“What age is Leona?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
“This is a stupidly big conversation to be having. Let’s reconcile ourselves with the idea that your commitment-phobic sister is in love. Yes?”
Nodding on a still slightly stunned smile, I agreed.
Dad opened the door, ending the conversation. “Come in, come in.” He gestured us inside, already walking away. “Happy Christmas and all that blasted nonsense.”
Juno and I exchanged a grim look.
Happy Christmas, indeed.
“He’s drinking too much,” Juno observed as I drove us back to the house.
“I know,” I replied darkly.
It wasn’t yet one in the afternoon and Dad was drunk.
And bitter.
And sarcastic.
And generally unpleasant to be around.
Juno and I made our excuses to leave after brunch, which consisted of burnt toast and fried eggs.
“We need to do something.”
“I know that too.” The reality of my father’s drinking, however, was so big, so heavy, I didn’t even know where to start.
Mum returned home about an hour after we did, and I saw her note the grim atmosphere between us. But unlike the mother I’d grown up with who wouldn’t settle until she’d fixed every single one of our problems, I saw her silently question what had happened … then bury her head in the sand about it.
Instead, she enlisted us in making dinner and chatted away to us about Penelope Chiltworth, a nineteen-year-old home from St. Andrews University for Christmas.
“That’s not far from Edinburgh. And she was very pretty. Her mother is Lady Pillbroke. Daughter of the Earl of Kennilston.”
“I don’t care, Mother,” I’d muttered under my breath.
She either didn’t hear me or ignored me.
“And, Juno, Lord Thirsk was at the church service this morning. Did you know his eldest son is getting divorced? Very handsome man. And no children.”
“Isn’t he forty?”
“A very fit and handsome forty.”
I caught Juno’s eye.Tell her, my expression said. My sister shook her head frantically, nonverbally threatening me to keep my mouth shut.
Per her wishes, I let my mother torture us both with long-winded speeches about the wonderful attributes of aristocratic strangers she felt compelled to foist upon us.
It might have been a nice reprieve to have Dad show up out of the blue. If it wasn’t so bloody horrible. We were halfway through the turkey dinner when Dad burst into the house. Still drunk. And apparently ready to fight.
He strode into the dining room, angrily observing the beautifully laid table.
Mum shot out of her chair. “What are you doing here?”
