Legacy (Anna Strong Chronicles #4)

Legacy (Anna Strong Chronicles #4) Page 25

MISTER A'S OCCUPIES THE TOP FLOOR OF A building on Fifth Avenue. From Thanksgiving to New Year's, the entire building is decorated from top to bottom with Christmas lights. It's a gaudy over-the-top holiday display that's become a San Diego tradition. For the first time in years, it makes me smile. When my brother and I were growing up, we had a family tradition of our own: drive through Balboa Park to see Santa and his reindeer, then come to dinner here to see the lights.

I haven't had dinner at Mister A's in years. As far as I know, neither have my parents. That Dad should choose this restaurant to celebrate shows what Trish's existence has given back to the family.

There are three businessmen waiting with me for the elevator to the restaurant. If I wondered how I looked in the dress, any doubts are dispelled by the lingering, hungry looks I get from them. They'd like to see me on the menu, I think, served on a bed of-it wouldn't matter as long as it was a bed.

My father does a comic double take when I walk in. He stands when I approach the table and holds out a chair. "I almost didn't recognize you," he says.

"I've never seen you in a dress, Aunt Anna," Trish says. "I didn't know you owned one. Especially one like-"

"Okay," I hold up a hand. "Enough. So you don't often see me in a dress. Isn't this supposed to be a special night?"

"Anna is right," Mom says. "And I, for one, think you look beautiful. You should dress up more often. When we get to France, we'll go on a shopping spree. For you and for Trish."

"I'd love a dress like that," Trish says eagerly, eyeing my cleavage.

"Oh, no," Mom says, laughing. "You're much too young. I'm sure Anna and I can find something more appropriate for a teenager. Imagine, Anna, what shopping in Paris will be like."

It hits me then that they expect me to go to France with them. I stare at my mother. Maybe I'm misinterpreting her intention.

No.

It was in her voice, and it's right there in the way she's looking at me-with an expression that says no one in her right mind would pass up an opportunity to live in a chateau in France. I can't believe I didn't see this coming.

Worse, my dad and Trish are both looking at me the same way.

My shoulders tense.

I can't let them think for one moment that my going with them to France is a possibility. And yet-

Do I want to fight this fight tonight?

No. I won't ruin this evening any more than I have to. I put on a bright smile. "You all look pretty spiffy yourselves."

My mother is wearing a cream-colored silk pantsuit with a blouse of warm rose. Dad is wearing Hugo Boss, charcoal coat and slacks, white shirt, burgundy tie. Trish is lovely in dark slacks and a hand-knitted rainbow-hued angora sweater.

I'm not the only one who went all out for the evening.

Mom and Dad grin at the compliment; Trish touches the collar of her sweater as if self-conscious. "You don't think this sweater makes me look, you know, weird?"

I laugh. Typical teenager. "Why would you think it makes you look weird?"

"Well, it's bright."

"Bright is good. Bright is happiness and excitement. You three could light the city of San Diego tonight with your luminescence."

Trish giggles.

"You should be happy, too." Mom reaches over and touches my hand. Then she takes it in both of her own and rubs gently. "You are so cold, Anna. Do you feel all right?"

Crap. I didn't move fast enough. I forget at times to avoid skin contact. I pat her hands with my left and gently pull my right from her grasp. I fold my hands on my lap and nod. "I'm fine."

She doesn't look as if she believes me, but she picks up the thread of her conversation and adds, "This is a new beginning for all of us."

There. No possible way I could misinterpret that. I have to say something. I open my mouth, but the maitred' chooses that moment to announce that our table is ready. I've been granted another reprieve, however brief, to keep from breaking their hearts. That's the big break. The small one will come when I tell them that I'm leaving before the first course.

We take our seats at the table, the server places our napkins in our laps (Trish giggles unpretentiously and charmingly at that, too), and the sommelier approaches with a wine list. Dad waves it away and asks about champagne choices. He's given several that sound foreign and expensive. Not surprisingly, Dad orders real champagne, not a domestic clone. The sommelier bows away with a smile of approval and snaps his fingers for the servers to begin their preorder hovering with the rituals of water pouring, silverware straightening and candle lighting.

Trish watches it all with the curiosity and delight of one who has spent the better part of her life dining at McDonald's. It's a joy to see. I can only imagine her reactions to the marvels awaiting her in France. I'm struck by sudden and intense sadness that I will not be there to share in her journey of discovery.

If there is a journey of discovery. I'm still concerned that this is some elaborate hoax and when it comes to light, the disappointment will be as bitter as the excitement now is sweet.

"Anna?"

Mom's voice pulls me back.

"What's wrong? You have the strangest look on your face, and you're wringing that napkin like it's someone's neck."

Not a bad analogy. If this does turn out to be a hoax.

I refold the napkin, place it beside my plate and try to smile. "Just thinking of work."

"Work?" Mom echoes. "Why would you be thinking of work tonight?"

God. I steel myself to say it. "I'm really sorry, but I'm not going to be able to stay for dinner."

Three voices say, "Why not?"

"It's a job. David and I are heading up the coast to Del Mar. There's a guy we've been trying to grab and this is our chance. He's been seen hanging around a local watering hole." I make a sweeping gesture with my hand. "That's why this getup."

Trish leans forward eagerly. "Could I go with you? I'd love to watch you in action."

Mom and Dad both make gasping noises. Dad says, "I'm afraid that's not a good idea, is it, Anna?"

Before I can answer, Mom says, "Absolutely not, young lady." She half turns in her seat so that we're eye to eye. She's angry. Her voice quakes with it. "I can't believe you're leaving us tonight of all nights. This is a family celebration. You aren't going to need that job much longer. The sooner you tell your partner you're quitting, the sooner he can find a replacement. Call him. Tell him something came up and you can't make it."

Her vehemence catches me off guard. Suddenly I'm plunged right back to the time before Trish when we were never able to get together as a family without the inappropriateness of my work becoming a hot topic of conversation. Saving Trish masked it for a while, but I didn't realize until this moment how close to the surface the acrimony still boils.

Trish is stirring in her chair. She's gone pale, her expression anxious, as if afraid that Mom's displeasure will be turned on her. That the negative turn the evening has taken is somehow her fault.

Mom sees it, too, and reaches over to take Trish's hand. "I'm sorry, honey. Anna and her Dad and I should discuss this in private. I have no right to ruin our evening."

She doesn't look at me as she adds, "Well, if you must go, Anna. We're sorry you're not going to share in what promises to be a wonderful meal. There'll be plenty of family time when we're in France, though."

Dad stands up and comes to hold my chair for me as I prepare to leave the table. He squeezes my shoulder and kisses my cheek.

"Come by the house tomorrow. We'll talk. We have plans to make."

The lump in my throat prevents me from answering. I smile at Trish and she looks back with eyes wide and wet. I manage to croak, "I'll see you tomorrow, Trish. Promise."

Mom doesn't acknowledge my leaving. Dad resumes his place at the table. Trish follows me with her eyes.

There's a fissure, cold and brittle as ice, forming in my chest. It expands until my heart aches from the pressure.

I shouldn't have worried so much about breaking their hearts. I should have worried more about breaking my own.