relief. It wasn’t often that she had time alone with her dad anymore. They sank into their old seats—her father in his leather armchair, and she took the end of the couch closest to him as she always had. They stared together at the mantel and the abstract print hanging above it, discordant colors splashed together.
“Is that awkward?” Isabel asked after a moment.
“What?” He glanced over, bushy eyebrows raised.
“Britney’s parents are your age. Isn’t that uncomfortable?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. But it doesn’t matter how they see me. Only how Britney sees me.”
The comment was quietly honest, and Isabel felt her face heat. Did she really want to discuss this part of her father’s life? But they’d started, and she’d been wondering ever since the wedding...
“Does she make you feel young?” Isabel asked.
“She makes me feel loved.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“In a much different way.” He shot her a pointed look. “Can’t argue with that one, can you?”
Isabel chuckled. “No, I can’t.”
“So.” Her father pushed himself forward and leaned his forearms on his knees. “I heard that you’re thinking of starting a business with that money.”
So this was the reason for the visit. Maybe the nostalgia she’d been nursing was wasted, after all.
“Yes, I am,” she admitted. “I’ve just signed the papers for a lease.”
He winced. “I’m sure James can find you a loophole to get out of that.”
“Why?” she demanded. She’d known that he might disapprove, but it didn’t take the sting out of the unfairness.
“It’s not a good idea, Princess. Trust me.”
“You don’t even know what the idea is,” she retorted.
“The chocolate shop. Britney told me.”
A twist of distaste settled into her stomach. Of course Britney told him. She hadn’t expected her stepmother to keep a secret exactly, but she could only imagine the tattling kind of tone that would have dominated the conversation.
“Dad, you signed the money over to me. Would you rather I used it to travel for a few months?”
“I would rather you used it for plastic surgery.”
His words were sharp, and she froze. She’d momentarily forgotten about the scars. His words were crueler than he probably intended, but she wouldn’t be put off that easily.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad, but I told you before—I’m not going under the knife again.”
“Okay, okay.” He heaved a sigh. “But still, it isn’t a good investment, Sweet Pea.”
Isabel
