“So, Darlene—”

“Deborah,” I growled, correcting my father. “Deborah Tate. Get it right.” My voice was stern, and only when Deborah reached over, grabbing my balled up fist to loosen it, did I realize how tense my body had gone.

My father gave me a dirty look but cleared his throat and began again. “Deborah, do forgive me. I don’t think I have heard your name before. Tell us, what is it that your family does?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Deborah was faster than I was.

“Well, Mr. Townsend, both of my parents are deceased.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” my mother chimed in, reaching her hand across the table to lightly cover Deborah’s for a second before releasing it.

Deborah smiled at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Townsend.”

“And what did they do before they died?”

“Excuse me?”

Deborah’s hand went to my forearm, staying my anger. “My father was a coal miner and my mother worked a series of jobs in our little town of Beattyville, Kentucky.”

My father’s forehead wrinkled. “Beattyville. That doesn’t ring a bell. And what is it that you do for a living?”

“Are you serious with this line of questioning?”

“Robert, calm down. I’m sure your father’s just trying to get to know me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I responded while glaring at my father across the table.

“Son, am I not supposed to question the first woman you’ve invited to dinner to meet your mother and I? Surely, that makes no sense.”

“Having a discussion is fine, but interrogating her to discern pedigree and status is not. She’s not a show pony.”

“Robert, calm down,” my mother added. “We just want to get to know the woman who obviously has so much of your attention.” My mother looked across the table to Deborah. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve noticed for some time now that my oldest son seems less stressed and happier. I suspect you have something to do with that.”

Deborah turned to me and smiled, her hand still in mine. “My coworkers have said the same thing about me. Even with all of the craziness going on at the office, they say I seem more relaxed.”

My mother lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? And where do you work?” The question was casual enough, but due to my father’s questioning I was already on edge.

“I work for Glamour Cosmetics.”

“Oh!” My mother’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I love Glamour. Their foundation and blushes match my skin perfectly. Do you work directly with developing makeup lines?” my mother inquired, genuinely interested.

Deborah placed the glass of water she’d just taken a sip of back on the table, shaking her head. “Not directly. I work in the finance department.”

“Finance?”

Deborah nodded. “That’s right, Mr. Townsend. I studied mathematics at Stanford.”