“That’s quite a path.”
“We used nearly the last of our money to buy the warehouse. It was the purchase that would let us be the company we are today.” He sighed.
“What did you do before?”
Mr. De Villier’s expression faltered in amusement, only briefly. “We owned an orchard.”
“Do you miss it?” I leaned closer. “I saw that you’ve expanded into buying farms, setting up clinics and housing. It seems like a great dealof charity for something so different than pharmaceuticals. Is nostalgia a reason?”
“Because I miss it? No, never,” he scoffed. “But I remember what it was like, how desperate conditions become if the crop isn’t thriving. The conditions that are standard. It seemed like a logical opportunity.”
Before I could chip at him any longer, shouting from another part of the house made both of us question what we were hearing.
Both of us stood quickly once we realized it was Petronille.
We were barely outside the study door when we heard the quick footsteps and another shout of crude insults.
As we approached the main room, Petre hurried down the grand stairs with a red face, her mother nipping at her heels. Though, Mrs. De Villier seemed to recollect herself when she spotted us on the ground floor.
“You’re being dramatic,” her mother hissed.
“Youchokedme!”
“See?” She laughed, throwing her hands up in gesture to her daughter as she looked to her husband.
It only made it worse, every word out of her mother’s mouth fueling the dainty blond. She stopped in her tracks, her mother nearly bumping into her as they reached the bottom floor.
“You are an ugly,awfulmonster!” Petre shoved her finger into her mom’s chest on every emphasis, gaining some ground in the process.
Mrs. De Villier was now almost as flustered as Petre, a quirk in her brow and tight-lipped as if to keep the illusion of levelheadedness. She didn’t say a thing in return.
Petre sneered, a smile of victory, but at what cost? More an expression of righteousness and knowing that, for now, she had a firm stance.
For a brief moment she looked at me, and so did her mother. Then I realized her father was also staring.
Everyone was waiting for a word from me; in defense or reprimand?
“Coward.” Petre audibly scoffed, turning on her heel for the door without her coat, her things.
“Fetid moppet.” Her mother’s venomous words before she retreated back up the stairs, fussing with her necklace as if she’d just experienced something putrid.
“I suppose this is good night, then. Good luck reeling her in.” Her father patted heavily on my shoulder, somberly following his wife.
At first I walked, then jogged lightly, toward the door. I gathered our coats in my arms, the rain smacking my face in thick droplets as I walked outside. Looking left, then right, I saw Petre, a small, wet silhouette halfway down the block already.
“Petre!” I shouted, my shoes splashing as they smacked the puddles, my socks already becoming cushioned with the water logging down the insoles of my shoes. I extended her coat to her. “It’s raining—”
“What is the point of having you as a husband if you can’t stand up for me!” She whipped around, slapping the coat from my hand, where it sulked onto the sidewalk, overtaken by a puddle.
“You were doing fine on your own.”
“I wasn’t! And you were utterly useless!”
I didn’t answer right away, not with words. The streetlamp made the water glisten on her face, casting a dark shadow over her eyes. Her chest heaved, jaw tense like a bull-baiting dog unwilling to let go. Stubborn.
She spun on her heel, her shoes clicking as I got a full view of her hunched shoulders.
“Petre, stop!”
