"Better." I can't help but smile. "Although it was quite cute earlier," I say, involuntarily reaching out my hand to her. "Let's go."
She doesn't move, just stares at my hand as if she sees a monster instead of my fingers. Disappointed, I pull back and start walking ahead.
When we arrive on the terrace, my mother already has Sophia in such a tight embrace that the little one is probably struggling to breathe.
"Grandma is so happy to see you," she says, and even though you can't read that joy on her face thanks to Botox, I know it's genuine.
My daughter looks less happy as she's released from the hug. Her shoulders slump, her gaze lowered. She doesn't say a word. Amid the bright furniture, the exclusive tableware, and the beautifully blooming oleander plants, Sophia looks like an outsider. It's best if she sits in the shade next to my father. They fit together perfectly.
Now my mother fashions a bun out of Sophia's long locks. "You'll make a wonderful ballerina someday."
She doesn't like that at all. She abruptly breaks free and glares at her grandma. Her cheeks flush. First pink, then cherry red.
It's about to start.
"I'm not a ballerina!" she screams so loudly that even the neighbors behind the distant hedge can probably hear her, and she stomps her foot on the stone terrace tiles. So hard that her entire leg must be in pain now.
Immediately, I feel helpless. I have no idea how to calm her down. Maybe I should pretend she's a princess? Would that help? I desperately try to come up with a way to salvage the situation. Suddenly, Maya steps out from behind me.
"Good day, Mrs. Friedberg," she greets my mother, extending her hand. At the same time, she signals Sophia to hide behind her. "I'm Maya, the nanny."
The diversion tactic works. For a moment, my mother examines her from her messy crown to her bare toes with their brightly painted nails and self-tied ankle bracelets. Then she smiles and takes Maya'shand. "Mrs. Friedberg is my mother-in-law. Call me Liane."
"Very pleased to meet you." As if she needs to dispel the heat from her body, Maya fidgets with her dress. I give her a grateful nod, which in turn brings out the dimples on her cheeks.
For a moment, she shines brighter than the sun above us.
Beautiful.
"Come, sit next to me." My mother points at the teakwood chair beside her.
Jasmin is already there. "Would you like an aperitif?" she asks kindly.
"No way." Maya's tone sounds as if she's been offered to jump out of a plane. Restlessly, she sits down on the green-striped cushion, almost pulling the armrest of the chair with her. Sophia, still trying to hide as best as she can behind Maya, flinches. "Thank you very much for the offer," Maya adds apologetically although Jasmin has already turned away, shaking her head.
What was that?
Before I can figure out what's going on with Maya, she puts on her brightest smile again. And in just a second, my mother and she are engrossed in conversation. Quite the opposite of my father and me. I hastily glance at him.
He looks expressionless. Better to leave it at that. It's great that the ladies feel comfortable here. And they do. It takes a little while for Sophia to climb onto Maya's lap, and even longer until she speaks again.
Shortly after, she starts talking about Ireland, a fun guessing game that Maya invented, and her phone callwith her mother yesterday. Only after Jasmin serves her homemade strawberry ice cream does my father speak up.
"How's the music going?" he asks me, and it even sounds like he's genuinely interested in the answer.
I smooth out the dazzling white tablecloth. "Everything's going well."
There it is again. That doubting look he likes to give me. "You canceled concerts."
Of course, I have to remain composed. "I was sick." To distract myself, I reach for the ice cream spoon. But as soon as I touch it, my muscles start vibrating.
Hastily, I let my hand sink onto my thigh. I try to muster an open smile, but I have no idea if it comes across.
"You don't look sick." He looks at me with his lawyerly expression. Immediately, I feel like a defendant in court. "What did you have?"
What story did Tamika tell the press again? I frantically search my memory. "Summer flu," I manage to squeeze out.
Only one of his bushy eyebrows rises as if he, too, is trying to buy time. He takes a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. "I see," he murmurs thoughtfully. "Glad to see you're feeling better."
