The Villa My Father Gave Away

“If he doesn’t,” I said, “then the party is Saturday night, and sixty people will be standing in my house when they find out.”

Sid looked at me for a long moment. “Leah,” he said, “that’s cold.”

“I know it is.”

“Perry wouldn’t have done it that way.”

“Perry never had to be asked politely to leave his own front door,” I said.

The week went by in slow motion.

I stayed at the cabin. I did not return to the villa. I read my father’s messages at night, and they never once asked how I was.

Monday, he wrote: Terry says the dishwasher is making noise. Have somebody look at it.

Wednesday, a photograph from Mindy of fresh curtains hanging in my kitchen window, yellow ones, with a small smile emoji, as though she were showing me a new haircut.

Thursday, my father: You are being childish. The pastor is asking about you.

Friday came. At five o’clock I stood on Jodi’s dock and watched the minute change on my phone. At five-oh-one I drove to the foot of the bluff road and looked up the drive. A catering truck sat where the dumpster had been, paper lanterns hung in the oak where Perry and I used to park, and the yellow curtains glowed in the kitchen window. Nobody had packed. The banner was still on the terrace, and somebody had glued the second O back down.

My phone rang at six. It was my father.

“I know about that foolish piece of paper,” he said, “and I want you to know I’m not holding it against you. Tomorrow at six, we’ll have a nice evening. Wear something decent. The pastor wants to say a few words over the house.”

He hung up before I could answer.

I went back to the cabin and hung my dress blues on the back of the door. I put them on at four-thirty on Saturday. Jacket, skirt, white shirt, black tie, the three gold stripes on each sleeve, the ribbons in a row above the pocket, my cover under my arm. My father had told me that the uniform bought me nothing at his table. I wanted him to see exactly what it had bought me, and who had been standing behind it all along.

I slid the compass into my left pocket. I put the key in my right.

At five-forty Jodi pulled up to the cabin in her work truck with a manila folder on the passenger seat, and I got in without a word. We came up the back road and parked behind the garage, where nobody on the terrace could see us. The sun was low and orange over the lake, and I could hear a gospel hymn coming from a speaker on the porch.

A county cruiser rolled in behind us, lights off, and parked on the gravel with a quiet crunch.

Sheriff Sid stepped out, settled his hat, and looked at me in my dress blues for a long moment.

“Commander,” he said quietly. “You sure you want to do it in front of everybody?”

“They invited everybody,” I said.

He nodded once. He took the folder from Jodi, tucked it under his arm, and we went up the back steps together, the three of us, with the hymn getting louder.