Page 46 of The Voice We Find

With practiced elegance, Anita Wilder crosses the patio dressed in white tailored pants and a pearl-buttoned summer cardigan. She waits for me to climb the steps and move toward her. Her eyes glitter as she assesses me, and I hold my breath when she reaches out to smooth a lock of my hair and tuck it behind my ear.

“Hi, Mom,” I say around the growing lump in my throat.

“That color of pink has always suited your complexion well,” she says before moving on to straighten the neckline of my sundress. When her fingers pause their compulsive fixing, Ifeelrather than see the moment she registers her mother’s cross pendant around my neck. But in typical Anita Wilder fashion, she avoids the potential confrontation and simply doesn’t ask the question that glows from her eyes.

“Did you have a nice cruise?” I ask dutifully.

The smile she offers is fragile but genuine. “The Mediterranean is always beautiful this time of year, although our schedule wasn’t conducive to a lot of sightseeing.”

Meaning my father kept them moving at a brisk pace.

“But your father enjoyed himself. He was quite the networker.” She gives a halfhearted chuckle. “So much for semi-retirement.” She looks over her shoulder at Natalie. “What are we gonna do with these men of ours, Natalie?” Mom shakes her head good-naturedly. “It’s all work and no play with them. It’s why your father insisted upon lunch today despite our jetlagged state. But your father wanted to share the potential contacts he made with your brother while they were still fresh in his mind.”

Never mind the daughter he hasn’t seen in nearly three years; it was business that brought him to the house today.

Natalie glances between us. “We should probably head inside. Looks like lunch is ready.”

I furrow my brow, wondering if Jasper arranged for one of thechefs to come in on their day off and cook. But once I step inside to the dining room, I discover that lunch has actually been provided by a popular Asian bistro in midtown. My father’s favorite. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many sushi rolls in one place.

My brother pats my father’s shoulder twice with the hand not gripping a glass of amber liquid and lends him one of his most congenial smiles. The two laugh in the way only rich men sharing a cocktail at noon can laugh, and my feet pause there. Just a few steps behind my father’s turned back.

When Jasper’s gaze finally flicks to me, the energy in the room changes course.

My father, Ronald Wilder, is slow to face me, and I feel every millisecond of his rotation as if he’s tied a tourniquet around my chest.

“Hello, Dad. It’s good to see you again.”

“Sophie, my prodigal daughter returned,” my father says by way of greeting, lifting his glass ever so slightly before taking a sip. For a man who claims to despise all organized religion, as well as those who take part in it, he seems to pay no mind to the irony behind his biblical reference. “Your mother was worried you’d miss Sunday lunch when she couldn’t get ahold of you, but I assured her you’d come back. Same as I did when you left home the first time.”

“And here she arrived right on time,” my mom interjects peaceably, briefly touching my back before handing me a plate. She does the same for my father, my brother, and Natalie. The four of us shuffle toward the buffet and fill our plates before we take a seat around the table. All the while, I’m rehashing in my mind the conversations I’ve shared with Dana over the years regarding healthy boundaries and productive communication tools. We spent many evenings psychoanalyzing our dysfunctional family dynamics and sharing our secret hurts, fears, and hopes.

I am not the same helpless girl I was at sixteen. I have no reason to cower. My viewpoints are valid, and my voice is strong. I am strong.

These are the phrases I repeat in my head, the same ones I know Dana would coach me to repeat if she were with me now.

We sit at the grand dining table meant for a family three timesour size, and I’m more than a little surprised to see my brother sitting at the head of the table. I realize this is no longer my parents’ primary residence, and that technically it’s Jasper who oversees the operation of the winery now, but I hadn’t expected the transfer of power to be so ... complete.

My mother, with her single roll and quarter cup of cucumber salad, glances around the table. “This is nice, isn’t it? All of us together again for a summer lunch at the winery.” Either everyone is too busy dunking their sushi in soy sauce to respond, or there are differing opinions on the matter. “Sophie, Natalie tells me what a help you’ve been to her in the tasting room these last few weeks.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, that’s nice of her.” I spare a glance at Natalie, who only has a bowl of fried rice in front of her and appears to be more interested in counting each grain of rice with her chopsticks than eating. “Thank you, Natalie.” She nods once at my sentiment. It’s better than nothing, I suppose.

“Have you had a chance to catch up with any old friends? When you weren’t in the pool house this morning, I’d wondered if you’d met someone for breakfast.” I’m not sure which friends my mother might be referring to, as anyone I was acquainted with in high school moved on long ago. But technically speaking, she was on the right track.

“Iwaswith friends, but I’ve only met them recently,” I begin, and my pulse doubles. It’s not until the words are halfway out of my mouth that I realize I’m fully committed. “I spent the morning with them at church, actually.”

“Church?” This, from my father.

My mother’s carefully selected piece of sushi slips from her chopsticks and splashes into her soy sauce dish. Natalie rushes to hand her a second napkin. And then a third. All eyes settle on me.

“Yes,” I answer. “It was a beautiful service. I really enjoyed it.”

“So you’ve traded in acting for organized religion?” my father asks dryly. “I’d assumed your blunder on Broadway might have curbed your affinity for living in a fairy-tale world.”

Shame pricks my cheeks at his mention of my screw-up on stage last February, and I catch my brother’s smirk as he takes a sip ofhis cocktail. Up until this moment, I’d figured the only thing my father knew about my homecoming was what I’d written in my email—that I needed a change of scenery and was hoping to secure a job at the winery until I could get back on my feet financially. But “Blunder on Broadway” was the title an online theater critic gave to my performance—or lack thereof. Which means my father must have seen it. Read it. Maybe even watched a clip of it.

The thought makes my appetite die.

Before I have a chance to recalibrate from my mortification, my father says, “You may have rejected my advice at eighteen, Sophie, but perhaps you should rethink it now, considering your less-than-desirable circumstances living as a squatter in the family’s pool house.” He lets his words hover for a good four seconds before he continues. “The only way to get ahead in this world is to pay your dues the way your brother has done here for over a decade now. He’s sacrificed momentary enjoyment for hard work, even when that work went unnoticed and underappreciated.” He lifts an eyebrow and then tips his head in Jasper’s direction. “If you play your cards right, you might just be able to work yourself into a managerial role under your brother’s tutelage and establish a reputable career.” He grips his son’s shoulder, and I note the pride in my mother’s eyes. Interestingly enough, Natalie’s expression isn’t as easy to read.

---