“Here’s your coffee—I’m afraid it’s cold but drink it quickly and slip on your clothes. Your mother’s all out of sorts this morning and we’ll both catch it if you keep breakfast waiting much longer.”
“Let her fuss, papa. It’s too pretty a morning to bother with maman . She’ll quarrel anyhow,” smiled Mimi as she took the cup of black coffee and stirred it slowly. “Ugh—it’s all cold—I don’t want it!” she grimaced as she pushed the cup away. “You go down, papa, and I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
Jean took the cup but made no motion of leaving. “Mimi, we’re going to move away from New Orleans—”
“Move away? Where? Why? Leave this old house?” the questions tumbled out of her mouth, her eyes now wide-awake with surprise.
“It’s your mother—she’s had her way at last—we’re going to move to a more ‘progressive’ town where folks get ahead faster—” His words, despite conscious effort to sound matter-of-fact, were tinged with a bit of irony, with a fragment of bitterness and pain. “Your mother—”
“Stop calling her my mother!” Mimi half angrily de manded, all the cheerfulness gone from her voice and face. “She’s only a stepmother!”
“All right! All right!” Jean hastily agreed. “I can’t tell you all of it now—but I can’t stand this nagging any longer. I’ve got to have peace even if I have to go to the North Pole to get it—”
“Why do you yield so easily to her? Why don’t you tell her right out you won’t go and she must stop fussing at you all the time? If I were you I certainly wouldn’t let her run all over me!” Mimi declared as she slipped out of the bed and began to dress.
“Mimi!” Jean chided; the hurt her words caused were evident in his voice.