reading

Chapter One

I’m seven today, but I don’t expect presents because I heard Mommy tell Rachel, ‘things are tough.’ I don’t mind; the best present, anyway, would be if my daddy gets better.

He used to be a fireman. He was so strong, he could pick me up and swing me high, high in the air, and I squealed because it felt good but also scary. Daddy used to laugh when I did that, his eyes all crinkly in the corners. He laughed a lot then, but not so much now, and when he does his eyes don’t shine bright like they used to.

My daddy’s very sick, I know even though no one ever tells me. When I ask, Mommy says, “The doctors are doing everything they can,” but Daddy’s not getting better.

First, he came home looking tired. Mommy told him, “Stop working so many shifts, Rory.” “You worry too much,” Daddy said and kissed her cheek like always when he tells her not to fuss. But he got more tired, and he coughed a lot, and couldn’t breathe right. My daddy’s sick because of his job, I heard Rachel say. “They should do more for firefighters; the benefits barely cover your costs,” she said.

“We knew that all along, but for Rory, it was never just about making a living. He wanted to do something to help people, and he did. Rory saved a lot of lives and property over the years,” Mommy told her.

Last night I heard her tell Daddy don’t give up. “I won’t,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure like before. I think Daddy is giving up, and I don’t know why because he always tells me not to. “Never give up, A Stór. Be positive and keep going, and you’ll get what you want,” he says. I love when Daddy calls me A Stór. It means my treasure in the old language. He and Mommy mostly call me Angel, though, because I’m his and mommy’s special gift, Daddy says. I like that too.

Sometimes, at night, when Mommy thinks I’m sleeping, I hear her cry. Then I also cry also because I’m scared Daddy will die like old Mrs. Jones. She was sick for a long time, just like him. One day, Mandi and I heard Mrs. Morgan tell Mrs. Drummond she died. “Inez is with God now,” she said. God lives in heaven, I know, and it’s beautiful there, so why did Mrs. Jones have to go to heaven in a black bag?

I know she did because when Mandi and I peeked through the window, we saw two men wheeling her away a black bag on a bed. I know it was Mrs. Jones because Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Drummond crossed themselves and said, “Rest in peace, Inez.” Now, every night, I pray for my Daddy not to die, and I cry because I don’t want those men to take him away in a bag.

Anyway, it’s my special day; Mommy always says that when it’s my birthday. She and Daddy woke me this morning. I loved it because, since he’s been sick, Daddy doesn’t wake me much anymore. They sang happy birthday, well, Mommy did; Daddy tried, but then he coughed, so he just clapped while Mommy sang. And I did get presents—new red shoes, and Mommy made me a dress from her white one with the big red flowers that I liked to play dress up in. I love it!

Mommy wore the dress on their first date, Daddy told me. “No, I didn’t; I wore blue,” Mommy said.

“You were wearing that dress when I plucked up the courage to ask you out,” Daddy said.

“That wasn’t a date!” Mommy laughed.

“It was to me,” Daddy said and kissed her cheek. I like it when they’re playful like that, specially when Daddy’s happy and smiling like before.

Mommy cooked her buttery scrambled eggs with sweet corn that Daddy and I love for breakfast. And we had cupcakes that Mommy baked. She put white frosting with colored flowers on top. I had one with a red flower because it matched my dress, and Mommy also put a sparkler in mine. She lit it and sang happy birthday again.

And, now, Mommy’s packing cakes for me to share with Mandi, Bronny, and Sammy; they’re my best friends. I counted eight, two for each of us—one for before class and one at lunch, Mommy said.

There’s one cake left over, and Mommy says I can save it for after dinner.

“Daddy can have it,” I say because he likes cake.

“It’s your, birthday, Angel, not mine,” Daddy laughs and shakes his head.

“We can all share,” I say. “Sister Lily says we should because we’ll be rewarded one day.”

“She’s right,” Daddy smiles like he does when he’s proud of me and kisses me on the head. “Cut the cake, Grace,” he tells Mommy.

Mommy does, and when Daddy picks up his piece, he holds it to me. I smile and lift mine because I know what he wants, and when Mommy picks up the last piece, we make a toast like people do with glasses. “Happy Birthday, A Stór,” Daddy says.

I loved my birthday breakfast. It was the best ever.

Images

It’s after school, and I’m skipping rope at the park with my friends. Mr. Jamieson, from across the street, is watching us for Mommy like he sometimes does. He was a firefighter too, but he doesn’t work now. He’s not sick like my daddy; he’s retired.

“Girls,” I forgot my glasses. I’ll be five minutes,” he shouts. “Stay right here until I get back,” he says and leaves his newspaper on the bench.

“Okay,” Bronny yells back.

“I’m tired,” Sammy says, rolling up the rope and lies on the grass. She and Mandi guess cloud shapes. “That’s a dog,” Mandi says, but Sammy says no, it’s a bear. I don’t play because I don’t want to lie down and get my new dress dirty. Bronny and I play Have You Ever Ever.

“Jamie Drury kissed me,” she says and stops clapping. Jamie goes to school with us. Bronny thinks he’s nice, but I think he’s silly and annoying. He follows us around and, sometimes, he even pulls her ponytail—that’s annoying, not nice.

“What?” Mandi sits up; her eyes are so wide, Mommy would call them saucers.

“When?” she asks, but Bronny doesn’t answer; she’s looking at something behind me. I turn my head and see the man with black hair, the one I sometimes in his car in our street.

“Well, hello girls,” he says, looking at me. He says vell, not well. I don’t know anyone who talks like that, not even Mr. and Mrs. Tucci, who came from Italy to live with their daughter, Mrs. Donati. People from other countries have different accents, Daddy told me when I asked why they don’t speak like us. “People come to this country from all over the world,” Daddy said, “just like the Bains did.”

Our family is from Ireland. “God’s own country,” Daddy says my great grampy called it. I love when Daddy tells stories about Ireland. He’s never been, but he promised we’d go one day. I really want to visit Ireland and see if it’s really green like an emerald like Daddy says.

“You are Angelique, yes?” the man asks.

“Ye…Yes,” I answer because Mommy says to always be polite—but she also said not to talk to strangers, so I don’t know if I’m going to be in trouble. He’s smiling, but his eyes don’t. They’re blue, not dark and shining like Mommy’s, or bright like Bronny’s. His eyes are cold like winter. I don’t like them, and I don’t like him.

“Happy birthday, beautiful girl.” He holds out a white box with a yellow ribbon, but I don’t take it.

“What’s that?” Mandi asks.

“It’s a present, Angelique,” he tells me, even though I didn’t ask. I want to know how he knows my name, but I don’t ask that either.

“I…I can’t take stuff from strangers,” I say because Mommy told me that too.

“We can be friends; we won’t be strangers then, will we?”

“Go away, Mister, you’re not our friend.” Mandi grabs my arm “Come on, Angel,” she says, and Bronny and Sammy stand too.

“Go away!” Mandi yells, loud this time.

“My name is Dieter, and we will be friends, Angelique!” he says.

“Run,” Mandi yells, and we do.

Images

The next week, I hear Mommy tell Daddy to put his mask on. “We shouldn’t be wasting money on me,” he says. “I hate that you have to work so hard.”

My mommy does work hard. She used to work in a bookshop and then pick me up from school, but since Daddy’s been sick, she stopped working there because she wanted to stay home with him. Now, she sews and mends people’s clothes. Sometimes, she makes curtains or even cushions; whatever people need, she says. My mommy’s very clever, I think, but she says her grandma is the one who knew everything about sewing. “I’m just lucky she taught me,” Mommy says.

Some nights, she works ‘til very late. I know because I hear when she goes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Daddy doesn’t like when Mommy works late because and, sometimes, I hear him tell her to come to bed. And then, when she says she can’t, he says he’ll make the tea. She tells him he needs to rest, but Daddy says so does she, and it’s the least he can do.

“Oh, Rory, you worked hard for many years; it’s my turn now,” Mommy tells Daddy now. “Please use the oxygen; we love you, and we don’t want to lose you.” She wants to cry, I can tell, and I’m not sure why, but I want to cry too.

“Grace,” Daddy’s chest wheezes. I hate that sound. Daddy never made it before—before he was sick. “Even when my body leaves, I’ll be with you,” he says.

Mommy sniffles and tells him not to talk like that. I was going to ask when’s dinner, but I’m not hungry now, so I go to my room instead. At Mass, Mrs. Robertson told Mommy Daddy’s health is in God’s hands, so I pray extra hard for him to get better.

“Angel, dinner!” Mommy calls me. She’s smiling when I come into the kitchen, but her eyes are still teary. “Did you wash your hands?”

I shake my head and hurry and pull a chair to the kitchen sink because I want to make her happy again.

“What about Daddy?” I ask.

“We’ll take him a tray later,” Mommy tells me.

We’re having corned beef and colcannon. It’s one of Daddy’s favorites, so I know that’s why Mommy made it. She put three slices of meat on my plate, but she only has one.

“Aren’t you hungry, Mommy?” I ask. She says no, but she only had toast this morning. Daddy and I had a boiled egg too, and I know Mommy doesn’t always eat lunch because I heard Daddy tell her she needs to eat.

“Me too; Mandi’s mommy sent cake,” I say and pick up a slice of meat with my fork and hold it out to Mommy.

“Eat, Angel,” she tells me, but I don’t, even though I know I shouldn’t disobey.

“You’re a good girl.” Mommy says, her eyes all teary again, but she takes the meat. “What kind of cake?” she asks.

I say Mandi called it pound cake, and Mommy tells me it’s called that because it has a pound of flour, eggs, butter, and sugar—a pound of each, she says.

“It should be a four-pound cake,” I say, and Mommy laughs and asks what I did at school. So I tell, and she smiles while I talk. She doesn’t even say not to talk with my mouth full, like always.

I’m talking about Bronny’s kitten, Sooty, when someone knocks on our door. “It’s probably Rachel; finish your food,” Mommy says, but she and Rachel don’t come back, so I get up to look. My heart jumps when I see the man from the park.

“Mrs. Bain, I am Dieter Quandt,” he says. “I own a ballet school that offers scholarships to talented children. The program, you should know, includes an educational grant. I have been watching your daughter and believe she has enormous potential.”

Mommy frowns. “You’ve watched my daughter?” she asks, her voice is quiet, but I can tell she’s mad. “Where—why would you do that?”

Mommy peeks over her shoulder to her and Daddy’s room. “I’m sorry, I don’t wish to speak to you,” she tells him. “Please leave my daughter alone.” She tries to close the door, but the man puts his hand out.

“Mrs. Bain, I can be vouched for, and the Institute can provide Angelique an excellent education—don’t you want your child to have the best?”

“Please leave,” Mommy says, louder this time. The man smiles, and when he sees me, his smile gets bigger. Mommy shuts the door right in his face.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Bain…Angelique,” I hear him say even though the door is shut.

In the kitchen, Mommy takes my hand and bends down, her face real close to mine. “Angelique, have you seen that man before? Did you speak to him?” she asks, and I bite my lip because I know I’m in trouble when Mommy says my full name.

“What have Daddy and I told you about talking to strangers? You’re not to speak to them; and if they ask you to go anywhere, you’re to shout, “no”, and run away!” she tells me even though I already know.

“I didn’t want to. I don’t like him, and he talks funny!” I cry because I hate when Mommy’s mad at me.

“Where did you see him, Angel?” she pulls me onto her lap and tells me not to cry.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say.

“I’m not mad at you; I’m worried,” Mommy wipes my tears away. “You know the rules…your Dad—” she sighs and hugs me, so tight, my tummy hurts.

“Tell me everything. When did you see that man, and what did he say?”

“I only talked to him once, Mommy; at the park on my birthday. He wanted to give me a present, but I said no. Mandi told him to go away, and then we ran.”

“Did you see him before that?”

“Sometimes; in his car.”

“Where,” Mommy asks.

“In our street. How did he know it was my birthday?”

“I don’t know, Angel; I don’t know,” Mommy lets out another, big sigh, and I feel her lips press against my head. She takes my chin in her hand and gives me her serious look. “Angelique, you stay away from that man. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mommy,” I say quickly because I don’t want her to get mad again, and anyway, I don’t want to see him again.

“If you see him or his car on the street, and you’re not close to home, you run to a neighbor’s house, whichever one is closest. You tell whoever’s there that he’s following you and ask them to walk you home.

“If you see him at school, you go straight to a teacher, and you’re not to leave with anyone other than Rachel, Mandi’s mom, or me. Do you understand?”

I nod and say yes. “Good girl,” Mommy hugs me tight. “Now, let’s get Daddy’s dinner. And let’s not say anything about our visitor or what happened in the park. He’ll only worry,”

Chapter Two

I want to go home, and I want it to be just Mommy, Daddy, and me. But we won’t be, ever again, because Daddy’s lying in that box called a coffin. They’re going to put him into that deep hole and Mommy and I will never see him again.

Daddy left us last week to go to heaven. He left in a long, black car. I don’t know if they put him in a bag because after I kissed Daddy goodbye, Mommy asked Rachel to take me to my room. She read to me, and, later, after Daddy was gone, Rachel made Mommy lie down on my bed. “Rest, you haven’t slept all night,” she said, and told me I could watch TV or read, but I didn’t want to. I wanted my daddy back; I wanted Mommy not to be sad, and I wanted her to stop crying. When Rachel went into Mommy and Daddy’s room with clean sheets, I crawled in behind Mommy. I hugged her, and she put her arms around me.

I want Mommy to hold me like that now; maybe it will make the pain in my chest go away. Mommy squeezes my hand when the men, the ones who put Daddy’s coffin in the car, move forward. They’re wearing black—everyone’s wearing black, even Mommy. Daddy wouldn’t like that. He liked her to wear bright colors. “Like your smile,” he always says. I’m glad my new coat is blue. It’s not bright, but it’s not black, and I hope Daddy can see me from heaven.

Mommy cries again when Father Murphy says prayers—not loud like I did when they took Daddy away. Her tears just roll down her cheeks like they did then, like they do almost every time she thinks I’m not looking. This time, I squeeze her hand. Mommy smiles at me, but her eyes are sad. She gives me a rose and tells me to put in on Daddy’s coffin, so I do. Mommy, who’s still holding my hand, also puts a rose there. Then, she bends down to kiss me and asks Rachel to take me to the car. I sit in the back watching her, all alone at Daddy’s new place, I now know is called a grave. I also know that, when we leave, those men are going to put him in that horrible grave and leave him there.

When we get home, there are lots of people in our living room, and Mandi’s mommy and another lady are in the kitchen putting food on plates. The people, some I don’t even know, talk, drink tea and coffee, and eat sandwiches and cake. They call it a wake, Mandi tells me. I don’t care what it’s called; I want them to leave. I don’t want to smile, and I don’t want to talk to people. I don’t even want to play with my best friend today. I want to cuddle with my mommy, and I want to forget about my daddy in that hole.

Images

Daddy’s been gone for eight weeks now, and I miss him so much. Both Mommy and I do. We talk about him all the time, even though it makes us cry. Mommy says we keep Daddy’s memory alive by remembering and talking about him and the things we did together.

I’m in my new bedroom, reading. It’s really my old bedroom. It used to be Mommy’s sewing room when Daddy was sick, but she doesn’t need it now because she’s working at the bookshop again. I love this room, but I wouldn’t mind moving back to the small one next to the kitchen if we could have Daddy back.

Mommy moved me here four weeks after Daddy died. She said he’d want us to get back to normal. Yes, my daddy died; he didn’t just go to heaven like Mommy said. He had to die first.

Hannah Simms told me at school. “Your daddy’s dead,” she said. She was so mean, she said Mrs. Callahan only let me hand out books because she felt sorry for me because my daddy died. I said my daddy didn’t die; he went to heaven.

“Your Daddy is dead; my mom says so!” she shouted and everyone heard. I cried because I was sad and so mad at her for telling nasty lies. Mandi, Sammy, and Bronny took me to the little girls’ room. Mandi helped me wash my face, and then, at lunch, she tipped Hannah’s drink right into her lap.

“Sorry; it was an accident,” she said, even though we all knew it wasn’t. I really love my friends.

I told Mommy about Hannah, and she said only someone thoughtless would say something so unkind. She said Daddy passed on, that he had to do that to go heaven. “It’s our passage into heaven; everyone will pass on one day,” she said. So now I know Hannah isn’t just mean, she’s thoughtless; and next time, I’m going to tell her that.

Anyway, I’m in my room, reading Anne of Green Gables. I found it when we unpacked a box of Mommy’s old things. She said I could choose a few, so I took this book and a pretty hair comb, which belonged to my Grammy. Mommy says it’s mother-of-pearl. It’s no one’s mother, she said, it comes from a shell.

Anne of Green Gables was Grammy’s favorite book, then it was Mommy’s, and now it’s mine. I want to go to Prince Edward Island—Mommy said she also wanted to when she was my age—it’s part of Canada she told me. Mandi thinks I’m crazy. “Disneyland’s better,” she said, but I don’t care. She hasn’t read the book, so she doesn’t know.

The next day, at school, our Principal, Mrs. Roberts gives me a letter for Mommy. I hope it’s not like Abby Bertram’s letter because she was grounded without pocket money after she got hers. Mommy gives me fifty cents every week for sweeping the kitchen. Funny, because, sometimes, when she thinks I’m in bed, I see her sweeping it again. I hope I’m not in trouble because I don’t want to be grounded, and I want my pocket money so I can buy Sammy a present for her birthday next month.

I give the letter to Mommy as soon as I get home like Mrs. Roberts said. I’m glad when she doesn’t open it right away because, even though I can’t think of anything, I still worry about what I did wrong. After I help clear the table, Mommy tells me to get ready for bed. “Brush your teeth properly,” she reminds me, and I say I will.

When I get back, Mommy’s sitting on the sofa frowning at the letter. I stop in the doorway, worried again.

“Sit, Angel.” Mommy says and pats the cushion next to her. I’m glad she didn’t call me Angelique.

“The Quandt Institute has invited you to audition. Mrs. Roberts checked their scholarship program and says it’s an excellent school and that you’re lucky to be given this opportunity.”

I don’t know about opportunities, but I don’t think I’d like any from Mr. Quandt. I don’t say so because Daddy told me one has to make the most of opportunities. “Opportunity only knocks once, A Stór,” he said.

Images

Mommy did go to see Mrs. Roberts, and now we’re sitting in this room with five other girls and their mommies. I’m wearing a new dress Mommy made especially for today. It has a yellow skirt and white top. I also have new socks with tiny, yellow flowers. Mommy helped me dress. She hasn’t done that in ages, not since I learned to do it myself; but this morning, even though I told her I could do it on my own, she said she wanted to help me. She even helped put on my socks. Daddy would have kissed her and told her not to fuss.

I don’t want to be here, I’d rather be with my friends, playing with Sooty, but I can’t be because Mommy said today’s important. She said she and Daddy wanted to give me the best, but life had other plans, so they couldn’t do that together now. “But this is a fantastic chance, Angel, and I think he would want us to make the most of it,” Mommy said.

So, that’s why we’re here—for me to audition. Mommy said it’s a meeting where we can see if we like the school, and the teachers can make sure they like me. We traveled by train, and Mommy said we were lucky it wasn’t rush hour because we’d be jammed in like sardines. I asked, and she told me rush hour is when thousands of people travel to work at the same time—on trains, in taxis, in their cars, and some even walk.

New York is huge, and it’s busy. Daddy told me people who live and work here call it The City. Anyway, it’s scary. No one smiles; they don’t even look at you. In Rutherford, where we live, people smile, and, in our street, everyone knows one another. “We’re a community; we watch out for our neighbors,” Daddy said.

In The City, the buildings are tall, very tall—some are so high, my neck hurt from looking up at them. I bumped into a lady while trying to see the top of one building, and she looked pretty mad, even after I said sorry.

I do like Central Park, though. Daddy and Mommy brought me a couple of times. We sat on the grass with our hotdogs and watched people; Daddy called it our New York-style picnic.

A lady comes in now and looks around. “Angelique Bain?” she smiles at the girl in the pink dress, and her mommy shakes her head.

“This is Angelique,” Mommy says, taking my hand.

“Hello, Angelique, I’m Miss Ingrid.” She smiles at me now. She talks like Mr. Quandt, but I don’t mind it so much because she’s pretty, and I like her smile. “Mrs. Bain, I’m Ingrid Svenska, Dance Director at the Institute,” she says when she and Mommy shake hands. “Would you and Angelique come with me, please?”

We follow her down a hallway, and the music that I heard while waiting gets louder. When we reach an open door, I stop to look at the girls standing on their toes. Not on tippy toes like I do, but on their toes. They hold onto a pole on the wall with one hand and the other is the air, bent over their heads. I wish I could stand like that.

A lady, dressed in black, walks up and down, tapping the floor with a walking stick. “Back straight, head up,” she says to one girl and touches her leg with the stick. I want to stay, but Mommy tugs my arm.

“Do you like that, Angelique?” Miss Ingrid asks.

“Yes,” I answer, feeling my face get hot.

“We’ll return when your mother and I have talked,” she tells me. I smile back at her; maybe this school isn’t so bad.

Images

We’re in Miss Ingrid’s office, and I’m watching people in the street. From way up here, they look like the ants I sometimes see in the park, busy, busy, marching past ants going the other way.

“But isn’t she a bit young for serious ballet?” I hear Mommy ask.

“Starting ballet early has both physical and mental advantages. Young minds are more adept at learning a new language, and ballet is definitely a language, Mrs. Bain. It’s a language of movement,” Miss Ingrid says.

“Children retain new information better than adults, Mrs. Bain, and young bodies are ideal for developing the long lines and exacting techniques needed for ballet. By the time they become teenagers, there is not much room for change, so, the younger, the better because it takes twelve years to produce a company-ready dancer. Angelique is the perfect age.”

“I appreciate the opportunity, and I understand the benefits; but I’ll only accept if I feel Angelique will enjoy being here. She’s hardly had enough time to be a child. What you’ve described sounds very intense.”

“She will not start full-time classes until she turns eleven. Before that, we will require her to take two weekly classes and undertake one hour’s practice at home. That’s not too bad, is it? And don’t forget, Mrs. Bain, the scholarship also funds a world-class education.”

Mommy sighs big, and her eyes get all shiny like they do when she thinks or talks about Daddy. “Only if she wants to do it, and only if I think she’ll enjoy her time here, Miss Svenska. Otherwise, I’m afraid that no matter how great your school, I’ll have to decline,” Mommy says.

“That is understandable, and I respect your feelings, Mrs. Bain,” Miss Ingrid tells Mommy and then looks up to smile at me. “Are you ready to see some ballet now?”

She takes us to the same room; the one she calls a studio. I don’t know if these are the same girls, but they look the same, dressed in their black costumes that look like swimsuits, and pink tights and shoes. Even their hair is the same, just like Miss Ingrid’s. When she sees me looking, Miss Ingrid tells me they’re wearing leotards, and that I’d wear one too if I decide I want to be a ballerina. She says every girl in the room dreams of being one.

I ask if she’s a ballerina, and she says she used to be once, in Europe. I know about Europe; Daddy showed me when he told me about Ireland. Miss Ingrid tells about the places she visited while touring. I’ll ask Mommy what that means later. I ask Miss Ingrid if she has a little girl who dances. She looks sad and says no, she was too busy dancing and teaching. Now, she only teaches very special students. “I hope you will be one of those, Angelique,” she says.

Anyway, I stop talking and watch. I think the girls look so pretty. I want to do dance like them and look pretty too. The teacher says, “That’s it class,” and then, when they leave, Miss Ingrid asks if I want to try some steps.

“Yes, please,” I say, feeling butterflies in my tummy. She tells me to take off my shoes and socks, and I quickly sit down. Mommy comes to help.

When I’m ready, Miss Ingrid takes me to stand in front the mirror. The whole room’s covered in mirrors. She stands next to me, also without shoes, and moves her feet. “Watch carefully, Angelique; this is called first position. You try it now,” she says after showing me a few times. I do, and it’s much harder than it looks, but Miss Ingrid kneels to move my feet, and I keep trying until she’s happy. Then, she shows me second, third, fourth, and fifth. “Those are the basic steps in ballet,” she tells me, and when I get them right, Miss Ingrid stands behind me and lifts my arm over my head.

“Look. See what a beautiful ballerina you will make,” she says and both she and Mommy smiles at me in the mirror. I smile back, real wide because I think I’m going to love ballet.

“Mrs. Bain, we would appreciate your response in two weeks. Forgive the short time, but we have many who are anxious to enter our program, and we do not want to keep anyone waiting longer than needed,” Miss Ingrid says when we’re in the hallway again.

“I understand, and I promise to get back to you by then,” Mommy says, and we say goodbye to Miss Ingrid.

When the elevator door opens for us to go down, Mr. Quandt gets out. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Bain,” he says to Mommy. “Did you enjoy the tour, and did Miss Svenska satisfy your questions?” he asks, looking at me.

“We did, thank you, Mr. Quandt. Angelique and I have a lot to think about and discuss,” Mommy tells him.

“Well, beautiful Angelique, I hope you make the right decision,” he says, and smiles, but I don’t smile back because I still don’t like him.