I’m not sure why the sentiment makes me want to punch the wall. I ignore him again and continue walking out the door. He follows me into the garden. The sun is large now, and everything feels hot and itchy. Even the grass looks wilted, like it’s tired.
I’m heading toward the gate when my father reaches me, grabs me by my left wrist.
“Lily, please,” he begs.
Thomas is passing by on his bike. I don’t see him until he’s already coming our way. “Hey, what’s going on here? Get your hands off her,” he calls, jumping off the seat and pushing the red bike to the ground.
“Whoa, man. Relax! This is my daughter,” says my father, stumbling back onto the lawn.
Thomas looks between the two of us, as if trying to make the genetic puzzle match: line up our slight noses and green eyes and the impish edge of our thin brows that always made my father look slightly feminine. “Your daughter?”
“Yes, my daughter, you idiot. And you must be… Thomas Wentworth.” His sarcastic grin is back. “It’s nice to finally meet the man my Rose was always in love with.”
“Dad,” I warn, crossing my arms in annoyance, like a petulant teenager. “What are you doing?” I don’t realize until after I’ve said it that it’s the first time I’ve called himdadinstead offatherin what must be years. The word feels wrong in my mouth.
“It’s okay, Lil,” says my father. “I’m pleased, really. When we were together, it was always ‘Thomas this’ and ‘Thomas that.’ I couldn’t even do the dishes right without being told a story about a time you somehow did them better.” He mocks my mom’s voice, using an obnoxious high-pitched tone. “?‘You know, Thomas once cooked lobster bisque from scratch.’?”
Thomas is frozen, listening as if in disbelief. His forehead is still shiny from his bike ride, and his ears are turning red at the tips. There’s a strange woodsy smell about him, like sawdust.
“Dad, stop. Let it go.”
My father reaches out a hand and offers it to Thomas. “I’m just messing with you. It really is nice to meet you,” he says. Thomas looks at the hand like my father has just offered him a dead fish. My father shrugs and retreats. “You know, you’re a pretty good-looking guy. I can see the appeal. Very rugged.”
“Dad.”
He acquiesces, taking a step back and turning his attention to me. Thomas is still standing there, dumbstruck.
“Lily, promise you’ll talk to me? I’m only going to stay for a week, but I really want to talk to you. I want to explain,” pleads my father.
The garden doors creak open again, and in walk my grandfather and Aunt Elizabeth. They’re dressed in linen and carrying Mrs. Clay in a Nantucket basket.
“Hello!” my grandfather says cheerfully. “This is quite the scene. We were just stopping by to see what everyone is up to for the day.”
I check the time on my phone and cannot believe it’s only nine. I’m due at the club in thirty minutes. There’s been more drama in this one morning than I experienced in the last two years combined.
My grandfather notices Thomas, who is slowly becoming reanimated. “Oh, and look who it is! This must be the famous ThomasWentworth.” He places an arm around his shoulders and guides him toward Lottie’s bench. “Say, why don’t you tell me about this company of yours. I’m looking for a good investment opportunity.”
Thomas looks like he’s been suddenly zapped onto an alien planet where nothing follows the rules of gravity.
I force myself to stifle the laugh that is bubbling up. This is one of my grandfather’s favorite pastimes. He loves to ask about “investment opportunities,” when in reality, the only thing he can afford to invest in is a good haircut and a trip to the tanning beds. I can’t tell if he’s living in delusion or purposefully being deceitful. He hasn’t had “investment money” since the eighties.
Aunt Elizabeth beelines to my father. “Do my arms look bumpy to you?” she asks.
My father is looking at Thomas and my grandfather, distracted. “Hmm?”
“I think the rental we’re staying in has bedbugs. I woke up last night with a terrible, itchy sensation and now I have these little red bumps.” She lifts the sleeve of her button-down and shows him. The skin looks red but not bumpy.
“It just looks like your skin is irritated from you scratching,” says my father, still looking at the bench.
I take advantage of the momentary distraction to slip out.
When my father notices I’m leaving, he stares after me. There’s a slightly desperate, wild look in his eyes.
“Later,” I mouth to him with no intention of following through. He just nods, looking defeated, as Elizabeth continues to talk.
Chapter Twenty-FourLily
Later that night, my feet are sticking to the ground at the Chicken Box.
