No one brushed their teeth at four o’clock in the afternoon. Sandy asked me if I’d brushed my teeth, by which she meant had I brushed them that morning. I got up and went back to my sister’s room to make my report. There was our father in front of the fireplace with a woman, and from what I could tell they were studying the portraits of Mr. I knew from experience I could see into the drawing room by looking between the newel post and first baluster if I was on the floor. I left my secret spot and went to the top of the stairs to lie down on the rug that covered the landing. Our father didn’t have friends, at least not the kind who came to the house late on a Saturday afternoon. I liked the word, and I liked the boxed-in feel the draperies gave when they were closed.Īs for the visitor, it was a mystery. “Privacy,” I said, though at eight I had no notion of privacy. Sandy had to pull the draperies back to find me. She was older and so had a more complex understanding of friendship. “Your father has a friend he wants you to meet,” she said. The first time our father brought Andrea to the Dutch House, Sandy, our housekeeper, came to my sister’s room and told us to come downstairs. The Parnassus staff has already fallen hard for this book, and you can pre-order your signed copy here. The novel follows two siblings over five decades - from their early years to their exile, by their stepmother, from the childhood home they both cherished. The following excerpt comes from the first chapter of The Dutch House by Ann Patchett.
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