Sundays With Ingrid
Ingrid went downstairs, skipping the last few, skidded around the corner and into the kitchen. Mom and Ty were already gone; Dad sat at the table, drinking coffee and reading The Wall Street Journal.
“Someone’s feeling pretty good,” he said.
“Who wouldn’t, Dad? I got the part.” She almost couldn’t stop herself from saying it again. I got the part.
He smiled at her. “Have some breakfast.”
Ingrid glanced at the clock. “No time.”
“That’s all right,” Dad said. “I’ll drive you.”
“Got to go in early anyway.”
Ingrid fried up an egg, toasted an English muffin, spread it with lots of butter and raspberry jam, sat down.
“What’s in the paper?” she said.
“Interest rates are going up.”
“Is that good?”
“Not for business.”
“Then why are they doing it?”
Dad looked over the top of the paper. “Not much choice,” he said. “It’s like surfers on a wave—they can change the direction they’re going a little bit, but they can’t change the wave at all.”
“So the economy’s like out of control?” Ingrid said.
“Depends who’s doing the surfing,” Dad said, and turned the page.
Ingrid took a big bite of her English muffin, toasted to perfection, the butter partly melted, the jam still cold from the fridge—that first bite, just heavenly. “How did the Ferrands get so rich?” she asked.
“They got in early on some nickel mines in Canada, back in the thirties. Angus Ferrand, Tim’s grandfather, I’m talking about.”
“But he must have had money to start with.”
“Not much. But he married a Prescott.”
“From Prescott Hall?”
“And who did they marry?” Ingrid said.
Dad laughed. “I don’t know. Their money goes way back to the Civil War. They had a foundry right below the falls where the Little League complex is now. Made shovels and shipped them down the river.”
“The Prescotts got rich by making shovels?” Ingrid said.
“For burying the dead,” Dad said.
“Hey.” There was so much killing, you could get rich making the shovels to bury the dead? “Why don’t they teach us this in school?” Ingrid said.
Dad shrugged, spooned more sugar in his coffee. He liked lots.
“What happened to the Prescotts?” Ingrid said.
“They kind of dwindled away,” Dad said. “I think one still lived up in the Hall when I was a kid. He took off for Alaska or someplace.”
“Did you ever see the Prescott Players back then?” Ingrid said.
“Going to a play?” said Dad. “Does that sound like Grampy to you?”
Dad got a look in his eye. Every once in a while, especially if encouraged at all, he told a really stupid joke. One was on its way.
“What do you call a guy who jumps off a bridge in Paris?”
“In Seine,” Dad said.
“Please,” said Ingrid.
From Down the Rabbit Hole.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
Welcome Nopso, Bentley, Two Buddies.
Tags: Echo Falls Series
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