top of the railing, and a layer of dust and dirt covers everything. Cobwebs hang under the eaves and in the corners—I guess the Haint blue color didn’t fool the spiders into believing the ceiling is the sky.
Grammy J must be delusional to think the porch only needs a fresh coat of paint. I don’t know why she doesn’t sell the Inn and buy something more reasonable for herself. She’s getting older, and the number of things needing repair will only continue to grow.
I take my phone out of my pocket and sit in a rocking chair. The air feels as hot and thick as a dog’s tongue, the wind like a warm breath across my arms. Sweat pricks up along my hairline. The muddy spots dotting the yard have dried in the sun, all traces of yesterday’s storm gone. My thumb hovers over my father’s office number before I hit send, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Law offices of Stokes and Ingram. How may I assist you?” his receptionist answers.
“Hello, Thelma. This is Margaret. Is my father available?”
“Let me check, sweetheart.”
She puts me on hold, and classical music plays in the background. A breeze sweeps through the garden and rustles the magnolia and pecan trees dotting the property. My knee bobs erratically, the paintbrush bouncing around as though my lap is a trampoline. I fling it at the painting supplies stacked against the side railing. Near the heap of rollers and cans of primer, I notice scrapers and a belt sander. Two more reasons why I’m hiring a contractor once I get off the phone with my father.
Thelma comes back on the line and says, “He has some time before his next meeting. I’ll transfer you.” There’s ringing and a click.
“Hello, Margaret,” my father says without the usual joviality he reserves just for me.
My stomach clenches with guilt. I clear my throat. “Daddy.”
“You left me to fend for myself at dinner last night.” He doesn’t sound mad, just a little hurt. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why his disappointment stings far worse than my mother’s anger and disapproval. Perhaps it’s because I actually have a relationship with my father. I’ve shared pieces of my life with him, sought out his advice when I needed guidance. He’s the person I went to after Nick cast me aside—unlike my mother, my father has always trusted my judgment and allowed me to find my own path, even when that path led me somewhere it shouldn’t.
“I know.” I can’t quite bring myself to say I’m sorry. Apologies are for the weak and impressionable.
“You’ve upset your mother,” he says, getting to the heart of what’s bothering him most.
When don’t I upset her? I press a finger to a bruise marring my arm to distract me from my own frustrations simmering below the surface. With my mother, being a disappointment comes naturally, but letting down my father is something I work hard not to do.
And I failed.
“I know,” I say again, like I’m a recording on repeat.
A hint of humor enters his voice as he says, “I hope there’s an appropriately contrite gift heading my way.”
I smile into the phone. “A titanium driver, of course. It’ll be waiting for you at the club before your next tee time.” My father claims to love golf, but really I think he loves that it gets him away from home.
“In any case, this isn’t like you. I assume there’s a reasonable explanation. Come by the house tonight to talk it over with your mother. She tells me you’ve been unreachable since the benefit. I must go—I have a full schedule today,” he says with no further mention of his birthday celebration. That he so easily forgives my transgression makes it hurt that much worse, and the frustration and guilt surge up in full force. I should have remembered, been there for him the way he’s been there for me, if in his own distracted way.
“I’m not in Dallas,” I confess.
“Where are you?” I hear papers shuffling and the sound of a chair squeaking.
“I’m staying at
Grammy J must be delusional to think the porch only needs a fresh coat of paint. I don’t know why she doesn’t sell the Inn and buy something more reasonable for herself. She’s getting older, and the number of things needing repair will only continue to grow.
I take my phone out of my pocket and sit in a rocking chair. The air feels as hot and thick as a dog’s tongue, the wind like a warm breath across my arms. Sweat pricks up along my hairline. The muddy spots dotting the yard have dried in the sun, all traces of yesterday’s storm gone. My thumb hovers over my father’s office number before I hit send, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Law offices of Stokes and Ingram. How may I assist you?” his receptionist answers.
“Hello, Thelma. This is Margaret. Is my father available?”
“Let me check, sweetheart.”
She puts me on hold, and classical music plays in the background. A breeze sweeps through the garden and rustles the magnolia and pecan trees dotting the property. My knee bobs erratically, the paintbrush bouncing around as though my lap is a trampoline. I fling it at the painting supplies stacked against the side railing. Near the heap of rollers and cans of primer, I notice scrapers and a belt sander. Two more reasons why I’m hiring a contractor once I get off the phone with my father.
Thelma comes back on the line and says, “He has some time before his next meeting. I’ll transfer you.” There’s ringing and a click.
“Hello, Margaret,” my father says without the usual joviality he reserves just for me.
My stomach clenches with guilt. I clear my throat. “Daddy.”
“You left me to fend for myself at dinner last night.” He doesn’t sound mad, just a little hurt. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why his disappointment stings far worse than my mother’s anger and disapproval. Perhaps it’s because I actually have a relationship with my father. I’ve shared pieces of my life with him, sought out his advice when I needed guidance. He’s the person I went to after Nick cast me aside—unlike my mother, my father has always trusted my judgment and allowed me to find my own path, even when that path led me somewhere it shouldn’t.
“I know.” I can’t quite bring myself to say I’m sorry. Apologies are for the weak and impressionable.
“You’ve upset your mother,” he says, getting to the heart of what’s bothering him most.
When don’t I upset her? I press a finger to a bruise marring my arm to distract me from my own frustrations simmering below the surface. With my mother, being a disappointment comes naturally, but letting down my father is something I work hard not to do.
And I failed.
“I know,” I say again, like I’m a recording on repeat.
A hint of humor enters his voice as he says, “I hope there’s an appropriately contrite gift heading my way.”
I smile into the phone. “A titanium driver, of course. It’ll be waiting for you at the club before your next tee time.” My father claims to love golf, but really I think he loves that it gets him away from home.
“In any case, this isn’t like you. I assume there’s a reasonable explanation. Come by the house tonight to talk it over with your mother. She tells me you’ve been unreachable since the benefit. I must go—I have a full schedule today,” he says with no further mention of his birthday celebration. That he so easily forgives my transgression makes it hurt that much worse, and the frustration and guilt surge up in full force. I should have remembered, been there for him the way he’s been there for me, if in his own distracted way.
“I’m not in Dallas,” I confess.
“Where are you?” I hear papers shuffling and the sound of a chair squeaking.
“I’m staying at
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