Free The Women in the Walls by Amy Lukavics Page A

man’s comment to be inappropriate and disrespectful to my father. In fact, I’m sure she loves it. She’d love it even if she wasn’t out of her mind right now.
    The air becomes filled with the sounds of clinking glass, then long, thoughtful gulps. Margaret drains her glass before lowering it, which I find to be needlessly dramatic considering the toast. The fragrance of the platters upon platters of food before me calm my nerves. The featured dishes are clearly from Penelope’s recipe book: lamb chops that have been seared and dusted with edible gold flakes, chickpeas and chorizo, whole roasted chickens and sea bass and blackened mackerel.
    People begin serving themselves immediately, and the chatter goes on as though it never stopped. I watch as Margaret loads her plate up without turning to look at me once.
    â€œWe need to talk about this,” I say to her under my breath, once I’m sure nobody is listening.
    â€œNo, we don’t,” her reply comes, quick and sharp. “It’s clear to me that you aren’t capable of understanding what’s going on. I’m keeping this for myself.”
    I’m about to retort when a man named Kent Dickens, whom I’ve known just as long as I’ve known the Shaws, speaks up over the buzz of the crowd to address my father.
    â€œFelix,” he says through a horridly visible mouthful of sea bass. “What are your plans for the estate now that Penelope is gone?”
    My stomach clenches in the same way that it did when Gregory gave his toast. Why must these people linger on things that are none of their business?
    â€œMy plans for the estate?” my father replies to Kent, his voice already on edge. “I plan to continue running it, of course. Penelope may have lived here and helped raise the girls, but I’ve been the one managing the immense responsibilities of this place since Eva passed away.”
    The murmur of chatter in the crowd dies down.
    â€œI had no idea overseeing a staff was so difficult,” Kent says in a lighthearted tone. “Still, I meant no offense by the question, Felix.”
    Sure he didn’t. Kent’s wife, Mary-Anne, a dark-haired lady with impressively smooth skin for her age, looks deeply embarrassed as she scoops more chorizo onto her plate.
    â€œOf course not,” Gregory pipes in. “I’m sure Kent just meant that it must feel strange being the king of a place where you have no authentic blood roots—”
    â€œThe Acosta name will carry on,” my father interrupts. “As I’m sure you remember, I had my name changed when Eva and I married, and my daughter, Lucy, was born into it, as well. I’ve always been fully aware of the connection this place has to the club. I will continue to provide the space for get-togethers and galas, I will continue to fund whatever is needed for our projects of interest...”
    â€œWell now, Felix,” Gregory cuts in. “There’s no need to get defensive, my boy. I have never been less than impressed with your contributions to our club and the community of Scarborough Falls.”
    My father doesn’t respond, instead draining the sangria from his glass before pouring more.
    â€œLet’s move on,” I say loudly, much to the shock of Kent and Gregory. If they won’t respect my father for his lack of “authentic” Acosta blood, I will drown them out using mine. “What a thing to bring up in front of everybody at the first gathering without my aunt. And from someone who just made a toast in her honor, no less.”
    Embarrassed silence from Gregory and Kent; supportive nods from other members. My father nods at me ever so slightly, but I don’t return the gesture. I didn’t do it for him, I did it for Penelope. And myself, to be honest, because if I had to listen to one more second of it all, I would have screamed.
    â€œGood job, sweetie,” Nancy slurs to me from