Living In The Past

Chapter Eighteen, Part One

Chapter Eighteen, Part One

“What’s wrong?” Yasmine asked, trying to move from behind James’ back. “James?” She put a hand on his shoulder.

James snapped back to reality, like he had gone into a trance on how the world worked. “What?”

“Is anything wrong?” Yasmine tried to step to James’ side, but he blocked her. “Hey, move.”

“No,” he said. “Stay still.”

“Why?”

“My dad’s . . . home,” James explained, running a hand through his hair.

“What?” Her mouth widened.

“Out of all the times,” he muttered, “he had to come today.”

“Why can’t I meet him?” Yasmine frowned. “Are you ashamed of me? Is it because I’m not high class like you?”

James turned around and grimaced. “No. I’d never be ashamed of you. It’s just . . . my dad’s different.”

“Just let me—”

“James?” A sophisticated voice sounded behind him. The man was wearing a black-tailored suit, shiny black shoes, and his hair jelled back—with a streaks of gray in them. “Is that you?”

“Father,” James whispered, turning around. “Welcome home.”

“Who is this?” James’ dad asked, his eyes flickering to Yasmine. “A guest? A new maid?”

James tensed. “No, she’s my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” His father sounded confused. “Er, well, come join me for dinner. We can talk.” He turned to Yasmine. “Come join us, dear.”

“Yes, sir,” Yasmine nodded immediately.

“Just call me Mr. Revere,” he ordered, chuckling. Then, he turned around and headed for the big room with the huge double doors. Inside, there was a long table that looked like one of those enormous tables from Hogwarts. Candles were set a decent distance from each other. Mr. Revere took a seat at the head of an end. “Please sit,” he demanded nicely.

James took a seat next to his dad, and Yasmine followed him and sat next to him. For a moment, there was nothing but awkward silence.

“Paul!” Mr. Revere hollered. Quickly, an elderly man in a black suit appeared. His glasses were a little crooked, and his face had many wrinkles.

“Yes, sir?” Paul bowed, his white-gloved hands at his side.

“We’re ready to take our dinner,” he answered.

“Of course, sir.” Paul clapped his hands, and almost immediately, an oversized man with a thin moustache walked in. He was wearing a white cook outfit, and a puffy white hat that all chefs wear in cartoons.

“Hello, Mr. Revere. How may I be of your service?” the chef asked in his heavy French accent.

“Well, we’re ready to order dinner, Hughes,” Mr. Revere answered. “We would like Foie Gras.”

“It will be served right away,” Hughes said, smiling, his thin moustache reaching the top of his cheeks. Paul and Hughes then walked away.

The awkward silence settled in once again. You could hear the fireplace crackling behind Mr. Revere. Out of nowhere, several ladies dressed in black walked in, violins in their hands. They walked into a corner where there were stools and music stands filled with music sheets. A peaceful tune sounded from their violins.