Until We Fly (Beautifully Broken 4)

“Nora, you’ve got to grow a set of balls. There’s no pussy-footing around corporate law. You have to kill or be killed. I need you to be a Greene and do what it takes. Be who I need you to be.”

His voice is even colder than his stare. I shirk away from it out of old habit.

“Okay,” I whisper.

My mother pipes up finally, from across the table, smiling a magnificent smile. Out of all of us, she’s always been the kindest. The sweetest. And she knows I need rescuing right now. I see it in her soft blue eyes.

“Ma belle fille,” she sings, reaching over and grasping my hand. “We’ll have a glorious summer. You can ride Rebel, you can rest on the beach, we’ll get manicures and pedicures… we’ll have tea and croissants. It will be lovely. You need the rest.”

My beautiful daughter. My mother’s French accent is as strong as ever, even though she’s lived in the states since she married my father twenty-five years ago. It charms everyone who hears it.

I smile at her, genuine now.

“Thanks, maman. I’m looking forward to spending time with you. I’ve missed you.”

That’s not a lie.

What I haven’t missed is my father. And the constant lectures about being “a good Greene” and how I need to do what I can for the greater good of the family and our business.

No matter the personal cost.

And my personal cost has been great.

Not that anyone cares.

But the bitterness is welling up again and if I don’t tamp it down, it will overwhelm me. That won’t help anything.

She doesn’t know, I remind myself.

“How’s Rebel?” I ask my mother, purposely changing the subject to that of my old horse. I haven’t seen him since last summer. My mom chatters about him, about how fat he’s getting and I turn away again.

To make my resentment recede, I look at the clouds, at the cars, at the quaint little shops, at the intersection. Anything to distract me, anything to make the bitter taste of what happened to me go away.

She doesn’t know.

But my father does. I glance at him, and the anger rears its head again. Yes, he knows. Do what it takes, Nora.

I grit my teeth. It’

s over now. It’s over. No one can fix it anyway. All I can do now is be a good Greene.

With a hard stare, I focus on the intersection again, willing myself to find interest in something else.

Anything else.

A red car comes to a stop, then goes through. Angel Bay is so small that there’s only one major intersection and it’s right here in front of the cafe. There’s not even a light, just a four-way stop.

If you want to people watch, this is the best place to do it.

My mother chats in her charming voice, and I absently stare as a white suburban turns left. A yellow Beetle then lets a young mother pushing a stroller cross the street before he goes. He waves as he passes, a friendly stranger.

I smile. Angel Bay is full of friendly strangers. They’re used to summer tourists, and they’re friendly to each of them, happy to have their tourist dollars, happy to share their little town by Lake Michigan.

Down the road, a faded white bus coasts down the road. Signs are fastened to the sides and I can just make one out.

Honk for the Annual Troop 52 Camping Trip.

I smile again at the little cub scouts who have their faces pressed to the windows. They’re probably headed for Warren Dunes State Park… so they’re almost there, and as little boys often are, they’re getting antsy.