Eric leaned back against the headrest, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked at me with deep, furious pity.
“Sydney,” he said softly. “You need to go see your dad. Right now. While Samantha is out of that house.”
Chapter 4: The Paper Trail of Vanity
The screen door of the Portage Park bungalow squeaked on its spring as I stepped into the kitchen. The house smelled familiar—lemon wax, dried bay leaves, and the lingering, metallic warmth of my father’s work clothes.
Dad was on his knees on the linoleum, a red toolbox open beside him, replacing the hinge on the lower cabinet under the sink. Samantha was at her Tuesday bridge tournament at the botanical garden center.
“Dad?”
Richard jumped slightly, his graying head bumping the cabinet frame. He squinted up at me, surprised, then wiped his greasy palms on a blue shop rag. “Syd? What are you doing here in the middle of a Tuesday? Everything okay at the yard?”
“Everything’s fine at work, Dad. I just… I had a delivery run near Jefferson Park and wanted to drop by.” I leaned against the counter, watching him struggle to his feet. His knees popped audibly. “How’s Mom’s event business doing?”
Dad took a heavy breath, reaching into his pocket for a roll of peppermint lozenges. “Her business? I think the air’s gone out of that tire, to be honest with you. She doesn’t talk about it much anymore. She spends a couple of afternoons a week down at the neighborhood association hall on Higgins. They let her use that windowless storage room in the basement for her binders.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged crow.
“The basement storage room?” I repeated carefully. “She doesn’t… she doesn’t have an office anywhere else? Like downtown? Or Lincoln Park?”
Richard let out a short, dry bark of laughter that ended in a cough. “Lincoln Park? With what army? Sydney, those folks down there charge five grand a month just to smell the lake. I told your mother three years ago: if she wants to play party planner, she can do it with what’s in her purse. We don’t take on debt at sixty years old. Not for vanity.”
