Excerpt
“I’m getting married!” Juliette burst through the door,
holding her ring finger up for the world to see. Well, for my dear husband of
twenty-two years and me to see.
Said dear husband rose from his chair with such gusto that the poor chair
clattered to the floor, victim of his temper. “What?!”
The humid June air clung to the back of my
neck as I stood. Pushing my graying hair out of my eyes, I took a step toward
my husband and placed a hand on his upper arm. I recognized the fear that
flashed beneath his anger. I’d seen that look far too many times lately
as she missed her curfew night after night all summer long.
“Tristan, dear, just...calm down, okay?” I cast a pleading glance
between him and our daughter. I could see the words on the edge of his tongue.
Don’t follow in my footsteps. His own impulsive marriage led to a
tragedy that impacted both our lives. I knew the thought of Juliette repeating
his mistakes kept him awake at night.
“Calm down?” Tristan tossed his hands up; then his arms
flopped to his thin torso’s sides.
“Your heart,” I said, stepping in front of him.
“Please.”
He
released a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, then righted his chair
and sat. “So, who’s the lucky guy?” he shot at Juliette.
“Don’t tell me it’s that long-haired hippie.”
It
wasn’t just the hair. David's casual attitude toward drugs reminded
Tristan too much of his own dance with addiction, though he'd never admit that
to her.
Juliette stood just
inside the open door. Only the screen separated her from darting outside and
the darkness swallowing her for another late night. Another night without a
curfew. Another night we hoped we could trust her judgment. Another night our
little girl proved she wasn’t so little anymore.
She crossed her arms over her chest and sent her
dad a glare worthy of one of his own. Her blue eyes held the same spark that
challenged, much like Tristan’s eyes. “Seriously, Dad? Like you
should talk.” She gestured toward his messy, longish hair.
“That’s not the point,”
Tristan said, teeth clenched. “You can’t just go running off with
the first guy who puts a ring on your finger. If he had any decency,
he’d have asked us first.”
Juliette closed the door and scoffed. “It’s 1967,
Daddio.” She popped her gum as she leaned against the table. “I
don’t need your permission.”
“Like hell you don’t.” Tristan stood, the
menacing tone creeping back into his voice.
I came between them. “Okay, both of you…
Can’t we talk about this?”
Juliette shifted her gaze to me. “Mom, please. Can’t you
make Dad see reason?”
I
held back a sigh and lifted my hand. About to place it on her shoulder, I
resisted and let my arm drop. “Juliette, this isn’t a good idea.
David isn’t—”
“Isn’t what, Mom?” A tremor ran through her voice. She
blinked rapidly, then stepped away. She headed for the door to the dining and
living rooms, stopping before she exited. “Why can’t you just be
happy for me for once?” Her footsteps banged through the house and up
the stairs. A slam of her bedroom door and I knew it would be unwise to knock
anytime the rest of the night.
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