Sabina makes a punch that is deceptively smooth, and we fill two ceramic mugs to the brim, then head with them to the backyard.
“Careful,” I say as we pass through the sunroom on our way out. I don’t know why. If we spill, we could easily clean it up. The carpet is thin and dark. But it feels strange to be in my father’s area—even just passing through, I feel as if I’m invading a part of the house that doesn’t belong to me.
Outside, Sabina climbs into the hammock first and when I manage to join her without either of us toppling over or spilling our punch, we cheer to the midnight-blue sky.
“A toast to your birthday,” Sabina says, gingerly touching the rim of her mug to mine. “How does it feel to be eighteen?”
“Not much different.” I take a sip of punch, then rest the mug on my stomach, holding tight with both hands. “Except that now I feel like I should have it all figured out, when I actually feel more confused than I did two years ago.”
“I’m kind of jealous,” Sabina says. “Not that you’re feeling confused, but a little less direction would be nice. My applications are completely done, and it’s not even October.”
Cora wanted her to apply early decision, so she made Sabina start them during the summer. Cora graduated from Dartmouth and has been obsessed with Sabina going to an Ivy League practically since Sabina could hold a pen. Sabina, however, could not be less interested, and her list includes only liberal arts colleges and HBCUs.
“I think it’s kind of nice that she’s so involved,” I say.
Before I talked to him last week, my father and I have had only a couple of vague conversations about college. He’s always seemed convinced that I’ll figure it out by myself; he’s like that with most things about me, actually.
“What if…” I’ve never said this out loud, and I consider keeping it to myself. Once I put it out there, neither of us can pretend that I didn’t say it, that it’s not something I maybe once wanted. “What if I just didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?”
“Fill out applications.”
“What, like take a year off? I mean, it’s not what I thought you’d do, but it’s something people do.” Sabina bends her neck awkwardly to take a drink from her mug without sloshing it over the side. “I still can’t believe you’re not going to play in college.”
“Do I seem like the same person?”
“Huh?” Her voice is becoming more relaxed. Lazy, almost.
“I mean… who am I without violin?”
“I’ve never known you without that thing strapped to your back every day,” she says. “You couldn’t even sleep over on Friday nights because you had to be ready for Denis every week. But you never seemed like one of those people who lives and breathes it, you know?”
I don’t know whether to be mad that she noticed or happy that she really does know me so well.
“I used to be. I think.”
Sabina turns to face me, and the hammock swings too quickly back and forth. We freeze up like mannequins, squeezing our mugs for dear life.
“The thing is, I wasn’t that upset when Denis canceled our lessons,” I say when the swaying finally slows. “I mean, I knew it wasn’t a good thing to be dropped by your teacher of eleven years. But I was more upset that I wouldn’t get to see him every week.”
“I thought you hated Denis.”
“I did, a little bit.” It was more of a love-hate relationship—on both sides, I think. “But it’s hard to hate someone who shows up every week, you know? Our routine… it was nice.”
No matter how early I had to be up and ready to practice, sacrificing one of my weekend mornings for years, I liked knowing that Denis would be there. Even though my father was paying him (“handsomely,” Dad sometimes grumbled as he wrote a check), it was comforting to know that for an hour and a half each week, someone was paying attention to only me. Making time just for me.
We are quiet for a while, the alcohol warming our limbs against the coolness of the evening air. I could fall asleep here, and I wonder if maybe we will, because Sabina isn’t moving and her breathing is slowing and then I think maybe it’s a bad idea because all the alcohol is still sitting out on the counter—
My phone buzzes, scaring Sabina so badly that she spills punch all over her top.
“Shit!” She tosses the mug to the grass and steps out of the hammock without tipping me over, too. Barely.
“Sorry.” I set my own mug on the ground and pull the phone from my pocket.
“Oh my God.” Sabina squints at the phone over my shoulder. “I ruined my shirt because of a text from Warren?”
“He’s been apologizing all day.”
“I’m going inside to throw this in the wash,” she says, holding her wet shirt away from her body.
As Sabina walks up to the back door, I scroll through the texts I’ve been getting from Warren since this morning.
I feel like shit about last night. I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you?
I still owe you that dinner. Come over tomorrow night?
Or come over tonight. I just want to see you.
I read his words over and over, and I’m mad that a part of me wants to see him, too. I’m worried that I’ll take him up on his offer, so I back out of Warren’s messages and scroll through my most recent ones.
I still haven’t heard from Omar. I guess he was just being nice, giving me his number. At least he didn’t lead me on, but I can’t help feeling stupid for putting myself out there. For thinking maybe he could help me understand my relationship with music… or help me become excited about it again. We don’t even know each other.
I open up the message I sent to him this morning.
NOT DELIVERED
How did I not notice this earlier? I sigh, relieved that he isn’t ignoring me, and resend. That same red notification pops up immediately.
I think back to the last time I saw him, how he seemed like he really did want to talk to me again. Not like I was a burden, or like I deserved the looks Keely was giving me. He seemed just as intrigued by me as I am by him.
Then I remember something else—what he said: Call me. Anytime, Yvonne.
Call.
I don’t talk to anyone on the phone besides Warren and Sabina. My dad, sometimes, when it’s quicker than texting. It makes me anxious, all the awkward pauses and never knowing when it’s the right time to say good-bye.
But then, because Sabina is gone and I’m a bit drunk on vodka punch, I press the little phone icon next to Omar’s name.
It rings and rings and—
“Hello?”
I clear my throat. “Omar?”
“Yeah, who’s this?” His voice is wary, reminding me of my father’s anytime an unfamiliar number shows up on his phone.
“Yvonne. I met you—”
“Yvonne. I was hoping I’d hear from you.”
I smile, happy to have his warm voice in my ear.
9.
Aside from Sunday breakfast, there is one day of each month that I know I’ll see my father, without fail: dinner with Lou.
I’m always included, but I often wonder why he can’t set aside that same kind of time for me. Not a breakfast he prepares for himself and shares with me if I make it to the table while it’s still hot, but a designated time to hang out and catch up.
I don’t remember when the dinners started, but I look forward to them. It’s funny seeing my father around Lou. My grandparents died before my mom took off, and I think Dad looks up to Lou like a father.
He still owns the restaurant where he taught Dad everything he knows, but shortly after my father opened up his own place, Lou handed off the operations to an executive chef. He stops in once a week or so to check on things, but he spends most of his time now playing golf and traveling and cooking in his sprawling house in hilly Mount Washington.
He squeezes me into a big hug at the front door and, like usual, I feel like the little girl I was when I met him. He’s my godfather; I guess, in
a way, Lou has always felt like a grandpa to me.
Inside, the house smells like garlic and yeast and fresh basil. Lou is wearing the gray T-shirt he always puts on when he cooks instead of an apron. It’s splattered with dark streaks of sauces and oils, some fresh and some stained into the material.
He still makes me Shirley Temples. It’s kind of sweet and kind of embarrassing because I wonder if he knows I’ve pretty much tasted the entire spectrum of alcohol at this point. Still, he makes his own grenadine, and the Shirley Temples are just as delicious now as they were in sixth grade.
Lou pours himself and my father glasses of dark red wine and we take the drinks out to his second-floor deck while his Bolognese sauce simmers on the stove.
“Man, you are living the life,” Dad says, staring out at the incredible view from the hill. Lou’s backyard overlooks the skyline of downtown Los Angeles in the distance, and the sunsets here are so beautiful they don’t appear real. Pink and lavender skies with puffy clouds dotting the horizon.
“It’s not a bad one.” Lou clinks our glasses in cheers before he sips his wine. “You ready for this semiretirement life?”
“Never,” Dad says, and I don’t think he’s joking.
Lou raises a bushy white eyebrow. “Sinclair, you know that industry will work you like a dog if you let it.”
My father shrugs. “And you know I like the pressure.”
“Well, never say never,” Lou says. “This is a very good life.” He turns to me. “And how are things with my Yvonne?”
“I’m fi—” I start to say, but before I can finish, Lou jumps up, snapping his fingers.
“Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”
I look at my dad, who shrugs. A breeze floats over, sending the sweet scent of the Meyer lemon tree below wafting up to the balcony.
Lou returns with a small, wrapped box and a thick envelope. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he says, leaning down to kiss my cheek.
I wish they weren’t both looking at me, because I feel like I might cry. Lou doesn’t owe me anything, but even he cares about me more than my mother does.
“Open it,” he urges, easing back into the seat between my father and me.
I open the card first, an oversize one with swirly letters, flowers, and sugary-sweet words that he signed with LOVE, LOU at the bottom. I look a bit too long at the word love. The wrapping paper peels easily off the package, revealing a small velvet box. I snap it open to find a delicate gold pin in the shape of a Stradivarius violin. The detailing is exquisite, down to the tiny replica of the fingerboard. I slip it out of the box and onto my palm, running my index finger over the tiny lines and curves.
“It’s vintage,” Lou says when I still haven’t spoken. “And it looks really well made, but if you don’t like—”
And then I do start to cry. Not an onslaught of tears—just a single one that drips onto my wrist. I quickly brush it away, hoping Lou won’t notice. But Lou notices everything.
“You don’t have to keep it if you don’t like it, Yvonne,” he says in that borderline frantic voice people use when tears appear. “I just thought it was something you might like.”
“I love it. I do. I just… this isn’t my future anymore.”
Lou frowns. “Oh, Yvonne. I’m sorry to hear that. I can take it back.”
I pause for a moment to wonder why he accepted the idea so easily. Clearly he still associates me with violin, but what if he knew I wasn’t good enough to go anywhere with it? He’s heard me play plenty of times, sometimes on request. But what if my growing disinterest and lack of improvement was apparent to everyone, and they’ve been humoring me this whole time?
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s beautiful.”
Lou squeezes my shoulder. “If you change your mind, I won’t be offended.”
My father has stayed quiet during this exchange, but now he looks over. “You know, Yvonne is shaping up to be quite the baker.”
“It was one cake.” I down the rest of my Shirley Temple in one gulp.
“One very good cake.”
“Oh, really?” Lou gives me a small smile. “Looking to go into your pops’s line of business?”
“What? No!”
On the other side of him, Dad laughs.
“I mean, I’m just not interested in cooking… or restaurants.”
“Baking isn’t cooking, though,” Lou says thoughtfully. “Pastry chefs have a different skill set than other restaurant chefs.”
“Pastry chef? I think that’s a little premature.” I glance at my father to see if he’s mentioned this to Lou before this evening, but he doesn’t look like he’s hiding anything.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” The slight smile from earlier now stretches all the way across Lou’s face. “I want you to bake me a cake.”
“You’re putting me to work?”
“Just asking for a favor. I’ll choose the cake and give you the recipe. You make it and bring it over.”
That’s not such a bad deal. The pastry chef talk is too much, but I do like baking. I can’t forget how it calmed me when I was so upset the other night. And I can’t ignore how nice it feels to hear my father’s praise. But it was one time. One cake. And the whole experience was steeped in nostalgia, down to the recipe recorded in my mother’s handwriting on a card she must have touched dozens of times.
But it will give me something to think about besides the fact that every time I have to explain how I’m losing my connection to violin, I feel like I’m losing a part of me.
“Okay,” I say. “Deal.”
My gaze falls on my father. He smiles before he takes another sip of wine. It’s small, but I see it.
After dinner, Dad goes to fiddle with Lou’s espresso maker while Lou and I clear the dishes.
“Any boyfriends I should know about?” Lou asks, stacking my plate on top of his. He asks every so often, but it still surprises me that he invites that type of talk between us. No matter what my father suspected was going on with Warren and me all this time, he was wholly uncomfortable discussing us in the context of a couple.
“Nobody special,” I say automatically.
I wonder if my answer would have been Warren if things had gone differently on my birthday.
There is Omar. Thinking of him makes me smile. Because as much as I care about Warren, he confuses me. I know his feelings for me are real, but actions should speak the loudest, and I’m still disappointed by how my birthday turned out. He has more responsibilities than ever since his promotion, but I don’t want to start off a relationship believing he cares more about his job than me. I’ve had enough of that in my life. I wasn’t important enough for my mother to stick around, and my father has chosen work first for as long as I can remember.
Omar and I didn’t talk long last night. He sounded like he was in the middle of something. There were voices in the background—a lot of them. I kept listening to see if I could hear the sound of the ocean waves behind him or maybe Keely tuning her viola. I couldn’t tell where he was and I was too shy to ask, but he seemed pleased to hear from me. I actually flushed with happiness when he suggested we hang out this week.
“Not that there’s any rush,” Lou adds quickly, breaking into my thoughts. “I didn’t meet Claud until I was thirty-five.”
He smiles at me as he takes the dishes into the kitchen.
I never know how to feel when Lou brings up Claudia. She was the love of his life, and she died from cervical cancer three years ago. I always feel a bit ashamed for thinking this, but sometimes I believe it would be easier to accept my mother leaving if she’d been sick.
If she hadn’t made the choice to leave on her own.
10.
Omar asked me to meet him down at the beach, and I don’t think I’ve been to Venice as much in the last three years as I have in the last three weeks. But when I think of his eyes, his dreads, the way he said my name on the phone—I don’t mind.
As I drive, I wo
nder what we’ll do tonight. He kept plans vague, only confirming the time and where to meet on the beach. Maybe we’ll walk over to Abbot Kinney and look at all the overpriced boutiques before we grab a bite to eat. Or maybe we can go over to the Venice Canals—I’ve never been, but it’s supposed to be amazing, with breathtaking houses and lush gardens along the water.
My heart thumps faster as I near his usual spot on the boardwalk. I expect to see him finishing up a set, but their chairs are gone and Keely is nowhere to be found. It’s just Omar, standing alone, with his back to the boardwalk as he looks out toward the ocean.
His dreads are pulled into a low and messy bun, and I don’t think it’s likely, but they seem even more sun-kissed than the last time I saw him. The golden strands wink under the late- afternoon light fading over the water. I want to touch each one of them. I’ve never known anyone with such beautiful locs.
He turns around before I reach him, as if he knew I was coming. His smile is easy and it makes my knees shaky, but I remember the deep breathing Mama Jess taught Sabina and me when we did yoga in their living room. How she said I could use it to calm myself throughout the day. And it works. By the time I reach him, I feel more like myself and less like a Yvonne-shaped tangle of nerves.
He gives me a quick hug and it takes me so much by surprise that I almost forget Omar is touching me and I need to take in every detail to report back to Sabina. Like how he smells of sandalwood and how his hair is soft against my skin as a couple of errant locs brush my neck.
“Thanks for coming down,” he says, still smiling. “Hope it wasn’t too much trouble. You live near downtown, right?”
“Yeah, Highland Park. And it’s no big deal.” I shrug. “I like driving, and my dad pays for my gas.”
Finding Yvonne Page 6