Page 38 of Mistaken Prejudice

“Of course you are,” I mumbled as we left my room.

The smell of citrus, vanilla, and butter filled my nostrils and told me Papa made my absolute favorite, pain perdu. I refused to call it by the common name, French toast, out of respect for my French heritage. How can you lower the divine creation of a moist brioche soaked in crème anglaise and then beautifully cooked in an iron pan with French butter into a greasy fast food served in diners with corn syrup disguised as maple and overly cooked bacon?

“Bonjour, mon lapin.” Papa beamed as I walked into the kitchen and stopped by the marble island.

The living room, dining room, and kitchen were all one long space framed by wooden ceilings, large iron windows overlooking our green yard, and smooth cream walls that made everything work together.

“Bonjour, Papa.” I kissed his cheek before I popped a blueberry into my mouth and chewed it while he landed a kiss on my head.

The gray stone of the kitchen island was filled with ingredients, all neatly organized and measured just the way Papa liked it. He was a fantastic cook, and we often enjoyed cooking together.

“Fuck, that smells good, Mr. Dufort,” Shay-Lee said and reached his hand toward the plate with the pain perdu, only to have it slapped by Papa. “Ouch.” He grunted while pouting his lips.

“Oh non, non, monsieur.” Papa wiggled his finger at him. “You wait a bit more, monsieur. You can eat fruit for now.” He pointed his head toward the fridge, and Shay-Lee laughed as he obliged.

“I heard you had a nuit formidable.” A great night.

“Yeah, we had a wonderful night,” Shay-Lee spoke first before he took a bite from the apple he’d just picked. “Too bad you weren’t there, Mr. D.” The two grinned at each other, and I rolled my eyes. They were such besties. It was annoying.

“Can you please stop calling him that?” I pleaded as I poured myself a glass of water.

“Hein?” The French for huh. “I like it. It is short for Mr. Dad. Isn’t it right, Shay-Lee?”

Shay-Lee’s teasing smile said it all, and I pushed him before he slid to the seat beside me. “For the hundredth time, it’s pronounced Shy-Lee, not Shay-Lee.”

“You can call me whatever you want, Mr. D.” He poked his tongue out, and I was very close to punching him while Papa chose the inappropriate reaction and laughed it off.

“And”—I raised my voice so I’d have their attention back—“the ‘D’ stands for something entirely different.” I eyed Shay-Lee. “Lastly, are you wearing matching swim shorts?” I already knew the answer to the latter, considering they indeed wore the same tiny piece of red fabric. The question was, why?

“Oui, bébé,” Papa answered with excitement and took a step back, showing off the fit. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Not waiting for my answer, he turned off the stove and put the iron pan, among other dishes, in the sink. As soon as he turned to face us again, one of our housekeepers took over washing the dishes. “Merci, Laurien.”

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re wearing matching swim trunks?” was the first thing I asked as soon as we all sat down at the table.

“Well, you know how I have Pilates on Saturdays,” Papa started saying and stopped to pour each of us a glass of iced tea. “So, today, Timothee offered to do it by the pool. Oh, now I remember that he told me to tell you he says hello.”

“Papa,” I cut him off.

“Oui?” He turned to look at me with a warm smile.

“The point?” I offered.

“Oh! Yes, bien sûr. Of course.” He switched between French and English so Shay-Lee could keep up. “Shay-Lee was already here when I finished my practice with Timothee, and I just got the samples of our new swim shorts, so I asked him to try them on for me, and we then decided to tan. Et voilà.” His crystal eyes shone when he proudly smiled at Shay-Lee.

“And I loved them, Mr. D.” Shay-Lee winked at him, and in return, Papa chuckled. Oh dear God, the two of them were ridiculous.

Papa reached his hand and squeezed Shay-Lee’s cheek in his palm. “You are too beautiful to be so… broosed.”

“You mean bruised?” Shay-Lee’s teasing only made Papa squeeze his cheek harder. “Ouch,” he whimpered.

“Don’t cry like a baby.” Papa sighed. “Such a man are you? You go and get hurt, only to cry later like a baby. Incroyable!” Unbelievable.

“But at least that gets me your attention, Mr. D.” Shay-Lee wiggled his eyebrows, and that did the trick.

“Should I be worried about you charming my husband?” We all turned around to the sound of my dad’s deep voice. Dressed in a tie and a suit, he entered the kitchen, followed by his secretary Cole.

“Oh, mon amour! You came early. How fun.” Papa’s whole face lit up as soon as he saw Dad.

“Good morning, my love.” He planted a soft kiss on Papa’s lips before he moved on to kiss the top of my head. “Good morning, Bunny.” He then sat at the empty seat between Shay-Lee and Papa, not before he handed Cole his suit jacket and rolled his shirt sleeves up enough for the tiger tattoo on his forearm to be shown. The old ink had already faded a bit, and the design looked blurry, but Dad always said it was a friendly reminder that he too used to be wild and careless.