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Chapter Forty-nine
We arrived atmy father’s house shortly after seven that Saturday night.
“You’re late,” my father said in greeting.
I looked past him toward the interior of the house. As far as I could see, no one else was there. “Where is everyone?”
“You’re the first to arrive,” he said. “Doesn’t make you any less late.”
“Can we go home yet?” Harrison whispered as Elyse approached.
“Jodi! Harrison! Welcome. Let me take your coats.”
“They know where the closet is,” my father said.
“Allow me,” Harrison said, helping me off with my coat, then moving quickly toward the hall closet.
“How lovely you look,” Elyse told me. “Is that a new dress?”
“No. I’ve had it a while.”
“Well, turquoise is certainly your color. And Harrison,” she said, watching as he hung up our coats, “looks so handsome all in black. Very much the distinguished author.” She smiled at my father. “What do you think of Vic’s new jacket?”
“Very nice,” I remarked of the blue-and-black-brocade sportsjacket he wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing when my mother was alive. “And you’ve done something different with your hair,” I said to him.
“I suggested he try parting it on the left,” Elyse said, “and I think it suits him much better, don’t you? So much more youthful. Don’t you agree?”
“He looks very dapper,” I said, astounded by my father’s continuing silence. When had he ever allowed anyone else to speak for him? “And you look lovely,” I said to Elyse.
She gave a girlish giggle that was as out of character as my father’s silence, and fluffed out the sides of her floor-length chiffon skirt. “Your father thought I should buy something special to mark the occasion. He says it’s our ‘coming-out party.’ ”
I forced a smile onto my lips.
“Everything okay?” Harrison whispered, returning to my side.
I relaxed my mouth, recalling the increasingly frozen expression on my mother’s face as her Parkinson’s progressed. What would she make of tonight? I wondered.
“Why don’t you go into the living room and help yourself to some champagne and hors d’oeuvres?” Elyse suggested. “It seems that I made enough food for an army.”
“Don’t overdo it on the hors d’oeuvres,” my father advised, giving me a not-too-subtle once-over.
“Nonsense, Vic,” Elyse admonished, giving him a playful slap on the arm. “You help yourself to as many as you want,” she said to me.
The doorbell rang.
I turned around to see Stephanie Pickering sweep through the front door, every blond hair perfectly in place, imposing bosom on full display in her low-cut, cherry-red satin dress, as she allowed her black mink coat to slip from her shoulders into the waiting arms of her hapless husband, whose name I could never recall.
“Stephanie,” I heard my father say, his voice blasting good cheer. “How wonderful to see you. You’re looking spectacular, as always. I believe you met Elyse at the funeral.”
“So nice to see you again,” Stephanie enthused.
“Stephanie has been our top agent for more than a decade,” he continued, as if he still ran the agency. “No one else even comes close.”
“Yes, thank you for that,” I whispered, leaving the hallway before I could hear more. “I could use that glass of champagne,” I told Harrison.
“You and me both,” he said as the doorbell rang again.
By seven-thirty, the living room was full of people, most of whom I recognized as either neighbors or real estate agents. My sister had yet to put in an appearance.
