Page 46 of Love He Denied
"Mrs. Hoffman," Dominic said. "Thank you for having me."
"Diane," her mother said, her voice cool but polite. "Come in."
The house smelled like garlic and rosemary. The living room was aggressively tidy, with throw pillows arranged, magazines squared on the coffee table, the carpet vacuumed in lines. Charlotte's school photos marched down the hallway inmismatched frames. She saw Dominic glance at them and then quickly away, as if he didn't have permission to look.
Her father was in the kitchen doorway. He'd put on a button-down — Charlotte noticed — and his good shoes, the ones he wore to church on Easter. His arms were crossed. His jaw was set.
"Mr. Hoffman," Dominic said. He extended his hand.
Her father looked at the hand. A beat passed. Then he shook it: brief, firm, a handshake that communicated nothing exceptI haven't decided about you yet.
"Dominic," her father said. Notgood to see you. Just his name, delivered flat.
"I brought wine. And cannoli."
"Diane doesn't drink. I'll have a beer."
"The cannoli are from Rosario's," Charlotte interjected. "Kate's recommendation."
Her mother took the bakery box and examined it. "Kate has good taste. Sit down — dinner's almost ready."
They sat. The dining room table was the same one Charlotte had done homework on for eighteen years, oak, scratched, with a wobble her father compensated for with a folded matchbook under one leg. Her mother had set it with the good dishes, the ones that came out at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and Charlotte's throat tightened at the sight of them. Her mother had set four places with the good dishes for the man who'd broken her daughter's heart. The effort in that gesture, the choice to treat this as an occasion worthy of care, even when the guest didn't yet deserve it, was so profoundly her mother.
Dinner was lasagna, salad, and garlic bread. Her mother's lasagna, which had won a PTA cook-off in 2014 and which her father still referenced as evidence that the Hoffmans were "a dynasty." The conversation was stilted. Charlotte's mother asked Dominic about his work, and he told her about the GallisonFoundation, about the pilot schools. Her mother listened, nodded, asked follow-up questions, evaluating every word.
Her father ate. He contributed nothing except the occasional request for the bread basket and a silence so loud it had its own frequency.
Charlotte was about to suggest dessert — anything to move the evening forward — when her father set his fork down.
"So," he said. "You wanted to say something. Say it."
The table went quiet. Charlotte's mother stopped serving salad. Dominic set down his own fork.
"Mr. Hoffman?—"
"Frank."
"Frank." Dominic folded his hands on the table. Charlotte watched him gather himself.
"I came here to apologize," he said. "Not to explain, not to justify, not to ask for anything. Just to say I'm sorry. To both of you."
Her father's expression didn't change. Her mother's hands were in her lap, twisting the edge of her napkin.
"Your daughter stood in front of me and gave me the most honest, generous, courageous thing I've ever been given. She stood at an altar and told me she chose me — in front of you — and I—" His voice wavered. He pressed on. "I took that gift and proved I didn't deserve it."
Charlotte's mother's eyes were wet. She didn't wipe them.
"I didn't know her favorite color," Dominic continued. "I didn't know about Lake George, or the gas station sandwiches, or the summer your family drove upstate in a car with no air conditioning. She told me that story and I wasn't listening. I was on my phone." He paused. "I didn't know she hates olives. I didn't know she sleeps with a light on. I didn't know any of the things that make her who she is, because I never asked, and when she told me, I didn't pay attention."
Her father was looking at Dominic now. The crossed arms had loosened. The jaw was less set.
"I can't undo what I did," Dominic said. "I can't give her back that day. I can't erase what you watched happen. But I can tell you that I know what I had, and I know what I did to it, and I've spent every day since trying to become the man she deserved in the first place." He looked at Charlotte. Then back at her parents.
Silence. The kitchen clock ticked.
"The car was a Buick," her father said, finally.
Dominic looked at him. "Sir?"
