Julien
Should I warn the bus driver not to let the pigeon drive the bus?
Julien
You won’t believe this, but it just jumped off the bus onto the sidewalk where IT FOUND A HOT DOG!
A bark of laughter I’m unable to contain punches out of me. The sound draws everyone’s attention, and I try to cover my interruption with a cough behind a closed fist, followed by a mumbled apology.
“Do you need to get some water, dear?” MaryAnn asks.
I pat my chest. “No, no. I think I’m fine now.”
“If you’re sure.” She turns back to Trinity. “It was so nice to meet you. You’ve given Alan and me a lot to think about.”
“It was so nice to meet you as well Mrs. Anderson, Mr. Anderson.”
The Andersons both meet my gaze and give a small head nod, their approval for Trinity to take over my duties while we’re all out of town. I smile and dip my chin. With that, they stroll hand-in-hand back up the drive toward their house.
“That went well. Want to help me bring the horses in for the evening and we’ll finish up?” I hand Trinity a lead rope, grab another, and make my way toward the pasture gate.
9
My tires crunch over the cobblestone driveway leading up to the Kings’ estate on Signal Mountain. The house looms in opulent grandeur that is sure to impress most guests approaching its entrance, but all I can think about is how long it takes to clean the six bedrooms and eight bathrooms, not to mention vacuum and mop the twelve thousand square feet of hand-scraped wood floors or dust Mrs. King’s collection of Murano glass sculptures.
The familiar drive splits around a fountain in the middle of a manicured green space, circling to the front door and the garage where Mr. King houses his collection of vintage cars. There’s a small lane on the side of the garage that continues into a copse of trees and ends in parking spaces for hired help. A florist’s truck is idling beside my parents’ old Volvo. I guess Mrs. King still receives her weekly delivery of fresh-cut bouquets.
I put my car into park and collect the Saran-wrapped plate of pumpkin snickerdoodles I baked. Mom won’t touch them, but they’re Dad’s favorite. I’ll have to endure either a short reprimand that follows along the lines of “a moment on the lips, forever on the hips” or a telling look with a pinched face that conveys the same thing but allows Mom the rebuttal of“I didn’t say anything.” Considering the only time my dad gets to eat dessert is when I bring something sweet over, it’s a small price to pay. Life’s too short not to have a treat every once in a while.
My gaze flicks between the trees toward the main house. It’s become a habit, checking to see if Mr. King is at home any time I visit my parents. At first it was because I was so humiliated that I couldn’t bear the thought of facing the man again. I doubt he even remembers the things he said to me, but I’m not sure if even after all this time I’d be able to look him in the eye without those same feelings washing over me.
Now, however, I’m hoping not to be spotted on the premises for the added reason of refusing their dinner invitation. I cringe at my audacity. I grew up under the direction that if a King asked you to do something, you did it. They were the bosses, after all. And here I am, decades later, hoping Mom and Dad haven’t caught wind that I rejected their show of hospitality and declined to fulfill their wishes.
Also, it would just plain be awkward to run into either one of them right now. Really, I’m sparing us all by trying to go unnoticed.
The small cottage that we Aldridges call home appears on the other side of a wall of azalea bushes, where my father stands on a small ladder with a pair of garden shears, lightly pruning any dead branches. I’ve seen him do this dozens of times, and maybe it’s the way the sun is highlighting his head of white hair, but I’m struck by the fact that he isn’t as young as he used to be.
How many more years will he be able to climb that ladder and wield those shears, much less accomplish all the other physical tasks around the property? All the scrubbing must be hard on Mom’s knees and back as well. When it’s time for them to retire, will Mr. King allow my parents to stay in the cottage, or will they be forced to move? Will Social Securitybenefits be enough for them to live off of? Every time I’ve brought up the subject, they’ve both waved me away. They say they like their jobs, they aren’t ready to retire, and they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.
I push down my worries and put on a bright smile. “Hi, Dad.”
He turns toward me, and his eyes light. “Sweetheart, you made it.” He climbs down from the stepladder and sets aside the garden tool so he can give me a hug.
“Is Mom up at the house with the florist?”
“Yeah, she should be done soon, though.”
I pull back the plastic wrap from the cookies and offer the plate to him. “Eat them guilt-free while you can,” I tease.
He grins as he grabs two, then takes a huge bite out of the first one, moaning in appreciation as the sugar and spices hit his tongue. “So good.”
I take one for myself and nibble on the treat around my grin. I should’ve shoved the whole thing in my mouth, however, because Mom rounds the corner and clears her throat behind me at having caught us red-handed.
I slowly turn. I could easily pretend I wasn’t indulging, but I refuse to act ashamed. Instead, I take a bite, smile softly, and hold the plate out to my mother. “Want one?”
Her lips pinch, and she looks away. “No, thank you.”
Dad takes the plate of cookies from me so I can step forward and give Mom a hug. I get my body type from her side of the family. Thank you, genetics. We are both full-figured women, soft and curvaceous with rounded hips and filled-out bellies and overall extra padding around our bones. The difference between us is that Mom has been trying all her life to lose weight via different diets and exercises to no avail and struggles with self-esteem because of her size. Whereas I’ve decided to appreciate my body for all it does for me and not hate it simply because of a number on the scale, the size on a clothes tag, or some societal ideals.
