Not So Far Away (Worlds Collide The Duets #1) - LL Meyer Page 0,8
on the peony lined walkway that follows the circle drive to my parents’ front door. With so many guests arriving, valets scrambling to accommodate their cars, and vendors making last minute deliveries, the scene is chaotic. The decision to park down the block was definitely the right one. My Jetta may have fit in when I got it brand new for my sixteenth birthday ten years ago, but according to my mother, it’s an eyesore now, especially here in this very upscale Palo Alto neighborhood.
I grew up in this house . . . well, mansion, really. If the fountain in the center of the drive didn’t give it away, the size of the columns would. It’s never really felt like home though, not even when I lived here. Except when I see my father just inside the open double doors, greeting guests and directing traffic, I feel a surge of affection. He’s a good man who’s always done his best, not only for me, but for all of his children.
“Ellie,” he says, greeting me with a warm smile that crinkles the fine skin around his eyes behind his glasses.
“Hi, Dad.”
He pulls me in for a hug and then holds me at arm’s length to study me. “Ellie looks so good on you, sweetheart. You’re doing well?”
At sixty-five, my father is still a tall, imposing figure but I’m sure he’s grateful that I’ve finally out-grown my wild, unruly ways. While my sister and three brothers have contributed to some of his gray hair, I know I’m responsible for most of it. “I’m good. How about you and Mom?” My gaze skitters to my mother who stands a few feet away, talking brightly with one of her charity friends.
He leans in as if letting me in on an amusing secret. “She’s a bit . . . disconcerted with turning fifty.”
“I bet,” I whisper, my lips twitching with a knowing grin. My mom is a firm believer in looking one’s best. Beauty may only be skin deep, but she claims it’s the root of all success. To say she’s not a fan of the aging process would be an understatement.
She approaches wearing a perfectly tailored Chanel suit and a polite smile that my dad interprets for what it really is, thinly veiled contempt. “Doesn’t our daughter look wonderful, Janine?” he says quickly, hoping to head off whatever cutting comment is about to come out of her mouth.
“Piper,” my mother coos condescendingly, setting my teeth on edge. “Yes, you look . . . wonderful. But darling, must you stick with this dreary brown color?” she asks, taking a lock of my hair between her thumb and forefinger like it disgusts her.
“We can’t all be natural blondes like you, Mom.”
She purses her lips. “You’re right of course, but that doesn’t mean we have to settle for what we’re given.”
“I suppose it’s my fault,” Dad says, trying to diffuse the situation. “She got her coloring from me.”
“That still doesn’t explain why she settles for it.” Over my shoulder, her eyes catch on someone. “Well, anyway, thank you for coming, Piper.”
“It’s your fiftieth birthday, Mom. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Childishly, the way her body stiffens at the gibe makes me feel better. At least until I see my father’s disapproval. He hates it when we bait each other. Sorry, I mouth as I slip away so they can greet their next guests.
Sometimes I wish my relationship with my mother could be more amicable. But what began as normal mother/daughter teenage angst has never let up. I know I should make more of an effort to understand her points of view. She grew up the daughter of strictly religious Polish immigrants who, I’ve been told, fought constantly – mostly about money, or the lack thereof. The fact that my mother didn’t settle is something she’s proud of. She scratched and clawed her way out of poverty to where she is today and I respect her for that. But not only are we separated by a generation gap, but also by every gap you can imagine. My leftist leanings cause endless friction with her conservative views. We simply don’t have anything in common.
I make my way through the house, which is teeming with guests who mill about making small talk and sipping mimosas. A few of them I know and acknowledge, but mostly I’m able to slip by unnoticed, thank goodness. If I have very little in common with my parents, I have nothing in common with their friends.