Chapter 9 - THE TABLE FOR TWO
Two years after the twenty-three-thousand-dollar lunch, Beatrice called.
“Can I take you to dinner?”
I almost laughed.
“Where?”
“Not Lumina.”
Good start.
We met at a small Italian restaurant in La Jolla.
Nothing glamorous.
She arrived early.
I arrived exactly on time.
For several minutes, we discussed neutral things.
Weather.
Traffic.
The absurd price of parking.
Then she said:
“I owe you an apology I actually understand now.”
I waited.
“When I told people Lucas gave you Lumina, I knew you had built it.”
My jaw tightened.
“I told myself I was simplifying.”
“But really, I didn’t like saying my son’s wife was more successful than he was.”
There it was.
Clean.
Ugly.
True.
“I thought protecting his pride was loving him.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I helped him lie to himself.”
I said nothing.
She continued:
“And when I ate for free, I told myself family shares.”
“I never asked what you were sharing back.”
Her eyes filled.
“I made your work feel communal and my son’s mistakes private.”
That was perhaps the most accurate description I had ever heard.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
I did not say:
I forgive you.
Instead:
“Thank you.”
She accepted that.
Then she reached for the check.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Careful.”
She laughed.
“I checked the menu before inviting you.”
“Growth.”
She paid.
We left separately.
Our relationship never became mother-daughter close.
That was fine.
Not every repaired relationship needs intimacy.
May you like
Sometimes respect is the happy ending.
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