I check my watch as Margot tugs Biscuit away from a trash can.
“Speaking of,” I say. “It’s time for Sunday dinner.”
She visors a hand against the sun. “You want me to come?”
“You’d do that?”
“You know I’ve got your back. I know he won’t yell at you in front of company.”
I squeeze her arm. “You’re a good friend.”
“Excellent friend,” she corrects. “Text me after dinner.”
“We missed you this morning, sweetheart.”
My father looks up at me as he puts a forkful of Mom’s pot roast in his mouth. My mother inhales sharply and reaches for her water glass.
“I needed a slow morning,” I say, eating a green bean. The truth is, I was exhausted. But the good kind of exhausted. I was at King Ink all day yesterday, learning things and getting to know the guys, and my brain was just fizzing so much that it was nearly dawn before I could finally fall asleep.
My father sets down his fork. Picks up his napkin to wipe his mouth, then spreads it back out over his lap. “The Lord’s day isn’t about what we need, Clarissa.”
“I know, Dad.” I keep my eyes on my plate. Maybe I should have taken Margot up on her offer to stay with her this summer while I figure things out. I haven’t lost my faith, but I’m not sure I want to go to church every Sunday, either. I need to figure out what I want.
“You’ll be there next week.” He doesn’t frame it as a question, and I know better than to challenge him.
“Yes, Father,” I say quickly, regretting it because I know I probably won’t be. The decision is tight in my heart, because I know my father will be angry about it.
“Richard Holt asked whether you might be interested in clerking at his firm this summer. It would be a productive use of your time, Clarissa, and put something serious on a resume.”
“I already found something.” I say it before I think twice. Damn it.I should have just said I’d think about it.
He pauses and looks up at me. “Oh? Is that where you’ve been lately?”
“A front-desk job. I’m on a trial.” I take a bite of food, so I can’t speak right away.
“A trial.” The skepticism is clear in my father’s voice.
My mother reaches for the bread basket. “Where are you working, sweetheart?”
“It’s just a place downtown. I’d rather wait until I know it’s real before I—there’s no point talking about it now if it doesn’t work out.”
My father sets the fork down. “Clarissa. What kind of business?”
“Father. I’d really rather wait.” My thumb presses into the pad of my finger under the tablecloth.
An image fires through me before I can stop it—Carmine’s hands on the appointment book, the ink disappearing under his cuffs—and my core floods with a heat that makes me want things I’ve been told I shouldn’t want until I’m married. Not here. Not now! My father would explode from hearing about King Ink and have a nuclear meltdown if I told him I have a massive crush on my boss.
“I asked you a question.”
“I heard the question, and I ask you to respect my decision,” I say, trying to keep my voice as even as possible. My pulse is racing. I’ve never stood up to my father, and he’s not accustomed to being told no. Ever.
“Clarissa Anne.” The warning in his voice is clear. I only ever hear my middle name when I’m in trouble, and I haven’t heard it in a long time.
I put my fork down. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet, Father. If it works out, I’ll tell you. If it doesn’t, there’ll be nothing to tell.”
He folds his hands on the table and explains that he isconcerned. That my choices suggest a lack of direction. That this is exactly the kind of pattern that—
“It’s a job, Father. Can you just leave it at that?”
