Sigh. Lunch.
Another big gust of wind blows down through the nearby trees, dislodging autumn’s first offering; leaves of red, orange, and gold flutter to the ground in its wake. It whistles between the obnoxiously large stone pillars flanking the front gate and bites at my exposed skin. Late September and the weather has turned, the chill wind and gray sky a perfect reflection of my mood.
Steeling myself against the unavoidable barrage of questions and disappointed stares, I turn and make my way up the wide steps to the porch. Dermot, the butler, opens the door before I can even ring the bell, a clear indication that I’m late and my tardiness will not be received well. He takes my jacket, making a disapproving noise in his throat, and ushers me down the hall to the formal dining room where my parents insist on taking all meals, even when it’s just the two of them. It’s ridiculously large, with a long table that seats fourteen, and an overabundance of gilt and mirrors that contribute to its coldness despite the lit fireplace on the south wall.
My parents are seated at one end, my self-important father at the head of the table, my mother on his right. They’re rigid in their formality as they both glance up at my appearance in the doorway. They take me in, mouths twisted in distaste, and I sigh internally. Their pretentiousness is suffocating and I know it’s going to be a long lunch.
My mother’s eyes rove noticeably over my chosen outfit–dress slacks and a button-down shirt. My hair is neatly trimmed and styled in place. I’m clean-shaven, my clothing is freshly pressed and my shoes are shined. I’m wearing an expensive watch and a designer belt. It’d be considered fancy attire by most of my friends and colleagues, but no doubt my lack of a tie and dinner jacket is an affront to my parents’ delicate sensibilities. To say that I take irrational pleasure in these small rebellious acts is an understatement. Once I wore mismatched socks in an attempt to get a real rise out of them, but it only succeeded in making me just as uncomfortable as they were, my own desperate need for order rearing its ugly head.
“Noah, welcome,” my mother says primly. My father is silent, his attention already having returned to his whiskey and highlighting my utter lack of importance to him.
Dermot hovers in my peripheral vision, clearing his throat and pulling out my chair for me. I nod to him before taking my seat.
“Mother,” I acknowledge her, intercepting the napkin that Dermot attempts to place over my lap and causing her to frown. “Father.” He continues to ignore me.
Dermot disappears through the door to the butler’s pantry only for it to promptly swing open again for the entering maid as though she was waiting just behind it for his signal. She likely was. She’s a pale, slight young woman, timidity evident in her carriage. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor as she approaches the sidebar and picks up the wine, which is already uncorked and breathing in preparation for our meal. I don’t know her name, nor will I bother to learn it, since my mother is notorious for her turnover rate with maids. It’s a long-running joke amongst their country club peers, and therefore unlikely that I’ll see this one again given that I can only stomach these lunches with my parents once a month.
I watch as she approaches my mother to pour, but my mother gives a violent head shake and glares exaggeratedly towards the head of the table indicating that she should serve my father first. The poor girl is trembling as she nears my father and I silently will her the strength to keep the bottle steady as she pours. Thankfully she succeeds and continues to serve the rest of us uneventfully.
Dermot returns to announce that lunch will be served momentarily and is followed almost immediately by the cook and the returning maid with our first course. It’s a salad with walnuts, feta, and a raspberry vinaigrette. I’m not a big fan of mixing sweet and savory flavors in the same dish, but I know better than to pass on anything my parents are serving so I swallow it down without comment concentrating on keeping my expression neutral. It’s just easier that way.
After several minutes of strained silence my father puts down his fork and grunts, “You’re late.” My mother takes the opening to add, “Really, Noah, it’s unconscionably rude.”
It’s a fight to stifle my natural inclination to respond in the defensive.
“Apologies,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
And the meal continues in that fashion. It’s unbearable, and I’m exhausted by the time we’ve completed all of our courses. I’m questioning why I bother to put myself through this month after month, but that just goes back to my ridiculous hope that they’ll somehow magically change … blah, blah, blah.
Sigh.
Dermot shows me to the door as though I hadn’t lived here for the first eighteen years of my life. He hands me my jacket and I take a moment to reflect on the fact that I’d found myself speaking out more and more as the afternoon wore on.
A smile creeps across my face as I recall my mother’s expression when I’d responded sarcastically to her quizzing me about my work. Specifically, my options for upward mobility at the Llyn Lakes PD. Her question had followed an accounting of the latest accolades of my former prep school buddies, Cash and Trace. It wasn’t news to me seeing as how I still keep in touch with both of them, though we’ve never had what I would call a true friendship. I already know about the big case Trace just won and how Cash has now completed his CFP certification. No doubt their parents have been bragging around the country club.
My own parents would rather pretend I no longer exist than discuss their civil servant son, so I’m sure it was a bitter pill for my mother to swallow. She likely would have pretended to be pleased for Cash and Trace and congratulated their parents; then they in turn would have congratulated my father onhisrecent case, or my mother on her new hairdo, and the circle of phoniness and fake pleasantry would have continued on uninterrupted. Their world is stifling and I don’t miss it.
My parents had groomed me from a young age to pursue a career in law, with the expectation that I would eventually join my father’s firm. To my teen-aged self, well, that sounded like a fate worse than death. My decision to join the police academy instead was a rare and bold moment of disobedience on my part, but we were talking about my future–my life–so I somehow managed to find the courage to make my stand. It’s been a bone of contention between us ever since. One of many, but a huge one in this case. They cut me off financially and I ended up moving in with Pops for a while. I did eventually come into my trust fund at twenty-one, but I’ve never touched it and likely never will.
Once my parents realized that I wasn’t going to change my mind they quickly moved on to disparaging my every move throughout my time at the academy, and continuing on into my employment as a state trooper before I was able to join the department in Llyn Lakes. They didn’t attend my graduation where I received top honors, or celebrate my promotion to shift supervisor at the staties. No, nothing I did was ever good enough, and my move to the PD and elevation to detective was not met with congratulations either, but rather questions about the next move, and then the next.
I doubt even Chief of Police is a title that will satisfy them, though I’m pretty sure Aidan has that on lock, and, surprisingly, I’m starting to realize I’m okay with it.
It’s funny, but since becoming his partner, and actually feeling like I’ve found my place there in Llyn Lakes and amongst my new friends, I find that I’m letting go more and more of the drive to succeed at all costs. I’m realizing that it’s alright not to be the best at everything as long as Itrymy best. Despite what my parents may think, it doesn’talwayshave to be a competition. And I don’t necessarilywantto advance beyond where I’m at. For the first time ever I’m content in my place, in my career, and it’s freeing to acknowledge that.
This afternoon I’d found my patience with my parents wearing thin, and my indifference to their judgment and opinions growing. By the time I’d removed my napkin from my lap and placed it–scrunched up in defiance rather than nicely folded–on my dessert plate, my father was red-faced and my mother was fretting, both visibly upset by my behavior. But I can’t help thinking it’s agoodthing. ‘Dick’ Noah has never had any problems putting people in their place, but the ‘son’ Noah has spent most of his life avoiding confrontation with his parents, cowed by their disapproval, and … today wasrefreshing. It’s as though the shackles they’ve kept me in for most of my life are finally releasing, link-by-link.
As I drive off, the monstrosity that is my childhood home shrinking in the rearview mirror, I can’t help thinking that my newfound attitude is a direct result of Lucy’s influence. And … I think I like it.
Her ‘no fucks given’ motto is ringing clearer and clearer in my head.
And yeah, that’s right, I swore.
And guess what?
I don’t give a fuck.
CHAPTER 11
