Page 96 of Keep Me

Then I rest my hand on her back and lead her toward the parlor. Her parents fuss about the house some more, admiring the art on the walls and the architectural details around the windows. Things I’ve become so accustomed to over the years of my life that I hardly notice them anymore. Then again, I don’t find the value in my home in its history or design. I find the value in its comfort and the fact that it’s given me shelter and warmth for just over thirty-eight years.

“Well, we haven’t been properly introduced,” the man says as he strides toward me with a hand outstretched. There’s something odd about him. He won’t look me in the eye. He’s much shorter than his wife, which must be where Sylvie gets her smaller size from. But although he’s a small man, he carries himself much like a lapdog does, not as if he’s the largest and most powerful thing in the room, but like he sits on the lap of the person who is.

“Yuri Deveraux,” he says politely. I shake his hand, clenching my jaw together.

“Killian Barclay,” I reply proudly.

The woman doesn’t bother with introductions or handshakes. She pulls her glasses off and holds them in front of her as she studies a painting on the wall.

“Torrence, dear, come sit down,” the man says as he takes a seat across from me. Sylvie has hardly uttered a word to her parents, but judging by the look on her face, she’s fuming inside. She’s sitting next to me like a powder keg with a very short fuse. Reaching over, I clutch her hand in mine, holding it tightly, hoping to calm her if necessary.

“Sylvie and I didn’t know you two were in the country,” I say calmly.

“Well, we haven’t been to London in years, but we had some good friends holding an exhibit there, so we made the trip.”

Sylvie’s hand flinches in mine, so I squeeze tighter.

I think her father notices because his eyes dart down to our hands and up to his daughter’s face. He doesn’t keep his eyes on her for long, and I sense a flash of sympathy in his expression. He quickly clears his throat.

“So, how did you two meet?” he asks.

“Umm…” I stammer, glancing at her and searching for an answer.

“There was a typewriter,” she mumbles lazily.

“A typewriter?” the man replies, perking up. “Sweetie, have you been writing?”

“Writing?” the woman squeaks from across the room. “What have you been writing?”

While the man sounded curious and interested, her mother’s reaction is almost accusatory.

“It’s nothing,” Sylvie replies, pinching her forehead.

Suddenly, the story of how we met has been swept under the proverbial hand-spun rug because her parents are fully invested inthe prospect of their daughterwriting. I had no clue it was ever so significant.

“What do you mean it’s nothing?” her mother replies, suddenly showing far more interest in her than the paintings. She walks over, but instead of sitting with the rest of us, she hovers over her daughter. “Have you been in contact with your professors? Perhaps they could give you a critique. What was the name of that professor at her school, Yuri? The one with the connection at theNew Yorker?”

“Stop,” Sylvie mutters, placing her face in her hands.

“She’s just trying to help, sweetie,” her father says to her, but it doesn’t help.

Just then, Martha comes in with the tea, thankfully defusing the situation. Sylvie’s mother finally sits in the seat across from her daughter, her nose poised in the air as Martha pours the tea.

“Thank you, Martha,” my wife says with a smile. When the housekeeper leaves us, the conversation picks up right where it left off.

“Like your father said, Sylvie, I’m just trying to help. Getting a publisher’s interest early is going to help you cut the competition down the line.”

“I’m not publishing it,” Sylvie replies obstinately. She stares down at her teacup as she stirs a cube of sugar into it.

“And why not?” Torrence replies with shock.

“Because I don’t want to.” Sylvie’s tone is cutting and clipped.

The table clangs with the force of her mother slamming her own spoon down at hearing Sylvie’s response. My shoulders tighten up by my ears as I struggle to maintain my composure.

“Dear,” Yuri says, holding a hand toward his wife.

“No,” the woman argues. “She’s doing this on purpose,” she snaps at her daughter.

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