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smile around his lips or eyes.
My father had a walnut writing desk, French
cabinets, and ladder-back chairs. There were
bookcases on both sides of the office, the floor of
which was polished hardwood with a small, tightly
knit beige oval rug under the desk and chair. In the far
left corner there was a globe. Everything on the desk
and in the room was neatly organized and seemingly dust free. It was as if the inhabitants of this house tiptoed about with gloved hands. All the furniture, the immaculate floors and walls, the fixtures and shelves, the antiques and statues made me feel like a bull in a china shop. I was afraid to move quickly, turn abruptly, and especially afraid to touch anything, but I
entered the office to glance at the pictures on the desk. In sterling silver frames, my father had pictures
of Daphne and Gisselle. There was a picture of two
people I assumed to be his parents, my grandparents.
My grand-mother, Mrs. Dumas, looked like a small
woman, pretty with diminutive features, but an overall
sadness in her lips and eyes. Where, I wondered, was
there a picture of my father's younger brother, Jean? I left the office and found there was a separate
study, a library with red leather sofas and high back
chairs, gold leaf tables, and brass lamps. A curio case
in the study was filled with valuable looking red,
green, and purple hand blown goblets, and the walls,
as were the walls in all the rooms, were covered with
oil paintings. I went in and browsed through some of
the books on the shelves.
"Here you are," I heard my father say, and I
turned to see him and Gisselle standing in the
doorway. Gisselle was in a pink silk robe and the softest looking pink slippers. Her hair had been hastily brushed and looked it. Pale and sleepy eyed, she stood with her arms folded under her breasts. "We were
looking for you."
"I was just exploring. I hope it's all right," I
said.
"Of course it's all right. This is your home. Go
where you like. Well now, Gisselle understands
