As I stroll across the wintry park, I breathe in the crisp air with a hint of wood smoke from the surrounding chimneys and shove my hands into my pockets. I’m wearing warm wool gloves, but the cold stings my fingers like it never got the memo.
Yesterday, after Jonas turned up on my doorstep and then walked out an hour later with Jean Capot’s key, he left a check behind—£2 million. He must have scribbled the amount when I turned away to dry my stupid weepy eyes. Enough to buy any of the mouthwatering properties he teased me about. The check is currently in my purse, and I am still undecided about what to do with it, or if I should tell my parents about it.
Finally, I make it to the front door of their house. They made a good choice. In cream stucco and brick like the neighbors, it has two bay windows flanking the entrance, which give it extra oomph.
I knock on the door. Papatte’s excited barking greets me from inside. Mom opens the door and gives me a hug before ushering me into the house. Papatte does her usual dance of joy. She circles around me, wags her tail frantically, and rubs her head against my legs. Every time I see her reaction, I think to myself, “She adores me; I must be special.” But the truth is, this is how she greets everyone—and I mean everyone—from family members to random delivery guy.
I take off my coat and hat in the hallway and follow Mom into the living room. It’s old-fashioned but tastefully so. Oil paintings hang on the walls. Shelves upon shelves of books cover an entire wall. A wicker basket full of logs sits near a crackling fire, and Persian rugs are scattered about to keep my parents warm. I plonk myself into one of the deep leather sofas arranged around an oak coffee table.
I sniff the air. Something fragrant is cooking in the oven. Roast duck with spicy plum sauce is my best guess.
“Dinner will be a little late,” Mom says, “but I’m assuming that’s OK since you’re sleeping over.”
“Pas de problème,” I reassure her.
Dad steps in from the kitchen and gives me a hug.
“Is Doreen coming?” I ask as we sit down again.
Dad shakes his head. “She’s too busy with work. It’s Monday, kid! People with regular office hours have more constraints than the likes of us.” He sweeps his hand from me to Mom.
“Well, Mom has no constraints at all,” I say, leveling my eyes at her.
I’m being mean and I know it. On the other hand, I’m not bad-mouthing Mom—just stating a fact. She made those life choices, so she should be able to handle it when someone brings up herchosenfinancial dependence on Dad. Mom hasn’t been in the labor market for as long as I can remember. I wonder if she ever held a job, or if her plan had always been to find a successful guy and become a kept woman.Pardon, housewife.
Every time Doreen or I taunt her, I pray she will bite back. But she never does. A fervent Catholic, she must’ve internalized the whole “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth” business.
As always, Dad stands up for her. “Despite your snark, I know you secretly wish that one day you can have a happy life like hers.”
“I don’t, because the price would be my autonomy.” With a smirk, I add, “Doreen does, though.”
“Doreen?” Mom gives a disbelieving snort. “She thinks even less of me than you do. Your sister can’t go five minutes without belittling me.”
Her lucidity gives me pause. Mom is so shy and stingy with words, especially negative ones, that I didn’t even think she had realized. Or that she minded.
Suddenly, I feel like saying something to please her.
“Doreen’s career,” I begin, “isn’t an end in itself. It’s a means to an end.”
“The end being?” Dad asks.
“To increase her chances of meeting a rich, titled man and marry him.”
Mom points at Dad. “A man like your dad? He’s Doreen’s hero.”
“Dad is nowhere near as rich as what Doreen is aiming for,” I say. “And he isn’t titled.”
“You’re wrong about your sister’s life goal,” Dad says.
“Nope, because she told me those things herself.”
Mom makes a rueful face. “Then she’s headed for disaster.”
“What do you mean? I thought you’d approve…”
“Gold diggers do get lucky,” she says. “Sometimes they catch a man who’s very rich, but isn’t too old or too ugly. Sometimes, they even get him to believe he’s in love.”
I shrug. “Maybe he is.”
