by Sarah Morgan
His laughter broke the tension. “I’m pleased you came. And the girls are excited to meet you.”
“I can’t wait to meet them.”
As he hung up her coat, she glanced around curiously.
She’d imagined a slightly messy, cozy family home. Maybe some signs of a man who was struggling to cope. It was nothing like that.
The walls of the entryway were decorated in a soft palette of whites and creams that reflected the light and added to the feeling of space. She’d never been in such ordered surroundings. It reminded her of a spa. She half expected a woman in a white coat to swipe her credit card and escort her to a treatment room for a facial.
A large vase full of calla lilies sat proudly on a console table. Her hands itched to rearrange them, but nothing here cried out to be touched. There was no mess. No unopened mail that needed sorting, no house keys, no casual detritus waiting to be stowed away. Everything was already in its place.
“Are you selling your home?” She spoke without thinking and saw his eyebrows lift.
“No. Why would you think that?”
Because her mouth was bigger than her brain. “It’s so tidy. The only time I’ve ever seen living space this tidy is when people are selling. Sometimes we’re asked to do the flowers to help showcase a property.”
“Mommy liked it tidy. We try to keep it the way she liked it.” The shy voice came from the stairs and Flora turned and saw a young girl standing there. Her hair was dark and caught up in an uneven ponytail. Her blue dress hung around her skinny frame and she was carrying a limp giraffe that probably hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine at any point during its life. She stared at Flora, unsure whether she was looking at friend or foe.
“Hi there.” Flora gave her a warm smile. “You must be Molly.” She stepped forward but the little girl shrank back, clutching the giraffe to her chest.
“Come here, Molly.” Jack held out his hand. “Come and say hi.”
Molly didn’t say “hi.” Instead she ran to him as if he were a lifeboat and Flora the storm.
Jack scooped child and toy into his arms. “What’s the matter, honey?”
“She’s wearing shoes.” Her voice was barely audible. “Mommy doesn’t let us wear shoes in the house.”
Jack’s gaze met Flora’s over the top of Molly’s head and she bent to pull off her running shoes. She could feel her face burning.
“I was so excited to see you, I forgot to take them off.” Her fingers slipped and slid on the laces. She was eight years old again and fumbling with her coat under the glare of her aunt’s disapproving frown.
I chose not to marry and have children so we’ll have to find a way to tolerate each other.
Nothing stressed Flora more than knowing she was being tolerated. She wanted to be accepted. Welcomed. Loved.
Protected by her father’s arms, Molly gained confidence. “Do you wear shoes in your house?”
“I don’t have a house, I have an apartment. And I don’t own it, I rent it. It belongs to someone else, and he doesn’t care too much about things like leaks and damp.” And cockroaches. “It’s not as special as your home.” The thought of all the people and activity that had probably taken place on her floor made her want to walk around in thigh-length boots and a hazmat suit, not bare feet.
Still, when she’d dreamed of a family home it hadn’t looked like this.
Flora placed her shoes neatly to the side of the entryway.
“We have a shoe cupboard.” Molly pointed, and Flora followed directions and opened a door. Behind it was a large concealed cupboard complete with shoe racks.
“Well look at that!” Flora tucked her shoes inside. “I bet that’s a perfect place to play hide-and-seek.”
Molly gave her an odd look. “It’s a cupboard. You’d get dirty.”
“But sometimes getting dirty is fun, and—” Flora stopped “—and, you’re right, you would get dirty and that is such a pretty dress. It would be a shame to get it dusty.” It had driven her aunt mad that Flora could never stay clean for five minutes.
“Your dress is very bright and dazzly.”
“Thank you.” Flora glanced down at herself. “I made it myself.”
Molly frowned. “Why? You couldn’t afford to buy one?”
Jack cleared his throat. “Flora made it herself because she’s talented. And I think it’s time to move this conversation on, young lady. Let’s go through to the kitchen and see how your sister is doing with dinner and what we can do to help.” He put Molly down and sent Flora a look of apology.
She smiled, signaling that it wasn’t a problem although of course it was a problem.
Telling herself that this was bound to take time, Flora followed them through to the back of the house. If this was a test, she’d failed dismally.
As she followed him toward the kitchen she glanced through an open door into the living room, and noticed the elegant white sofas. White sofas? How did they not get filthy? Flora hoped she wasn’t going to be invited into that room. She’d be terrified to sit down in case she marked the fabric. A selection of art books were stacked on a low table and a large cream rug covered the oak floor.
It looked like a room straight out of a design magazine. If she hadn’t known a family lived here, she would have guessed the occupants were a professional couple who spent most of their time in the office or entertaining friends who wouldn’t spill a drop of red wine.
The house had a cool, elegant feel with art and large photographs crowding the walls. She looked more closely and saw that all the photographs were of the same person, a dancer. She was almost impossibly graceful and ethereal, the camera capturing the height of a gazelle-like leap into the air, the elegant stretch of her arms, the curve of her instep as she balanced en pointe. It all looked effortless.
She turned her head and saw Molly watching her.
“That’s my mommy. She was a famous dancer.”
Dancer.
And now, of course, it all fell into place. Becca. Jack’s wife was Becca Parker. The Becca Parker, darling of the media and ballet-loving audiences across the globe, a dancer who displayed the perfect combination of athleticism and grace, power and poise. Those photographs portrayed the triumph and nothing of the struggle. And they only told the early part of Becca’s story.
As her star was rising, Becca Parker had damaged her knee and been unable to perform again. Another person might have sunk into depression. Not Becca. She’d turned her recovery into a triumph and invented a fitness regime she called “Becca’s Body.” She’d invested in first one studio and then another until her company was running classes across the major cities of the US.
Flora had never taken a Becca’s Body class. She had neither the budget nor the motivation. And she definitely didn’t have the right body.
Staring at those photographs, she felt like a small, ungainly elephant. She had a feeling Becca wouldn’t have been impressed by her.
Flora knew she was good at many things, but she was the first to admit they weren’t particularly impressive things. She could restore a flagging plant to health, create a stunning bouquet, dance the tango, perform a perfect cartwheel, paint in watercolor and pastels, and turn random pieces of fabric into clothes. What she couldn’t do was keep her living space neat and tidy, throw away a book, or stomach an oyster. And not in a million years would she want to run a business.
She straightened her shoulders and sucked her tummy in. “Your mommy was very beautiful.”
“She was perfect in every way.” The cool voice came from the doorway to the kitchen and Flora turned and saw a girl studying her. She wore skinny jeans, ripped at the knees, and a top that left most of her smooth, flat stomach exposed. Her eyes were green like her father’s, her skin a perfect ivory with hardly a blemish. She was older than Molly, a teenager, so presumably this had to be Izzy.
Flora had imagined some wounded, bruised, uncertain creature. She’d pictured a fractured family that she could somehow he
lp to heal. This girl didn’t look broken. She was frighteningly cool and the fierceness in her eyes suggested that help was not only unnecessary, it was unwelcome.
She stood in a relaxed dancer’s pose, one foot resting against the other. Her hair, the same dark shade as her father’s, fell straight and shiny over one shoulder, smooth and well behaved. Instinctively Flora brushed away one of the curls that bounced happily out of whichever style she’d attempted that morning. Never, in a million years, would she look as cool as this girl.
“Izzy.” Jack reached out his hand. “Come and meet Flora. Flora, this is my Izzy.” There was no missing the pride in his voice or the love in his eyes. His daughter flashed him a brief smile, before turning back to Flora.
“Isabella.” She extended a hand, the formality reminding Flora of a job interview.
Molly chewed her finger. “You hate being called Isabella.”
“By the people close to me, yes, but I prefer people I don’t know to use my full name.” Izzy played affectionately with her sister’s hair and then pulled her close. “Don’t bite your fingers. Did you get your reading book ready?”
“It’s on the bed.”
“Good girl. We’ll read it together later.”
It was clear to Flora that Izzy was sending a message.
We’re a unit. A team. No outsiders allowed.
Her nerves multiplied, increasing from a few butterflies to an entire flock. She’d expected two children who were lost and a little bereft. She’d imagined being able to help. How could she have been so naive? They didn’t want her here. She stood for a moment, frozen, suppressing the instinct to run.
She thought about Izzy’s description of her mother.
Perfect in every way.
They might as well have said there is no way you can ever match her, so don’t even try.
Flora took a breath. She wasn’t trying to replace. She wasn’t trying to match. And she wasn’t going to pretend to be something she wasn’t. Not this time. Not with Jack.
She decided to focus on the younger sister, who was probably the less scary of the two. “Do you dance, Molly?”
Molly shrank against her sister.
“Molly is a beautiful dancer,” Jack said. “But she hasn’t danced in a while.”
Flora hadn’t danced after her mother died, either. “I’d love to see you dance sometime.”
Molly buried her face in Izzy’s chest.
“Hey.” Izzy gently shifted her away. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But there’s no need to hide. We face the things that scare us, right? Come and help me while I finish fixing dinner.”
Flora felt uncomfortable. Was she the thing that scared them?
Molly took her sister’s hand and scuffled with her into the kitchen.
Flora followed them into the room. “What a beautiful kitchen.”
The room was filled with late evening sunlight. The windows faced over a garden shaded by tall trees, a lush oasis in this stark, urban desert. Close to the house was a bluestone patio, surrounded by Japanese maples and cherry trees. There were pots waiting to be planted, and Flora imagined the place in the height of summer, with color cascading from those pots.
Unlike the rest of the downstairs, this room was light and welcoming.
Molly watched her. “Mommy loved the garden.”
Flora felt a rush of hope. At least the child was still speaking to her, even if she was clinging to her sister while she did it. “I love gardens, too. I work with flowers. I could plant those pots for you, if you like?”
“You’re a guest. Guests don’t work in the yard. Please do sit down, Flora.” Izzy’s smile was bright and brittle.
“Yes, sit down, Flora. You’re not planting any pots. This is your night off. When it’s the three of us we eat at the breakfast bar, but we’ve laid the table in your honor.” Jack gestured to the table that was laid neatly with mats and napkins. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything strange about Izzy’s behavior. Flora wondered if she was being oversensitive. No one was entirely themselves the first time they met someone, as she knew only too well.
She sat down at the table and glanced at Jack, desperate for a hint of warmth or connection, but he wasn’t looking at her.
“What would you like to drink?” He was friendly, but that was all.
She admired his self-control and understood it, but still she missed the intimacy that had become part of the time they spent together. It felt strange not to touch him, not to slip her hand into his and feel the warmth of his grip. There was a different kind of tension in the air. She wasn’t sure if it was expectation or threat. The house seemed to be holding its breath.
Maybe Jack had accepted that tension was inevitable. She was the one at fault for assuming this would be easy. Families weren’t something an outsider could easily join. She, of all people, should know that.
Still, she was determined to try. Blending in and pleasing people was something she was good at. She could do this. She knew how to do this.
“I made homemade lemonade.” She produced the bottle from her oversize bag.
“Delicious. Thank you.” Jack reached into a glass-fronted cabinet and pulled out tall glasses. “Girls? Lemonade?”
“Not for me, thank you.” Izzy’s smile was polite as she busied herself preparing food. “I’m avoiding sugar.”
It was the sweetest cut. She’d had worse injuries handling roses, but for some reason this barb hurt more. It reminded her so much of her aunt. Why did you waste time and money making that?
Jack seemed more amused than annoyed. “I didn’t see you holding back on the chocolate yesterday.”
“Which is why I’m not eating or drinking sugar today. I’ll have water.” She strolled to the fridge, glass in hand, and filled it with ice and then water. Virtue shone from her and Jack pushed Molly’s glass toward Flora.
“Lemonade is Molly’s favorite. You’re going to love this, honey.”
Molly didn’t mirror his enthusiasm, but she didn’t reject the idea either so Flora poured the lemonade and held her breath. Was there a scarier audience than a seven-year-old?
Molly sipped cautiously.
Flora didn’t breathe until she saw the child take a second sip.
Molly gave a tentative smile. “It’s yummy.”
It was like being given a promotion and a pay rise at the same time. She wanted to fall on Molly and sob with gratitude, but she managed to restrain herself.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Izzy turned her back and smacked a pan down on the stove. “We’re having veggie burgers. I hope that’s all right.”
“I hate veggie burgers,” Molly said and Flora smiled.
She could sense the personality peeping through the layers of shyness. It gave her hope.
Izzy threw her sister an exasperated glance. “Since when? Last week they were your favorite. And it’s Saturday. We always have veggie burgers on a Saturday.”
“Because Mom liked them. But I hate them.”
“How can you hate something so tasty? Izzy is a genius in the kitchen, Flora.” Jack smiled at his daughter. “You should try her pancakes. When a day starts with those, it’s impossible for it to be a bad one.”
Izzy’s smile vanished in a blink. “I only make those for breakfast.” And it was clear from the rigid lines of her body that if she had her way Flora was never going to be invited for breakfast.
Flora moved the subject along. “Veggie burgers sound great. You made them yourself? I’m impressed. You’ll have to give me the recipe. I love to cook.”
“It was my mother’s secret recipe.”
The remark nudged Flora a little further out of the circle.
Izzy waited until the burgers were sizzling on the griddle, and then flipped them neatly.
Daunted by her cool competence, Flora focused on Molly. “Is your school close to here, Molly?”
Jack gently prized Molly’s hand from her mouth. “Are you going
to answer Flora?”
Flora thought the answer to that was going to be a quick shake of the head, but then Molly spoke.
“I can walk. Izzy takes me, because it’s close to her school.”
“That’s kind of her.”
“She’s my sister,” Izzy said. “It’s what sisters do.”
It seemed to Flora that Izzy was fulfilling more of a maternal role than a sisterly one, but she didn’t have the experience to judge.
“She does it because Daddy has gone when I wake up,” Molly said. “He goes to work early, but sometimes he comes home early to see me before bedtime.” This volley of information earned her another frustrated glance from her sister.
“Have you washed your hands, Moll?”
“Yes. Clean.” Molly waved her hands in the air. “Can I have more lemonade?”
“May I have,” Izzy said, “and also I didn’t hear a ‘please.’”
“May I, please?” Molly pushed her glass forward and Flora topped it up.
Thank goodness for Molly. “My favorite subject at school was art. What’s yours?”
“I used to like drawing.” Molly sipped her drink. “But I don’t anymore.”
“I love to draw.” Encouraged, Flora reached into her bag and pulled out the art pad and pencil she carried everywhere. “What’s your favorite animal?”
Molly stared at her. “A fox.”
Izzy frowned. “It’s a giraffe.”
“It’s a fox.” Molly was firm and Flora quickly sketched a fox, including a few trees in the background.
“There. You can keep it and color it if you like.” She pushed the sketch across the table, hoping to tempt the little girl, but before Molly could grab it, Izzy snatched it up.
“Molly doesn’t like coloring.” Izzy walked the picture across the kitchen. For a moment Flora thought she was going to dump it in the recycling but then at the last minute she seemed to change her mind and put it down on the countertop. “Fetch the salad, Molly. It’s ready in the fridge. And grab the ketchup. These are nearly ready.”
What had she done wrong? Why wouldn’t Izzy want Molly to color the picture?
