The Love Club

Three

There’s a grandfather clock in the foyer of my dad’s house that I’ve always hated.

It was a gift from one of his colleagues at the university, though I’ve long forgotten which one. It’s been around as far as I can remember, this big hulk of a thing that presides over the comings and goings of our family. A heavy gold pendulum swings side to side behind a glass pane with frosted decorations printed on it. The clock itself is carved intricately and has a cherry finish. I can’t help but admit how beautiful it is, but it’s the sound that always gets to me.

Sometime during its long run of years, the chimes have gotten off time. I’m not sure if it was a natural process or if something happened to it during a move, but one chime in particular is off time from the others. Every time it plays, it’s one beat behind, clashing with the rest. My dad has never taken the time to get it fixed and it makes me cringe when I hear it. He says he likes it; that it gives the clock character. 

It’s that horrible noise I’m hearing now as I walk up the front steps to his house, a casserole balanced in my right hand and a bottle of wine in my left. I wrangle open the door without bothering to knock, knowing neither Felicity nor my father will be able to hear me over those god-awful chimes. 

Felicity is crossing the foyer to the dining room, a basket of rolls in her hands. She starts when she sees me, but smiles anyway. My heels are caught on the ancient rug that greets the entryway, so I’m trying desperately to step out of them while somehow managing to keep the casserole safe under my arm and switching over the wine to my other hand. A string of curse words escape me and Felicity’s smile turns to a frown. She hurries into the dining room to set down the rolls before returning to me and pulling the casserole from my hands. I thank her as my bare feet finally meet the safety of solid ground. 

“Language, Mina,” she warns as she turns on her heel and recedes to the dining room once again. I roll my eyes and head in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen. On the burner, a pan is cooking chicken breast. Beside it, pasta is boiling. I set the wine down on the counter just as Felicity enters the kitchen again. 

She looks nice in a dress and flats. The one rule about once a week dinners at my parents is that you must be formal. It was something we cooked up as a joke when I first moved out, but a tradition we hold true to. 

She looks young, despite the fact that she’s twenty-four years my elder. Her crows feet are just beginning to become noticable, and the wrinkles on her forehead are barely prominent. Her body is slim from the morning jogs she continues to take, and I know she’s recently started taking yoga classes. By this time, there should be small streaks of gray beginning to show in her hair, but the platinum blond hides it well, especially in moments like this when it’s swept up into an elaborate bun atop her head. Without thinking, I move forward and wrap my arms around her. She’s surprised, stirring the saucepan, but uses one arm to squeeze my shoulders. It is at this moment there is a clearing of the throat at the kitchen table at the far end of the room, and I turn to face my father.

He also looks quite young, though his hair has grayed prematurely. He’s a few years older than Felicity, closer to the age of 50, but I don’t really remember a time when his hair wasn’t peppered. He’s wearing a navy button up with the sleeves rolled, tucked into a pair of blue jeans I supervised him buying so he wouldn’t look lame during his lectures. His eyes are a cloudy hazel, something I wish had passed on to me, though I know he prefers the light brown of my eyes because they remind him of mom. He’s crossing the room toward me and I meet him half-way, wrapping my arms around his torso because he’s too tall for my short frame, even in heels. He lifts me off the ground like he did when I was a kid and I laugh. 

“Good to see you, Mina,” he tells me quietly in my ear before setting me down. 

“It’s only been a week,” I respond.