Page 3 of Dagger in the Sea

All my life my mother had insisted that I remain spotless, above reproach, and I’d made it my mission to excel at that. To impress her, make her notice, gain her glorious approval. Top of my class, captain of the hockey team, captain of the lacrosse team, an excellent tennis player to partner with her and play at her charity events, to accompany her to dinners and openings and converse politely and appropriately. Always well-dressed and well-groomed. I’d done it, enjoyed it even. I followed her into the business she’d created.

But a part of me had been so curious about the other side of the life I knew. That other side was exemplified by my father.

Her eyes narrowed. “I won’t tolerate this behavior.” Her voice had lowered, her words pointed. “You have a choice to make.”

“A choice?”

“Yes.”

She was asking me to choose between them? Always keeping me and him at a distance. This was the first time she’d actually articulated such an absolute ultimatum.

“I won’t do that.”

“You need to.”

We stared at each other for a hard moment, her body clenched, my heart pounding. Neither of us willing to show our cards. True to form, Mom made the first move. Explicit and emphatic.

“Get out.”

My ears stung, my skin flared with heat. “Out?”

“Out.”

“Mom?”

“I cannot have anything about that man touching us. Not one thing. It’s an absolute for me. I’ve been perfectly clear on this subject from the very beginning.”

My father was asubject, not a person. I did understand intellectually, but I wanted to get to know him. I deserved it. It was basic. Fundamental. How dare she—

“The apartment, the trust fund are yours. But don’t ever come back here.” She turned on her heels and strode off.

A roar raged out of my throat, and I lunged at my desk shoving at everything. Computer, paperweight, folders, documents, coffee cup, pens, all flying, smashing, crashing.

I left the company.

For two days I sat in my apartment in silence and stared at the city through my grand windows that my housekeeper always kept spotless. I’d have to get rid of her now. Time to budget.

I had the urge to work at a simple job, not think, not analyze, only do. To sweat with the common man for a change. I got a job as a waiter at an Italian restaurant my mother didn’t own. It was startling to function in the business I knew from the very inside, from kitchen to table, from chef to customer. Now, I was on the front lines, I was the foot soldier, and I liked it. And then one day, my father walked in with another guy and three very young women, and the hostess seated them in my section. My father stared at me without saying a word as I passed out the menus.

“Would you like to hear the chef’s specials for tonight?” I said, forcing my plastic hospitality smile to transform my facial muscles against my will.

“Is there veal Marsala? I love veal Marsala,” said one of the women.

“It’s a house special, I highly recommend it. One veal Marsala.” I jotted down on my pad. “What would you like, ma’am?” I asked the next blonde and she told me her choice.

“Sir? What would you like?” I finally turned to my father.

“What are you doing here?” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

A charged pause. “Linguine alla Vongole,” he said tersely, hitting those ugly consonants with relish.

“Very good, sir.”

I’d served them their cocktails, their antipasti, their dinners, a second bottle of wine and then a third, their cheesecakes which the women fed each other while my father and his buddy laughed, egging them on. After I brought over the Anisette liqueurs, the espressos, the cappuccinos, my father cornered me in the hallway leading to the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me.

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