“I guess it’s hard to say no to the White House.”
“Impossible.”
“What about winter break?”
“New York, I swear.”
I pick at a loose thread on my map quilt, a green thread that belongs to Central Park. “You’re sure you won’t be invited back for Christmas?”
“We’re Jewish.”
Shit. “I’m sorry. I know that.”
“I know you do.”
“I’m just upset. I feel so far away from you.”
“I know.” And his voice disappears into the ether. “Me, too.”
Chapter twenty-two
“You look sad to be home,” Maman says with her light accent. She just made a fuss over Hattie’s wild, self-trimmed hair, and she’s gearing up for a second fuss over me.
The cab pulls away with Kurt still inside, headed the final two blocks to his house. Dad picks up my suitcase in one hand and Hattie’s in the other, and we trundle upstairs to our landing. Our house smells like pumpkin bread. Maman has decorated everything in leaves and acorns and gourds. A garland of ribbons and red berries wraps around the bannister leading upstairs, and beeswax candles glow inside every room. Maman loves the holidays. And she loves having all three of her daughters at home.
“I’m not sad,” I assure her, thinking about the airport. Josh departed a mere two hours before our arrival. The timing still feels freshly cruel.
“You are. And you’re never the sad one.”
“When does Gen get in?”
She tuts at my obvious evasion but cheers as she answers. “Late tonight. Just in time for Thanksgiving Day.” Hattie shoots past us and slams her door shut, and Maman grows mournful again. “Oh, mon bébés. You will not ruin your beautiful hair, non?”
“No, Maman,” I say.
She’s the only family member without red hair – though, scientifically speaking, she must carry the gene somewhere – and this has made her overly protective of ours. Her own hair is the colour of coffee beans. Maman and I do share the same height and the same upturned nose. Gen is tiny like us, while Hattie takes after our dad, tall and slim with sharp features. But Dad’s the only one with a scruffy, burnt-orange beard.
“A package arrived for you this morning,” he says. My father is generally mellow, so the way he announces this news is peculiar. It’s hesitant. Maybe even a tad hostile. “I put it in your bedroom.”
My brow furrows. “What kind of package?”
“It was delivered by courier. I think it’s from Joshua.”
Joshua. I’m getting the sense that he does not like this Joshua, but my entire being perks up. “Really? I wasn’t expecting anything.”
“The box is heavy.”
I’m already bolting upstairs.
“He is still your boyfriend, oui?” Maman says, and I grind to a halt. “Because we saw him on television saying that he does not have a girlfriend. I do not like this, Isla.”
I frown. “He was protecting me. Josh didn’t want the press to hassle me.”
She shrugs, slow and full-bodied. “It sounded like he was looking for tail.”
“Tail? Oh mon dieu.” I can’t believe she’s forcing me to defend this. I haven’t even been home for five minutes.
“Why didn’t he deliver the box himself?” Dad asks. “He’s been in this city for three whole weeks, but he can’t be bothered to introduce himself to your parents? It’s the least he could do after what he’s put us through.”