Theodore Dior: A Narrative Fiction
On the mantle over the fireplace was a framed photo of Millicent and her sibling 's father. A pleasant-looking fair man in casual wear, his eyes bore the meaningful traces of laugh lines at the corners. He 'd been some sort of honored man in France. Fortune had some of his letters in a small box by her bed. Not that the letters had done anyone good when Theodore Dior had gotten himself into a car crash in Paris and died after his son was before and before his daughters was even born.
Fortune had gone back to using her maiden name after he died, only letting her children have their father 's surname. She never talked about her children 's father, but she kept the box engraved with his initials, T.D, next to her bed. Along with the letters were one or two photos, a wedding ring, a single lock of golden brown hair, and books. Sometimes Fortune took the box out and opened it and held the lock of hair very gently in her hands before
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The door open with a creak. It was Coyan, his arms full of what looked like overfilled paper grocery bags. When he set them down, Millicent saw that she was right. He straightened up and turned to her with a smile.
"How are you Coyan?" she asked. He 'd asked her and her siblings to stop calling him Uncle Coyan about a few years ago, claiming that it made him feel old. Besides, he 'd reminded her gently, he wasn 't really her and her siblings uncle, but more of a godfather, who was just a close friend of her mother 's and father 's who 'd he known all her life. "Do you know where my mom is?"
"Parking the car," he said, standing tall with perfect posture. He was in his usual choice of clothing: jeans, a gray t-shirt, and his work boots. "Tell me again why this house has a lot of rooms?"
"Because it 's one of the nicer houses, and has characters," Millicent said automatically. Coyan smiled. "Why so many groceries?" she asked.
His smile disappeared. "Your mother wanted to store up on groceries," he said, his eyes wandering.
"Why?"
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