“They only had the standard cut,” I said, setting my keys on the counter.
She picked up a rose and clipped the bottom of the stem at an angle. “Well, I suppose when you have a corporate budget, you don’t look at the details on the shelf. You just grab and go.”
“I looked,” I said, taking a handful of the discarded leaves and dropping them into the trash bin. “These were the freshest ones.”
She adjusted the collar of her shirt, her hand brushing her neck. “It must be nice to not worry about the price difference. Your father says the energy sector is still handed out blank checks.”
“We track every nickel, Mom,” I said.
She handed me the paring knife. “Here, finish these. My wrist is acting up from the damp weather.”
I took the knife and began cleaning the next stem. The cold water ran in the sink, filling the kitchen with the sharp, green scent of bruised flower stalks.
“Is Dad outside?” I asked.
“He is on the back patio,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “He has been out there since eight, scrubbing the grate. He wants everything set before Dean gets here.”
I finished the roses and placed them one by one into the heavy cut-glass vase. They looked slightly short, just as she had predicted, their white heads clustering tight against the rim.
“I will go say hello,” I said.
The sliding glass door to the patio was heavy and slid with a dull scrape. Outside, the air was cool, carrying the faint smell of lighter fluid and old charcoal.
My father, Frank, was bent over the large black barrel grill. He had a wire brush in his right hand and was scraping the iron bars with short, heavy strokes.
“You’re early,” he said, not turning around.
“Traffic was light on the interstate,” I said, walking to the edge of the concrete slab.
He stopped scraping and turned, leaning his forearm against the lid of the grill. His eyes went down to my feet, where my leather loafers sat on the clean patio stone.
“Those look like those high-dollar Italian slippers,” he said, gesturing with the wire brush. “Do they make those for walking on dirt, or just for sitting in those glass office buildings?”
“They are comfortable,” I said, keeping my hands in my pockets.
“I bet they are,” he said, turning back to the grill. “Probably cost more than the weekly payroll for my third-shift crew. Must be nice to get paid for sitting in meetings.”
“It is a lot of spreadsheets, Dad,” I said.
“Spreadsheets,” he grunted, giving the iron grate one final, aggressive scrub. “The world is built by people who use shovels, Savannah. The rest of you just write reports about the dirt.”
“The reports keep the shovels paid,” I said.
He polished his silver belt buckle with his thumb, his face tightening for a brief second before he let out a short, dry laugh. “If you say so. Just don’t go tracking mud into your mother’s house with those fancy soles.”
I stood there for a moment, watching the gray metal dust settle on the brick ledge of the patio.
“I will go help Mom with the table,” I said.
He did not answer, his arm already moving again as he resumed scraping the iron bars.
Back inside, the living room was quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. My mother was spreading the white linen tablecloth over the dining table, her fingers smoothing out the creases with rhythmic, sweeping motions.
“He is almost finished with the grill,” I said, taking one side of the linen to help her align the corners.
“Good,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He gets anxious when things aren’t on schedule.”
She adjusted the center seam of the cloth, her eyes scanning the room as if checking for dust that did not exist.
“Your brother Dean should be here by one,” she said.
“Is he bringing anyone?” I asked.
“No, he is coming alone,” she said, smoothing a tiny wrinkle near the edge. “He has been under a lot of stress lately, Savannah. His territory got restructured last month.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
She stopped moving and looked directly at me. “Well, he doesn’t like to talk about it when things are tight. Especially not around you.”
“Why not around me?” I asked.
“You know how he is,” she said, her voice turning sharp. “He works hard, but he doesn’t have the same corporate backing you do. Try not to make everything about your achievements tonight, Savannah.”
I looked at the clean white linen between us. “I don’t do that, Mom.”
“Just let him have his moment,” she said, adjusting her collar. “He has some news about his sales bonus, and your father is very proud of him. We don’t need any comparisons.”
“I am just here to celebrate Dad’s birthday,” I said.
“I know,” she said, her tone softening slightly but remaining firm. “But you have a way of carrying yourself that makes people feel scrutinized. Just keep things simple.”
“I can do that,” I said.
She nodded once, apparently satisfied, and walked toward the kitchen to check on the meat.
I stood in the dining room alone. The grandfather clock chimed once for twelve-thirty.
The oak table was set for six. At the head of the table sat my father’s heavy wooden chair, its armrests worn smooth from years of his grip.
I walked to the window and looked out at the long concrete driveway. It was wide, empty, and clean, stretching from the street all the way to the side of the garage.
The delivery truck would be bringing the black King Ranch model later this afternoon, parking it right in that open space.
I reached into my pocket and felt the small, cold metal shape of my car key fob, though the keys to the new truck were still in the drawer at my townhouse.
I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to one.
The emotional scoreboard was already active, the points being tallied before the first plate was even warmed.
From the front yard, the sharp sound of a car door slamming shut broke the midday quiet.
Dean carried two twenty-pound bags of ice, one cradled under each arm like heavy, sweating blocks of glass.
He dropped them onto the concrete porch with a wet, heavy thud.
Water immediately seeped through the thin plastic and began to darken the gray paint near my shoes.
“You are early,” Dean said, wiping his wet palms on the thighs of his jeans.
“I wanted to help Mom with the table,” I said.
He reached into his pocket and jangled a handful of loose quarters and keys.
The metallic sound was sharp and rhythmic in the quiet autumn afternoon.
“Well, you missed the heavy lifting,” he said, nodding down at the ice. “I just picked these up from the Texaco. Paid for them myself, too.”
“Thank you, Dean,” I said.
He leaned against the red brick pillar and looked out at the empty street.
“Things are finally turning around for me, Savannah,” he said. “I had my best quarter yet at the distributor. Cleared a real bonus last week.”
“That is excellent news,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I am glad to hear the market is responding.”
He smiled, but his eyes stayed narrow as he watched a leaf drift down from the oak tree.
“Twelve thousand dollars,” he said, his voice rising. “Cold cash, practically. I am thinking about putting a down payment on a center-console boat.”
“A boat requires significant seasonal maintenance,” I said.
“Some of us actually like to enjoy our lives,” he said. He jingled his coins again. “We do not all just stack our money in high-yield accounts and watch the grass grow.”
I looked down at my wrist.
My watch read exactly seven minutes past two.
“The ice is melting, Dean,” I said.
He grunted, snatched up the wet bags by their plastic ears, and kicked the screen door open with the toe of his boot.
By three o’clock, the heavy smell of roasting garlic and seasoned beef had drifted from the kitchen into the den.
My mother sat on the edge of the floral sofa, her posture perfectly straight as she folded white linen napkins into sharp triangles.
She was wearing her new emerald silk blouse.
The green was exceptionally bright under the yellow light of the floor lamp, casting a faint, rich color against her throat.
“He worked sixty hours a week for that bonus, Savannah,” she said, without looking up from her folding. “Every single Saturday in October.”
“I know,” I said from the armchair. “He told me on the porch.”
Dean was pacing near the television, his hands deep in his pockets, his chin held high.
“The regional director called me out by name in the morning meeting,” Dean said. “Said I was the benchmark for the whole North Texas territory.”
My mother smiled, her eyes turning soft as she looked at him.