initely need some luck to smooth things out with her dad. I get the feeling that he doesn’t dislike me, exactly, but in my experience, what people say and do don’t always reflect how they really think. Just look at my mom. Besides, dads can be weird about their baby girls. Gotta count my blessings this isn’t Texas, where every father owns a shotgun.
Then there’s Skittles’ mom, whom I never got to meet in Hawaii. She was probably busy trying to salvage the ceremony and reception after I crashed it. I sigh softly. Let’s hope she doesn’t sprinkle my food with broken glass.
Skittles’ parents’ home is surprisingly modest. It’s in a nice neighborhood, of course. But it isn’t a mansion or anything ostentatious. I expected a bit of crassness after doing my homework and looking her family up.
Her dad is the founder of SFG, a mid-sized financial services and wealth management firm. It does well enough, and from my experience, a lot of finance guys like to splurge on big houses and swanky cars. And trade their old wives in for newer models.
Steve hasn’t done that, though. He’s still with his first wife, whom he married three decades ago. Wonder if she’s unusually well preserved…
Like your own mom? I scowl. She’s the last person I want to think about right now, especially since she stopped calling and texting over the last few days.
Taking in a breath, I look around the small fenced yard. The house may be humble, but the lawn is immaculate. Carrying a huge bouquet of carnations and the wine, I walk up the smooth concrete path and knock.
High-pitched barking greets me first. Then a small, tidy woman opens the door with a big smile. A bright yellow apron is wrapped around her slim body. Her face is slightly lined with wrinkles and laughter. But they don’t make her look old or haggard. They make her face lived in, and show that she’s had a full, good life. The eyes that twinkle with humor are the same aquamarine as Skittles’. Even if the eyes didn’t give her away, I would’ve known she’s no hired help. She’s entirely too comfortable and assured.
“Welcome.” Her voice is full of genuine warmth. “You must be Harcourt. I’m Esther, Pascal’s mom.”
I smile. “Call me Court, ma’am.” I extend my hand and give her the pink blossoms.
“How lovely! And how thoughtful of you. Do come on in.”
She doesn’t look like she’s going to stab me with a kitchen knife for almost ruining her daughter’s wedding. I take a step in and get a whiff of meat and potatoes cooking that makes my mouth water.
A tiny white Chihuahua rushes at me and barks, its tail raised high and quivering with every yelp.
“Hey now. I’m a guest. I’m invited.”
Esther shakes her head. “Nijinsky thinks she’s a Rottweiler.”
“Nijinsky, huh?” Interesting name, since Nijinsky was probably the greatest ballet dancer of his generation, maybe in history. I watched a video of him with my ballet-crazed ex in college, and even I had to admit the man was divinely touched.
“She chose it. We couldn’t decide on a name—Steve and I—so we put down top three names we wanted and let her sit on one.”
“What were the other two choices?”
“Einstein and Spock. I thought they sounded perfect for her.” She looks down at the dog. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.” And this explains why Skittles and her twin sister have the names they do.
Esther leads me to the living room. “Pascal isn’t here yet, and Steve’s on a call. He’s always working. Saturday, doesn’t matter. The market’s open somewhere in the world. He’s always worried about these things, but people shouldn’t work on weekends.”
I find myself sympathizing. The man is responsible for not just his clients’ money, but the livelihood of everyone at the company. Dad and Edgar are always working too. “Your husband sounds like a very successful and ambitious man,” I say instead.
She laughs. “He’s done well enough in his career. Thank God. When we first married, it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t until the girls turned fourteen that we could afford this home. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it.”
I nod, unsure how to react. Mom always acts like the family’s huge mansion is just…normal. But people in Tempérane always seem to look at the Blackwood family mansion with undisguised envy.
In many ways, it’s a huge relief that Esther is nothing like my image of a rich man’s wife.
She continues, “My friends think that I should trade up, but the girls are gone. It’s just me and Steve now in this home, and if we get a bigger place, who’s going to clean it and take care of it?”
A butler and a small army of housekeepers and gardeners. But I’m pretty sure that’s not the answer she wants, so I keep my mouth shut.
“I can’t imagine having a stranger home all the time,” she adds. “Not that there’s anything wrong with meeting new people, but it would be awkward, I think. Besides, I enjoy taking care of the house.”
I wonder for a moment if she’s pretending. It’s a little bizarre to hear that from a wife of a financially successful man, because why wouldn’t she want to have somebody take care of chores to maintain her home? Mom certainly never lifted a finger to clean or cook. That’s what our housekeepers and cooks are for.
I look around the homey living room. No portraits of important-looking men gazing down at everyone from the walls. The TV and the sound system are all top-of-the-line, but the leather couch has a nice worn sheen to it that says this is a place where the family gathers regularly.