But Prentice had breathed life in her.
This was the real Isabella.
Instead, she remained silent.
They continued to stare at each other.
Then he looked away, opening the door, muttering, “Eat dinner downstairs, up here, I don’t give a f**k.”
She watched him walk down the stairs and turn on the landing, out of sight.
Then she started breathing again.
Then she wondered if maybe her doctor had been right and she really shouldn’t have stopped taking her medication.
Then she turned, picked up her yoga mat and blew out the candle.
Chapter Four
Chicken Bits
Isabella
Isabella waited half an hour (exactly) before she went downstairs.
In that time she decided to keep her hair up in the messy knot because it wasn’t that attractive, with bits sticking out everywhere, and it might look like she was trying to be all girlie-perfect in order to cook a simple dinner if she did something with it. She also decided to stay in her yoga clothes because she’d look like an idiot if she changed clothes; she wasn’t going to make dinner for the queen, just a family.
She did, however, put on a forest-green tunic that had wide sleeves and a deep slash down the neckline that opened across her collarbone, fell in a hood at the back and exposed her plum camisole.
She kept her feet bare.
In that time she also decided that Prentice had given her permission to be around the children.
Well, not exactly permission, as such, but pretty much, or, at least, she was going to go with that thought.
So Isabella wasn’t ever going to be Sally’s new best friend and watch her grow into a beautiful young woman whilst Sally shared her secrets about boys she had crushes on and Isabella imparted crucial wisdom on Sally like how to know when your mascara tube was drying out.
But Isabella at least didn’t have to hide from her and break her little girl heart by acting like a cool, remote, American bitch.
Isabella no sooner got out of her room when she heard a discordant plucking of guitar strings.
By the time she made it to the great room, she noticed three things. The first, Prentice was at a drafting board in his study with the double doors that led to that room off the great room open. The second, Sally was sitting on the floor by the huge, square coffee table in front of the big, fluffy royal blue couch, drawing. The third, Jason was lying on the couch plucking, and not very well, on Fiona’s guitar.
Isabella looked at the guitar and she felt tears crawl up her throat.
She’d forgotten about Fiona’s guitar.
Fiona didn’t take the guitar everywhere but she wasn’t often separated from it. She loved it. She’d strum it when they were sitting in a pub and she’d often play it while they were lounging on blankets around a bonfire on the beach.
Isabella was so impressed by (and envious of) Fiona’s talent that she’d taken secret lessons when she got home. Her father preferred her playing the piano and violin, both of which he forced lessons on her from the time she was six until she was eighteen.
She’d practiced a lot, sliding the guitar out from under her bed when her father wasn’t around but she’d never been as good as Fiona.
Eventually, she’d quit playing and, when she’d divorced Laurent and moved back to Chicago, she’d found her guitar and gave it to a charity to auction.
“Mrs. Evangahlala!” Sally yelled, Isabella looked at her, swallowed her tears and, with effort, smiled.
“I think I’ve figured out something you can do to help me with dinner. But we’ll need a stepping stool or –” Before Isabella could finish, Sally was up and racing down the hall, rounding the corner on one foot to disappear in the mudroom.