“Don’t defend him. Not on this.” His dad pointed at the discarded newspaper even though she wasn’t looking. “There’s no excuse for making Joe look bad when he’s not here to tell his side.”
She whirled around, her finger jabbing the air. “Don’t you keep pushing our son away! You act like you’re the only one who lost something when Joe died. Like you have the right to control how we all deal with making peace with it.” Her voice cracked. “Let me tell you something, Frank. You don’t get to deny Alec the right to talk about his grief. And you don’t get to rain on his chance to reclaim his old life, either.”
When a sob broke through that final statement, she rushed out of the kitchen. In the distance, Alec heard her bedroom door close. He stared at the space she’d vacated, shocked. The pain in her voice had punched his chest harder than any blow his dad’s barbs could land.
“See what you’ve done now?” His father glared at him, paying no attention to his wife’s warning.
Alec could explode from anger. Lord knew he had plenty in reserve. But he wanted a family that functioned, even if it would never be whole again. He couldn’t fix what had broken between his brother and him, but as long as his parents were alive, he had a chance to fix this. He just didn’t know how. Maybe if he acted more like Joe, his father would respect him more.
What would Joe do?
Joe would fight back.
“I’m sorry I upset you, but I didn’t vilify Joe. I just explained what happened with Une Bouchée. I’ve got a shot at recovering from that, and I’m taking it. Mom’s right about one other thing. You aren’t the only one who grieves Joe’s death.” Alec stood and evenly met his father’s furious gaze. Wiping any trace of bitterness from his voice, he said, “We all know he was your favorite. But why keep pushing Mom and me away? Don’t we mean anything to you?”
“Now the melodrama.” His father gruffly waved his hand. “You should’ve pranced around the stage instead of becoming a chef.”
“You spit that out like what I do is pathetic.” The blatant prejudice practically begged Alec’s temper to join the party. “I’m outstanding in my field. And, by the way, my job requires as much stamina and discipline as yours, maybe more. You might know that if you ever bothered to take any interest in what I do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” His father’s derisive laugh scalded like a steam burn. “You cook, Alec. You don’t save lives. You don’t face danger.”
“Now who’s being ridiculous?” Alec scoffed. “You and Joe faced the ‘mean streets’ of Lake Sandy—shoplifting, petty theft, vandalism. Not exactly Detroit or Baltimore.”
“We weren’t making pastries!” His father’s stupefied expression might have been funny under other circumstances.
Despite his father’s reddened cheeks, Alec remained calm. In fact, they almost egged him on. With a casual shrug, he quipped, “No, just eating them in the patrol car.”
“What?” Outrage turned his dad’s face aubergine.
“You heard me.” Alec forced himself to stand tall. “People worldwide revere chefs like Roger Vergé and Alain Ducasse, yet you disdain them and me. Maybe you’re just too ignorant to appreciate us.”
“You think you’re some hotshot because you lived in Europe. Like the fact you speak French makes you better than me and your brother.” His dad snorted. “Don’t you ever call me ignorant!”
Apparently, his dad’s glass house couldn’t withstand a single pebble. Alec’s insult had shattered another attempt at reason. Maybe one day they’d manage a civil disagreement. Just not today. “Fine. Forget it.”
Alec marched out of the kitchen without looking back, even after he heard a chair crash against something. The multitude of household items held together with superglue or duct tape revealed the inventive ways his father had taken out his frustrations throughout the years. Since it had never escalated to physical abuse, Alec accepted it as his dad’s way of letting off steam. In the wake of Joe’s death, though, that temper had grown less predictable.
When Alec’s mom emerged from her room to investigate the racket, he grabbed her hand and tugged her from the house. “Come for a drive while he cools down.”
She followed him to his car in silence. He shooed Stitch out of the driveway and then drove his mother toward the new gelato shop by the park at the south end of the lake. The sun drew nearer to the horizon now, bathing the sky in striking shades of rose and lilac—a peaceful tableau at complete odds with the chaos on the ground.
Neither he nor his mom spoke for a while. He couldn’t have said much, anyway, thanks to his mental cartwheels. Who’d believe that any family lucky enough to call this picturesque town home could be living under such a cloud of despair? As he whizzed along the south shore, he wondered what ugly secrets other people in this neighborhood hid behind their quaint homes and gardens.
Absently, he also wondered if Joe could see him now. Had Joe had any regrets? Would he have been pissed at Alec for the article and the fight with their dad? Truth was, Alec wasn’t exactly proud of arguing with his father, but he wasn’t exactly sorry, either.
“I’m sorry.” His mother squeezed his hand once they took seats on the park bench overlooking the lake.
“Why are you sorry?”
“I should’ve been a better mother to my sons and not allowed the gap between you to fester.” She scraped the plastic spoon at her gelato without much interest in eating it.
“That had nothing to do with you.”
“I’m your mother, Alec. It’s my job to teach my children right from wrong. To knit a tight family.” Her forehead wrinkled with regret. “I failed.”
“You didn’t fail.” He looked across the lake. “You just drew the short end of the stick when it came to all the men in your life.”
She brushed his bangs from his forehead like she used to do when he was young. “Not with you, sweetheart.”
She only believed that because she didn’t know all his secrets. He slouched lower on the park bench and licked his cone. The explosion of flavor temporarily distracted him, although his pistachio gelato was better.
“Your father’s a hypocrite.” She set her melting dessert aside. “He always resented how his father belittled him, yet he’s done the exact same thing to you.”
“Grandpa wasn’t gruff.” In fact, Alec’s vague memories carried a definite hint of warmth. “He used to read to me and play Legos.”
“He was stoic. An engineer with a sharp head for math. But your father never worked to his potential in school, which bothered his dad to no end. Grandpa scorned your dad’s choices and career as much as your father does yours. Frank never forgave him for that.”
Alec now had a long-missing piece in the puzzle of his existence—a reason for his father’s dislike that went beyond Alec’s failings. Not only must Alec’s academic bent have reminded his dad of his own father, but Alec had also won Grandpa’s affection when his dad could not. That had to have stung, and might explain why Alec’s “ignorance” insult had been so potent.