I spent the next few hours doing ordinary things.
I graded essays.
I answered two emails from parents.
I folded a load of laundry and put away the groceries I had bought earlier in the week.
The ordinary routine helped.
Whenever my thoughts returned to the phone call, I made myself focus on whatever was in front of me.
A spelling mistake.
A grocery receipt.
A shirt that needed ironing.
Anything that did not involve my family.
At five, I heated leftovers for dinner.
I ate standing at the counter because I did not feel like sitting at the table.
The wrapped photograph remained where I had left it.
Every time I looked at it, I remembered the woman in the picture.
My mother at twenty-four.
Laughing outside a church.
She looked like someone who believed life was full of good things waiting to happen.
I wondered when we had stopped being able to look at each other that way.
Maybe it had happened gradually.
Maybe there had never been a single moment.
I finished eating and washed my plate.
Then I went to the bedroom and put on the blue dress.
It fit comfortably.
I brushed my hair and put on a little makeup.
I was not dressing to impress Courtney.
I was not trying to prove that I could afford a night at an expensive restaurant.
I was dressing for an anniversary I had been told I was welcome to attend.
There was a difference.
At least, I wanted there to be.
I picked up the card I had bought for my parents.
Inside, I had written a short message wishing them happiness and many more years together.
I had not mentioned the money.
I had not mentioned the arguments.
I had written what I would have wanted to say if I believed the dinner was a chance to begin again.
Then I placed the card beside the restored photograph.
I wrapped the package in a clean cloth so the frame would not slide around in the car.
I checked the time.
Eight o'clock.
I had almost an hour to drive to the foothills.
I left early.
The Corolla's engine started on the second turn of the key.
As I pulled away from my house, I glanced at the passenger seat.
The photograph rested there, its brown paper catching the light from the dashboard.
I thought about calling Dad.
I could tell him the reservation was actually at seven.
I could ask why he had invited me to a dinner where I apparently wasn't supposed to eat.
But I stopped myself.
I did not know what Dad had been told.
That uncertainty mattered.
He had sounded sincere when he invited me.
I remembered the softness in his voice when he called me Rosie girl.
I wanted to give him the chance to explain.
I drove toward the Catalina foothills.
The city lights grew brighter as I approached the resort.
I had been to La Vista del Sol only once before, years earlier, for a work celebration.
The restaurant had impressed me then.
It was quiet, polished, and expensive enough that I had studied the menu carefully before ordering.
Tonight, I paid attention to the road.
I did not want to arrive early and give myself another reason to turn around.
At 8:43, I pulled into the parking lot.
I sat in the car for several minutes.
People walked toward the entrance in pairs.
A couple laughed as they crossed the stone path.
A valet closed the door of a large black vehicle.
Everything looked ordinary.
That was the strange part.
Nothing in the evening's surroundings suggested that I was walking into a family betrayal.
I checked my phone.
Mom's message was still there.
Dinner at nine.
Don't be late.
The red heart looked almost cheerful.
I turned the screen off.
At 8:50, I took the photograph from the passenger seat.
I held it carefully against my side and walked toward the entrance.
The air smelled of desert plants and warm stone.
Inside, a hostess greeted me.
"Good evening. Do you have a reservation?"
"I'm joining the Collier anniversary party."
She checked the screen.
"Of course. The terrace room is just through those doors."
She smiled and gestured toward a hallway.
I thanked her.
For one foolish second, I felt relieved.
Perhaps the instructions had been misunderstood.
Perhaps the dinner had started at seven, but my family had decided to wait for me.
Perhaps there was still a chair somewhere.
I walked down the hallway.
The sounds of conversation became clearer.
Then I reached the entrance to the private terrace room.
I stopped.
The meal was over.
Empty plates stood in front of the guests.
Wine bottles rested near the center of the table.
A few champagne flutes still contained pale traces of liquid.
Someone had pushed the dessert plates into a small stack.
The anniversary cake was gone.
Eight people sat around the table.
My father was among them.
My mother sat beside him.
Courtney occupied a chair near the end, with Preston next to her.
Everyone looked comfortable.
Everyone looked fed.
I counted the chairs without meaning to.
Eight.
There was no place set for me.
I stepped into the room.
Dad looked up first.
His face changed when he recognized me.
"Rosie?"
He sounded genuinely surprised.
"I thought you weren't going to make it."
I stopped beside the table.
"What do you mean?"
He looked from me to Mom.
"I thought you couldn't come."
My mother reached across and touched his wrist.
It was a small gesture.
Quick.
Almost invisible.
Then she turned toward me with a smile that did not reach her eyes.
"You're here now, sweetheart."
I looked at the empty plates.
I looked at the champagne flutes.
Then I looked at my father's confused face.
I finally understood that he had not been told the same story I had been told.
And I had no idea which version of the truth he believed.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Eight People Had Shared the Meal While I Stood Beside Them Holding the One Gift I Had Spent Weeks Trying to Make Perfect
I Thought My Father’s Invitation Meant Our Family Was Finally Ready to Make Room for Me Again
Part 6 of 20
