Manon had parked along the sidewalk on Sea Cliff Avenue, which wound its way through one of the city’s most beautiful neighborhoods. The massive homes and their luxurious yards rivaled one another in size, each one offering a view of Baker Beach and the ocean.
The housekeeper greeted her at the door and took her to the dining room, where her father was waiting in his robe.
“I see you dressed up for me,” she quipped.
“I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t feel up to it tonight. But I’m still happy to see you,” he replied softly.
He invited Manon to sit down at the table. Dinner had been ready for half an hour, he said, and the cook had already come out twice to ask when she could serve.
Manon got up immediately to go see her. Teresa had been working for the Bartels for as long as she could remember. Having grown up with her always around, Manon thought of Teresa as a fully-fledged member of the family.
“I hope he’s not giving you a hard time,” Manon whispered as she hugged the cook.
“He’s the one having a hard time at the moment, dear. He’s as strong-willed as ever, but he’s not fooling me. And you’re late, as usual.”
“It was a long day.”
“I know,” Teresa sighed, “but it’s over now. You won’t have to spend your afternoons in that terrible place anymore. Your mother is better off where she is now.”
“If she’s anywhere,” Manon replied.
“Oh, she’s definitely somewhere!”
“Do you have a private line to the great beyond?” Manon asked teasingly.
“Not to the great beyond, but I see everything that goes on in this house.”
“Maybe I’m just too tired to get it, but I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I’m not saying anything, since I’m not allowed,” the cook answered as she carefully poured the contents of a pot into a porcelain tureen. “But I don’t approve.”
“Of what?”
“Nothing! My lips are sealed. Strict orders from management.” This was what she called Mr. Bartel whenever he was getting on her nerves.
“What orders?” Manon pressed.
“Go to the table. I didn’t spend all that time in the kitchen for you to eat your dinner cold. Think of the poor flounder I keep taking out of the oven only to have to put it back again—he’ll get dizzy. After dinner, you can do whatever you like. For example, maybe you’d like to go to the library. It’s up to you.”
“All right, then. I’ll go now.”
“You will not!” Teresa cried as she grabbed Manon’s arm. “You would have made a terrible spy. Get out of here! Leave my kitchen and go sit with your father.”
Teresa gave her a stern look, like she used to when Manon was a child. Even as an adult, Manon didn’t dare disobey her orders. Her father himself only risked it on occasion.
Manon sat down across from her father and waited for Teresa to serve the pea soup.
“You should redecorate this room. The wallpaper and wainscoting are depressing.” She looked up at the portrait of General Sherman hanging above the mantel. It had frightened her since childhood. “He’s been giving me dirty looks for nearly thirty years! Couldn’t you find a more cheerful painting? And you never open the curtains. What’s the point of living in such a fancy neighborhood if you never see what’s going on outside?”
“You can do what you like with your apartment. Just leave me and my house be. Who was the organist you hired for the ceremony?” her father asked.
“An organist,” Manon answered dryly.
“Does he have a name?”
“He must, but I don’t know it. Why?”
“He seemed to be having a good time. Such enthusiasm and passion. Your mother’s friends really enjoyed it.”
