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Thanks to the yellow color of the sandstone walls, the three-story building isn’t gloomy like most of the other strongholds guarding the coastline. Not like the hovel in which I was born before my father made enough money to buy and renovate this place. With teak floors and whitewashed ceilings, the house looks spacious and bright.
Heidi, our housekeeper, takes my coat. The man who took care of the yacht enters with my bag and satchel. He hands me the satchel and takes my bag upstairs.
A clanking of pots and cutlery comes from the kitchen. Classical music plays in the background. My mother likes to cook while listening to Mozart or Bach. The radio in the kitchen is always on, tuned to a classic station. A fragrance of garlic, oregano, and bell peppers hangs in the air.
It’s home.
These are the things I value—my mother humming in the kitchen, Mozart playing on the radio, the smell of fried aubergine and garlic, and the sourdough rising in my late grandmother’s big porcelain bowl under a kitchen towel on the table. It’s the only thing my mother brought with her when she married my father—that bowl with the blue flowers painted around the rim.
A bout of coughing pulls me from my peaceful state. I walk to the library. My father sits on a chaise in front of the fireplace with a blanket over his knees. He’s twirling a glass of red wine in front of the flames, studying the color in the light. A box of cigarillos lies open on the coffee table.
I go over, squeeze his shoulder, and pull up a chair.
He takes a sip of the wine and sloshes it in his mouth before swallowing. “The grapes had too little sun, last year. Too much wind, perhaps.”
I sit.
After putting the glass aside, he takes a notebook from the table and jots something down. “Did everything go as you’d hoped?”
“Better.”
Taking the contract Edwards signed from my satchel, I hand it to him. I had our lawyer draw it up. My father hasn’t seen it yet. He was too unwell to accompany me to the appointment. He takes his time to read it, going over every line.
My mother enters with a tray. She puts a plate loaded with deep-fried aubergine and a generous helping of ratatouille as well as a wine glass on the coffee table in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say.
I stopped telling her to let the housekeeper do the work a long time ago. My mother needs to do this. She likes to spoil us.
Her smile is warm as she leaves the room.
My father looks up from the papers in his hand. “This is a lot more than we bargained on.” He drops the documents in his lap. “What did you do to make him sign? Hold a gun against his head?”
“Something like that.”
I remove the black book from my satchel and hand it to my father.
He turns it over and flips the cover. His expression gives nothing away as he scans over the contents. He flicks through a few pages and then lifts his gaze to me. “How did you get it?”
“Walked into his house and took it.”
He doesn’t ask how. It’s not important. “If you have the book, you don’t need the girl.” He picks up the papers in his lap and waves them at me. “Not with this.”
I tense at the mere sound of that. Taking the bottle from the side table between us, I pour myself a glass of wine. “The deal is on.”
“Why?”
I taste the wine. My father is right. It’s too tannic. “She was promised to me.”
“That’s your reason?”
“Do I need another reason? You told Edwards to his face the wedding will happen no matter what. It’s your honor I’m protecting, your word.”
“Is that the only reason, or is it because you liked what you saw a little too much?”
“No one takes away what belongs to me. Whether I liked or hated what I saw didn’t matter before. Why would it make a difference now?”
“Because, by your own design, you have a chance to make a choice. You can pick and choose from all the single women. You can marry for looks or love or money or whatever you please. Few men of our standing have that kind of freedom. Your cousins don’t. Your uncles and I didn’t.”
“You love Maman.”
He coughs, gargles, and clears his throat before continuing. “It took time, and I can tell you it wasn’t smooth sailing. It helps that your mother is a good woman with an iron will who knows her duty and who loves her family. I’m not an easy bastard to live with.”
I chuckle at that. The illness has made him soft, but he’s not as bad as he makes himself out to be. Everyone knows he dotes on my mother.
