Chapter 1
I adjust my modest, borderline childish-looking sweater. Six years ago, I received it on my birthday. I have only worn it twice—once on the day I got it and then on Christmas that year. Since then, the sweater has collected dust in the far reaches of my closet. I cleared away the years of neglect, and it now looks brand new. However, I inspect it in the floor-length mirror beside my dresser, as if expecting it to fade when my attention is elsewhere.
I must admit I look cute—like the everlasting little girl my father sees every time he glances at me. I also think I appear to be trying too hard to curry my father’s favor. In no version of reality will he fall for my obvious intentions.
The debate that started early the night before rears its annoying head. Should I stick to invoking my father’s nostalgia or present myself as an adult on an equal footing with him? Which route will guarantee success?
A knock on my closed bedroom door draws me away from my thoughts. I turn away from the mirror. “Yes?”
The door opens, and my mother sticks her head into my room. “Darling, your father’s meeting has finished.”
My stomach somersaults. “Okay.”
I take the portfolio I’ve spent the past two months creating from its place on top of my dresser. The bulk of it comforts me. The amount of research I did could rival one of my father’s many notable papers. At the very least, my father will admire my hard work.
My mother enters the room. As I watch, I fight the urge to demand that she leave. Four months ago, we discovered that my mother has been wasting my father’s money on unnecessary things that she hides away in the basement or attic. Most of these things are still brand new and have never been used. Yes, she has a problem that requires professional help, but it’s been going on for fifteen years out of my parents’ twenty-two-year marriage. She should have sought aid long before she got caught.
Maybe then my parents wouldn’t be on the verge of divorce.
They haven’t mentioned the idea, but since my return home from college two weeks ago, they’ve fought every night. They call each other horrible names, and just last night, my mother told my father she hated him. Once, I swear, I heard something break, but I can’t be sure which parent would have gone that far.
I know both my parents’ behavior needs adjusting, yet I can’t help but put all the blame on my mother. Why can’t she control herself? Why doesn’t she go to therapy like she keeps promising?
My mother’s full lips turn up in a big smile, and the wrinkles around her grass-green eyes crinkle. For a second, she doesn’t look as tired or old as she has for days. “You look nice.”
I glance away at my four-poster bed covered in the Slytherin comforter set Grandpop gifted me for Christmas of my junior year in high school. “Thank you.”
“Darling, I wish you’d reconsider my suggestion.”
“I have.” The edge in my voice makes my mother wince, and I want to smirk, but I don’t indulge my rude tendencies. Someone must act like an adult in the house.
“What’s so wrong with it?”
I meet my mother’s gaze. “It reeks of cowardice.”
“But your father—he’s not—just wait until you graduate.”
“No.”
My mother sighs. “Another year can’t hurt, can it? By then, your father and I—everything will be back to normal.”
“I can’t tell that from your arguments,” I say under my breath.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing, Mom. I’ve got to go.”
I race across the room and out the door before my mother utters another syllable. I don’t slow as I reach the end of the long hallway and take the steep staircase to the first floor.
My father’s study sits off the living room, offering him a wonderful view of the peach orchard beyond the spacious backyard. Initially a simple patio, the study was remodeled after my father secured a position as a pediatric cardiologist at Duke University Hospital and moved his young family to Hillsborough. He had a professional come in and decorate the room, so it reeks of determined masculinity, but it doesn’t distract from the tasks he completes inside.
Besides my room, I consider my father’s study the best place in the house. The dark wood paneling softens the bright sunlight that the garden window allows in without making the room seem like a vampire’s lair. The lush beige carpet promises a soft, comforting experience that won’t be soon forgotten. Bookshelves cover three-fourths of the walls. They’re all packed with books—mostly those needed for my father’s research, but the books I loved as a child take up their own section.
As I step into my father’s study, I inhale the ever-lingering scent of the chocolate truffle coffee that my father orders from overseas. Though I dislike the taste of coffee, the familiar aroma soothes me. It reminds me of the rainy days I spent reading or drawing while my father worked.
The computer desk rests in the middle of the room. As always, my father sits on a massive black exercise ball; his fingers tap out a furious rhythm on his keyboard. As a child, I couldn’t understand the ball or why my father enjoyed looking silly. Now, I recognize its benefits, but I still think the distinguished man, just shy of sixty, looks a little strange at his desk.
My father works a few moments longer before raising his head. Despite his job stress and issues with his wife, his square, proportionate features don’t reveal any of it. In fact, my father appears ten years younger, closer to my mother’s age.
He nods to allow me to enter the room. He waits for me to settle on the loveseat across from his desk before he asks, “What brings you here, Princess?”
“Daddy, I—”
I catch myself. If I want him to listen to me, I can’t speak to my father like I usually do.
“We need to discuss my education. About where I’ll further it,” I continue, maintaining the same tone I use when presenting projects at college.
My father’s thin eyebrows (the same as mine) rise. “Oh, is that so?” He stands, clasps his delicate, hard-working hands behind his back, and paces. “You’ve been doing so well at Harvard, though. Why do you want to leave?” His eyes, the color of bitter chocolate, pierce me. “Are you having problems?”
I want to glance away from my father’s penetrating gaze, but I know I can’t back down if I hope for success. “No. Everything’s gone better than I could have ever hoped.”
“So, what is it?”
“I need a change of scenery.”
That isn’t a lie, but my admission only dips its toes into the pool of truth. I hate I must ease my father into the conversation instead of just laying it before him. My father favors the more direct approach with his work, but I learned years ago that he doesn’t share that preference at home.
The suspicious glint doesn’t leave my father’s stare, but his jaw and shoulders relax. “Just bored, eh?” He scratches his clean-shaven chin. “Well, you’re young—I understand.” My father smiles. “I suppose a transfer to Stanford wouldn’t be so horrible. Unless you have somewhere else in mind?”
I stand, adjust my portfolio, and approach my father’s desk. “Yes, I do.”
My father grimaces, though he smiles to show that he’s only kidding. “Let’s have it, then.”
I take two deep breaths before I say (not with the level of confidence I’d like), “I want to go to The Institute of Culinary Education.”
My father’s humor drains away and leaves behind a baffled expression. “You... want to learn to cook?”
My mouth opens, but before I utter a sound, my father burst into laughter. It’s not his usual heartwarming chuckle. No, the noise he makes is the same as when my older sister told him she planned to move to California to pursue acting.
My father’s laughing fit ceases, and he clutches his chest. “Good one, Princess. But be careful. My poor heart can’t handle many more jokes like that.”
“It’s not a joke. I want to go to culinary school. To get a pastry degree.”
A wall slides over my father’s features, making it impossible for me to gauge his thoughts. “You want to be a pastry chef?”
“Well, no. I want to open a bakery.” I place the portfolio on the computer desk and open it. I point to the top page, which summarizes the cost of my changing career paths. “It’s all worked out. If I knew how to bake, I could just skip school.” Shame fills me. “But I can’t.”
This isn’t an accurate statement. I can make simple things, like sugar cookies and one-note brownies, but I didn’t learn how until this past October. Until then, I’ve been content with a private cook providing my meals.
When I discovered my passion for baking, I realized I should have taken advantage of the teaching offers made by Margrett Snow, my family’s cook. But neither of my parents pressed the need for this valuable skill. What did it matter? Anything that they can’t do for themselves, they hire someone to do for them.
My father smirks. “A bakery?” He shakes his head. “Do you know how absurd you sound?”
“It may seem a bit out there, but I think I can succeed.” I gesture to the portfolio again. “It’s all in here. Just look. Please.”
“Who put this stupid idea into your head?” His eyes flick to the study’s open door.
“No one! And it’s not stupid. People love baked goods, and I want to provide them. It’s a win-win.”
My father snorts. “Throwing away a promising career as a cardiologist to make doughnuts for a living is what a child would suggest doing.”
My throat burns and my eyes sting, but I can’t cry. I can’t act like the kid he just accused me of being.
“Dad, I’m only asking you to examine my research right now.”
“No. I won’t entertain this idea any longer. You’re not going to culinary school. You’re going to follow our plan—the sensible plan.”
Anger grips me. “Your plan.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to be a cardiologist. I never have.”
The truth has always lingered in my mind, but my desire to please my father and maintain my status as his favorite daughter has kept it at bay. But as I baked more, I evaluated my life. Somehow, I grew complacent about my father treating me like an extension of himself.
Now, at twenty-four, I can’t march forward anymore like my father wants me to. I need to step outside of his shadow to show the world that I’m more than my father’s daughter. Baking promises me the freedom I crave.
My revelation drains the glow from my father’s face. “You’re being ridiculous, you know?”
“I just want to chase a dream.”
“Your sister did that and now look at what she’s become.”
I jerk as if he hit me. “I am not Nicole, and I won’t end up like her.”
My father waves away my statement, and his gaze hardens. “If you’re set on this, I want you out of the house. I won’t support you in destroying your life.”
“But—but where will I go?”
“Why not join your sister?”
My father’s cruel tone shakes my core. The look he pegs me with is no better. I’ve fallen from grace and now exist alongside the dregs of society. From the experience with Nicole, I know nothing will change his mind.
However, I still try.
I pick up my portfolio and close the distance between me and my father. I shove the papers at him. “Look! Please, look. It’s all in here.”
No response.
I lose my composure and start crying. “Please, Daddy. Please.”
My father turns away from me and focuses on the window. I cry louder. When he continues to ignore me, I scream at him. For my efforts, I only get a sore throat.
My hysterical pleading lasts for a solid ten minutes. Then all my fighting abandons me. I drop the portfolio at my father’s feet and flee. Tears stream down my face as I thunder upstairs to my bedroom. I intend to fling myself onto my bed, but I stop short.
In my absence, someone has removed the comforter set. I gaze around my room and spot that my drawers are open and emptied. Many of the clothes in my closet have disappeared. Surprise stops my crying, and fury mingles with my sadness.
This must be my mother’s work. How could she do this? Is this her attempt to please her husband?
Regardless, of her reasoning, the sight of my partially cleared-out room pushes me to my limit. In the middle of my room, I drop to my knees and bury my face in my hands. Violent sobs shake me, and a hollow, eerie moan claws from my throat.
“Oh, darling!”
My mother’s voice startles me, but I don’t drop my hands. Instead, I curl into a tighter ball. My bawling now resembles a banshee’s.
My mother’s thin, strong arms wrap around me. Though I resist, she has little trouble pulling me into her lap. She rocks me and murmurs reassurances.
Her soft words once again spark my rage. I pull my head away from my hands and shove at my mother until she lets me go. “You bitch!”
“I—”
“You couldn’t wait to get rid of me, could you?” I stand and scramble to the opposite side of the room. “What did you do with all my stuff?”
My mother rises to her feet, and I refuse to acknowledge the grimace that accompanies the action. “I packed what I could into your luggage and put it in your car.”
“So, that’s it, then? Good riddance?”
My mother shakes her head and sends her blond, corkscrew curls flying. “I don’t want you to go, but we both know your father. It’s... it’s best if you go away and let him calm down.”
My shoulders droop. “Where do I go?”
I can’t join Nicole in California. For one, I don’t know where my sister lives. Second, even if I did, I refuse to involve myself in the risky lifestyle Nicole has pursued instead of acting.
I made plenty of friends at college, but none could take me in. Either they still live with their parents, or they live on their own and struggle to get by. It wouldn’t be so awful if I could pull money from my trust fund as I did all throughout college, but I know my father will cut me off—if he hasn’t already. Also, I’m aware of the job market and the difficulty I’ll have getting anything substantial.
My mother removes a pile of folded papers and a stack of money from the back pocket of her jeans. She holds them out. “Here are the directions and enough cash to get you to Derbinwood, Pennsylvania. I contacted your great-aunt, Veronica. She’s been diagnosed with cancer. Since her husband’s death last year, she could use the company and help around the house.”
I frown. “Aunt Veronica—isn’t she a horrible person?”
“No, she’s not. She’s an acquired taste, but fine. She and your father just don’t get along.”
I almost laugh at the understatement. My father and his aunt haven’t spoken to or seen each other in nineteen years. Before their fallout, I was only around Aunt Veronica twice, and even as a small child, I could tell the pair could barely tolerate one another.
The idea of living with a woman I hardly know in a place I’ve never visited unsettles me, but what choice do I have? I won’t make it long on the streets, and I refuse to beg for forgiveness. I’ve done nothing wrong. My father overreacted—he needs to apologize to me.
But he won’t. He hasn’t to Nicole, and he hasn’t seen his oldest daughter since she walked out of the house eight years ago. My father mentions her only when he wants an example of poor decisions.
“For how long?”
I hope my mother will give me a sappy, optimistic answer to lessen the blow of this horrible ordeal, but she says, “I don’t know, darling. Prepare for... a while.”
More tears pool in my eyes as I grab the money and directions from my mother. I don’t look at them. I can’t bear to face reality yet.
My mother pulls me into a hug, and for the first time in two weeks, I don’t resist. “I love you,” she whispers and pats my shoulder-length, honey-blond hair. “Your father does, too. He’ll come around. He must. You’re his fav—he loves you.”
Though I want to believe otherwise, I know being my father’s favorite won’t matter. In fact, it probably makes him that much more furious. If he can go nineteen years without talking to someone he’s never liked to begin with, what will stop my father from ignoring me until he dies?
