He shakes Dad’s hand first, squeezing the knuckles white. “I thought the clock was a part of the curriculum in primary school.” He laughs. Grandmother chuckles along with him. When he stops, so does she.
“We’re only two minutes late,” Dad says, but Grandfather rolls his eyes. “I’ll remember that the next time I watch the countdown for Apollo.” He scoffs. “Only two minutes. Late is late, you’re old enough to know that by now.”
It’s like listening to Dad lecturing me.
On the wall below the staircase is a family portrait of my grandparents and Dad as a kid. They’re not smiling. In it, Grandfather has a beard and mustache. Clean shaven now, his dimpled chin and thin lips look off. After he shakes Mom’s hand, she retracts it, spreading her fingers after his harsh grip. I brace myself, but it still hurts.
Grandmother gestures for us to move and I’m happy to. “Let’s eat before the food gets cold.”
Their dining room is the size of our first floor. Two chandeliers with dimmed lighting create the illusion of candlelight hanging from the ceiling, and below them stands a dark oak dining table that will comfortably accommodate twenty, or even thirty people. It resembles the one we have at home, except ours is tiny in comparison, with only four chairs to it.
Grandfather pulls out his wife’s chair. Mom pulls out mine and Dad pulls out Mom’s.
“How lovely to have a proper family dinner.” Grandmother lifts a tiny bell next to her three glasses. Its high-pitched ring reverberates through the room. The door behind her springs open and their maid rolls in a tray with four gold plates of pâté. “I requested foie gras especially for today.”
I look at Mom before eating. Foie gras is on her list of unethical foods. Luckily, she nods in approval which can only mean the chef has prepared something that looks like foie gras and Grandmother is unaware, so I eat it.
Grandfather sips his drink while turning to Dad. “Well, my boy. Tell me about Skar’s Auto.” Ice cubes are pinging the crystal glass. His heavy cologne clings to my nostrils. The excessive sweet scent is giving me a headache.
Dad keeps his eyes on his plate before looking over to his mother. “Celina was promoted to partner.” I can’t withhold my smile.
Neither can Grandmother who leans across the table, eyes wide. “How thrilling for you to finally get out of that dreadful kitchen. How you’ve survived slaving away there for so many years is beyond me.”
Mom puts her fork down onto her plate and sits back in her chair. “I actually enjoy it.”
“Oh.” Grandmother’s brows pucker. “I don’t want to offend you, my dear, but you must feel dreadful coming home to your husband reeking of food.”
Mom shakes her head. “I make sure to shower before Hermann gets home.”
Grandmother lets out a sigh of relief, and a sense of pride spreads through me. Mom can handle anything, and right now, she’s in total control of her life with her greatest passion, cooking, in the driving seat.
I turn to Grandmother. “What are your passions?”
Grandmother cuts a tiny piece of pâté while answering. “My home, my husband and hosting our benefits.” Her face lights up. “I did enjoy dancing when I was younger. But your grandfather has a bad knee now.” She puts the pâté gently in her mouth and chews slowly.
“Can’t you dance with someone else?” I say.
She swallows. “Do that to my darling husband? Have someone see me? No, Amalie. My parents raised me better than that.”
I want to ask more. Picturing Grandmother gleaming while twirling on the dance floor, it seems sad she quit, but Grandfather cuts me off.
“These are all lovely conversations, but I suggest discussing your hobbies after dinner.” He turns to Dad again. “Now. Tell me about Skar’s Auto.” Grandfather sips his whiskey again when Dad doesn’t respond, and for some reason, my legs shift in the direction of the door as if wanting to escape the room. “You shouldn’t have locked up that much money in luxury cars. It can’t be going well. Real estate, that’s where you should invest your money.”
Dad still doesn’t respond, and the tension rises in the air around us when Grandmother rings the bell for the next course, beef tartar. With Dad still quiet, she looks to me. “Amalie, I must admit I found myself quite disappointed to hear from rumors and not directly from you that you’ve applied for an art school in Spain.”
Grandfather nods and shifts his attention from Dad to me. “You’re a Skar, you’re better than that. Art students aren’t the brightest kind of people. They also get pregnant too young. I’m sure you’ll be more respectful to your family than that, but there’s no point taking any chances. We wouldn’t want another scandal.”
Mom corrects her hair but doesn’t say anything, even though she must have taken his comment as an insult. My mouth goes dry. I want to defend Dad and her but don’t know how. If a child is a scandal, then I am that example he’s referring to, and Dad has told me too many times what a child does to a family. “Children cost too much money, and they wreck lives so if you ever find yourself thinking about having one, think again. The man you’re with might like the idea, but once that kid comes and you cast your partner aside, your relationship will suffer.” So, if I try to defend Mom and Dad, Dad might go against me, and I’ll have started a discussion between the Skar family and Mom and me. It’ll end up with Mom defending me like it always does, and I don’t want that.
Mom coughs to get Dad’s attention, but he doesn’t react.
Instead, Grandmother asks, “Do you need a cough drop?” and rings her bell for our next course.
“No, thank you.” Mom turns to Dad. “Honey? Would you like to join your daughter in this conversation?”
I wish he’d stand up, defend me as the greatest gift he’s ever received, but in the Skar family, affection’s never just given, it must be earned.
Dessert rolls in, flambéed crepe. Dad keeps quiet, we all do for a while. It’s clear he won’t join in on the conversation, and I’m relieved I didn’t start a discussion about children. Grandfather takes a big bite of his dessert.
I take the opportunity to go back to the first subject. “The school’s not in Spain. It’s in Portugal.”
Grandfather scoffs. “Doesn’t matter. Business school is a much better choice for you.”
Mom usually doesn’t eat wheat flour or sugar, but she, too, has a bite of crepe and as she does, my grandmother slides a napkin over the table at her. “Crumb’s dear.”
She didn’t spill anything.
After dinner, Mr. Skar pours two glasses of whiskey, one for himself and one he places in front of Dad.
“No, thank you,” Dad says.
Mr. Skar waves the comment away as if it were a pesky mosquito. “Nonsense, you said that last time too. And the time before that. Today, one glass won't hurt. You need it.”
“What do you know of what I need?” Dad takes the glass but doesn’t drink from it; instead, he sets it down on the table in front of him, much to Mr. Skar’s dislike.
“I hear the Sand boy is moving back? What a success that son is. His parents must be so proud,” Grandfather says.
“William Sand,” Dad says. “Apparently he and Amalie are going on a date tomorrow.”
What? How could you tell them?
Great, now they know. I stare at him, hoping he’ll understand how disappointed I am.
He shows no regret as he shrugs. “Oh really, don’t take yourself so seriously. It’s only a date.”
“Oh, what wonderful news.” Grandmother is beside herself.
Grandfather too. “A good choice in a man. I’m pleasantly surprised you had it in you.”
Great. Now I’ll have to answer to this every time I meet them.
The chef enters from the kitchen, and luckily everyone’s focus changes to him. He is a small man, a few years older than me. He looks wide-eyed at Mom. “I hope everything was to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, yes, it was fine,” Grandfather says. The chef doesn’t leave
but waits for Mom’s response.
“It was lovely,” Mom says. When he still doesn’t leave the room, she adds, “And thank you for not using foie gras from force-fed geese, but the free-range organic liver.”
The chef beams. “I hoped you’d notice. It’s an honor to cook for such a culinary artist.”
Grandfather turns to the chef. “I’m sorry, did we invite you to join our dinner?”
“Of course not, sir.” The chef bows and backs out.
Dad raises his glass and shoots the whiskey down. I have never seen Dad shoot down anything before.
“Dad? Are you all right?”
Grandfather copies Dad. He wipes his mouth and exhales with delight. “Ahh! Of course he’s not all right. He’s broke.”
Dad sets the glass on the table. “We’re not broke.”
Grandfather smirks. “Look at me.”
Dad doesn’t flinch.
“Look at me,” Grandfather says again in a stern voice, and like turning on a switch to a light, he has Dad’s full attention. I recognize the tone of his voice; Dad uses it on me, and I react the same way, so I flinch too when I hear it from his father. “You know who I am, and as a former bank director, I’m connected to people, important people, and they tell me what I need to know. So, don’t you dare lie to me.”
“We’re not—” Dad’s cut off.
“I didn’t say your family was broke, but if you knew how to calculate your business finances like I’ve tried so many times to teach you, you wouldn’t have to rely on your wife to wear the pants in this family of yours. And, I wouldn’t have to hear from concerned friends at the bank that my son is only weeks from having to file for bankruptcy.”
Grandmother gasps. “I’m sure Hermann would never allow that. There must be another explanation.”
Mom stares at Dad. “Is this true?”
I’m holding my breath. Dad doesn’t sell many cars, but it can’t be this bad.
Grandfather pours Dad another glass of whiskey. “Don’t lie to us! I deserve that much respect. If you’d only listened to me.”
Dad shakes his head and roars out, “I'm doing my best, but—”
Grandfather mocks. “That won’t help anyone when your best obviously isn’t good enough! And don’t you dare blame this on me. This is entirely your own failure.”
Grandmother rises from the table, signaling for Mom and me to leave with her. “Let's leave the men to talk business in peace. We will take our coffee in the drawing room.”
No, I don’t want to go.
“Dad? We can stay,” I say.
But he shakes his head. “Go eat cakes.”
I want to refuse, but he seems so deflated hunching over the table that I can’t argue with him. So we leave the room and Grandmother closes the doors behind us.
Grandfather’s voice trails after us. “You should have taken that job in London twenty years ago. You have to be an idiot not to see how embarrassing this is to me.”
The image of a sheep pops into my head again, this time with Dad’s face on it, but I shake it off. Dad’s not a sheep, he’s a leader, no matter what his father says.
Grandmother opens the double doors into the drawing room and takes a seat in one of two large armchairs facing the marble fireplace. On a gold table next to her is a framed newspaper article where Dad grins at the camera in front of the sign to Skar’s Auto. It’s from the opening day. If he only knew he’d sit here today desperate to save the business. If only I had known; I could have done more to help him.
Mom and I sit on the beige sofa to her right, where the city lights glimmer below the house. The cushion is hard, and I want to pull my legs underneath me to get comfortable, but knowing the rules, I straighten my back instead. Grandmother notices the correction and nods approvingly.
We sit in silence for a while. I can’t make out the words from the men’s muffled voices two rooms away, but I can’t help but try. The word embarrassment stands out, but I can’t make out who says it. Glancing at my grandmother, I can’t think of a single thing to ask her to get the conversation started. She seems to be in the same dilemma. It all seems wrong somehow. She doesn’t work, so I can’t ask about that, and I’m terrified to open any subject about fashion in case she uses the opportunity to truly share what she feels about the way I look.
Hunting and interior decorating magazines lay neatly displayed on the coffee table. I pick one up and turn to a page on Ilse Crawford, Mom’s favorite interior designer.
“Mom used her for inspiration when they
refurbished The Bluebird,” I say.
Grandmother adjusts the pin on her jacket. “Did she now.”
I show Mom the article, and she smiles a little for the first time since we left the men in the dining room. “Mr. Jensen, my partner, and I love how she takes into account our five senses in her designs, don’t you?”
Grandmother folds her hands in her lap. “I don’t see how that will increase a profit, so no. I do not love that.”
Mom takes the magazine and places it back on the table.
Grandmother stands up from her chair. “I almost forgot, though. I discussed your interior with Hermann, and he agrees it’s time to update your home, so I took the liberty of gathering some samples for you.” She exits the room.
Mom ruffles her hair.
What does she mean by samples?
Grandmother returns with two bags filled with wallpaper samples and curtain fabrics. “No need to return these. I have great connections in these shops,” she says.
Mom doesn’t take the bags. “I don’t need…”
“Nonsense.” Grandmother interrupts her and lifts them from the floor. “I’ll have them placed in your car for you.” She rings a bell, and before Mom or I find the words, a maid has removed the bags from the room.
Like a screeching sound from a truck braking, Grandfather’s muffled screams pierce through the tense silence. I can’t make the words out, but the anger is undeniable. If Dad ever yelled at me that way, I’d probably pass out. Nobody in our family ever raises their voice, and even though I hear it now, it’s difficult for me to comprehend. Dad has taught me all my life that “If you show anger or sadness in any discussion, you lose.”
I push myself to stand. I have to know what’s going on, but Grandmother’s voice stops me. It’s louder than before, as to drown out the tension seething in through the shut door.
“Art school.” She pauses as if tasting the word and finding its aftertaste revolting. “Don’t you find it hard disappointing your father?”
Her comment is like a slap in the face. “I hope Dad will be proud of me if I do well.”
She pours her and Mom a glass of Baileys. To my surprise, Mom accepts the glass and places it on the table in front of us. I’ve only seen Mom drink once before, and that was years ago.
Like a movie before my eyes, I recall being thirteen when Mr. Jensen had given Mom a thirty-year-old wine to celebrate her contribution to The Bluebird. That day, before Dad got home from work, she decanted and poured two glasses, four sips for me and a regular sized glass for herself. “I want to share this experience with you,” she said.
I remember looking for mildew, smelling for it too. Any other food would have looked disgusting after thirty years, and it was a miracle to me the wine didn’t.
We spent one hour smelling, analyzing and tasting. I felt so special that day. was like silk on my tongue, and it spread like velvet in my mouth. Mom only had that one glass. She gave the rest to Nana and Grandpa, who still speak of it today as a gastronomic experience of a lifetime.
Many would think it irresponsible to give wine to a thirteen-year-old, but my friends hated her for it. My mother had given her daughter a standard so high for how wine should taste that I never drank anything I didn’t appreciate every sip of. At fifteen, my friends stole liquor from their parents, and every time I turned it down, they told me how stuck-up I was. When they got drunk, I took care of them. Seeing what too much alcohol did, I
lost any desire to copy their behavior. After a while, I didn’t see the point and stayed home instead to help Mom with new recipes or work on my art. Dad, of course, thought I was weird not to go out, but Mom supported me. She always does.
One time when Josefine came to our door to bring me along to a party, Mom lied for me, told her we had a family thing so I could stay home with my paintings and designs.
Mrs. Skar straightens her back and pours our coffee. Her words knock me out of my soothing memories and right back to reality. “Oh, Amalie! You need to grow up.” Her pinky points to the ceiling as her wrinkled lips latch on to the gold edge of the porcelain cup. Her slurping sound reverberates in the drawing room. “If you want to help your Dad, study economics. Money will make you happy.” She places the cup on its matching plate, aligning the patterns. “Look at me.”
I open my mouth to respond, but she waves me off the same way Grandfather had done to Dad. She leans forward in her chair, glaring at Mom. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, Celina. But we have spent enough of our hard-earned money on my son smudging our good name on that dealership of his, so don’t expect us to support this.”
Where is this coming from?
“Dad spent his own money on Skar’s,” I say.
“Well, we paid for his school supplies, he lived under our roof with no expenses demanded of him and had a very pleasant life. So, as you see, we have supported him.”
I’ve heard Dad speak like this before and told me I need to contribute to the costs at home. Now I see where he gets it.
Mom sips her coffee and sits back on the sofa, places the small plate on her knee, and cups the mug in both hands. “He’s your son, Aase. Of course, he lived in his home for free.”
“We sacrificed a lot for him, that’s all. He’ll repay us one day, I’m sure.”
Grandmother has never worked a day in her life, and Grandfather inherited most of his money from his father’s second wife.
He's got it coming: Love is the best revenge Page 34
