“I don’t mean just the food. Don’t pretend to be dumb, Corrine. Fold the napkins properly, and be sure whatever you put on the table is immaculate.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, and began.

My father slipped out to go change his shirt and suit, gliding away softly like someone escaping a church sermon. At the moment, I was feeling sorrier for him than I was for myself. Eventually, somehow, some way, she’d find reason to place most of the blame at his feet.

At precisely seven p.m., a horse and carriage pulled up to our house, and Garland Foxworth, carrying two gift-wrapped presents, came to the door. My mother and I stepped out of the kitchen to greet him. He was wearing a suit similar to the one he had worn to the Wexlers’ gala, only a lighter shade of gray, a beautiful new pair of black leather boots, and a black derby. When he took it off, I saw that he’d had his hair trimmed quite a bit since I had last seen him. His complexion looked ruddier, which emphasized his eyes. Despite my plan to appear as aloof as possible when I first confronted him, I couldn’t help thinking he somehow looked even more handsome than the first time I had seen him and since.

“Good evening, Mrs. Dixon. Thank you for your willingness to feed a young man who is unfortunately unaccustomed to real family dinners these days.”

“You are welcome,” my mother said, not quite sure how to respond to such a nakedly honest confession. “Your own parents?”

“Gone, I’m afraid, but there’ll be no sadness brought into your home tonight and hopefully no future night. Instead, permit me to show my gratitude with this small token,” he said, handing my mother one of the gift-wrapped boxes. “It’s just something I brought back from a recent visit to Paris. It was being auctioned, and when I looked at it now, I thought it would be something unique for your home.”

“Oh,” my mother said. “Paris.”

“Unwrap it. I’d like to see the expression on your face. Be unafraid of not liking it,” he said. “I have a terrible habit of deciding what people should and shouldn’t like,” he added, glancing at me.

My mother carefully peeled away the paper to reveal a statuette in pure white porcelain of a Chinese woman holding flowers. She was dressed in regal garments and wearing a necklace.

“They call it a Guanyin, a Buddhist deity associated with mercy and compassion,” he said, glancing at me again. Was that what he wanted me to extend to him, mercy and compassion?

“My,” my mother said, not quite sure how overwhelmed she should be or even if she liked it and wanted it displayed in her home. “It is unique.” She turned it around in her hands.