Vera is still standing in the hallway, waiting patiently for an answer, while my cracked brain wanders.
“Okay,” I finally say.
Vera is a consummate professional like everyone who manages to keep their job working for Adrian. We’re not friends, but we’re friendly, and I don’t want to make her life hard. Besides, I want to see Adrian. I want to see if he looks different now that I know what he is.
Just to be spiteful, I take my time making my way downstairs. I don’t change out of my yoga pants or damp shirt, and I leave my hair in a messy bun, but I make sure to check on the girls and fuss with the thermostat and put some toys away.
I love the nursery. I designed it myself, knocking down the walls between three guest rooms. It’s supposed to feel like an enchanted wood. Pearl’s room is up a few stairs and decorated like the tower bedroom inRapunzel. Winnie’s area is inspired byThe Princess and the Frog. Her crib is lotus themed, and the mobile hanging above her bed are frogs hopping from lily pad to lily pad.
The TV area is a cozy clearing with a huge stuffed bear, and the toy boxes and book shelves are built into life-sized trees with silk leaves and knots for stuffed owls and foxes. I commissioned the tree shelves from a guy who designs setsfor Broadway musicals who I met at one of Adrian’s fancy galas.
I’m proud of the room. It feels safe to me.
I don’t want to leave, so I take my time putting on a pair of sneakers. The soles of my feet still hurt, but not bad enough that it affects my walk. Either Tiller and Schmidt didn’t loop my weekend security detail in about what happened—which I don’t believe for a second—or the weekend guys didn’t want the hassle of calling Dr. Farhadi unless I asked for him, which I didn’t. Regardless, no one’s bothered me about my feet. Did Schmidt tell Adrian? I guess I’ll find out.
I slowly descend the main stairs and take the hallway that leads to the back of the house. We have a formal dining room with a table that seats twenty, but we don’t eat in there unless we have company.
The family dining room is for everyday use. It’s next to the kitchen and overlooks the piazza, the formal gardens beyond, and the river that marks the western border of our property. Winnie’s high chair and Pearl’s booster seat stay at the table, and a rubber mat covers the Burmese teak hardwood to catch their crumbs and spills.
Adrian is already in his seat at the head of the table when I enter the room. The wall behind him is glass, but it’s dark outside, so the only things visible are the flowers and trees that the landscaper chose to bathe with accent lights.
“Thank you for joining me,” he says, placing his phone face down beside his water glass after a few final taps. Was he texting with Delaney?
He doesn’t text with me. I send him pictures of the kids during the day, and he gives them a thumbs up. Early on, I gently told him that the thumbs up is considered rude. He said no, it wasn’t rude because that wasn’t his intent, and then he kept on doing it.
I thought his high-handedness was cute, like a dog in a fancy sweater, but I guess that’s how he thinks—he makes the rules about what’s okay and what’s not. He decides what things mean.
Marriage is a transaction.
Love doesn’t mean shit.
I take the seat at the foot of the table, and Adrian’s mouth tightens. Usually, I sit at his right, but I don’t want to tonight, and the table only sits six. I’m not so far away that it’s disrespectful. Besides—it’s not my intent to be disrespectful, so I’m not, right?
I take a sip of water. He’s showered and changed into another one of those tight quarter-zip sweaters that he has for relaxing around the house. This one’s army green. If you don’t consider his mouth, he looks supremely unbothered—well-rested, hydrated, and groomed. Same as always.
I think I hate him.
I’m not sure I’ve ever hated a man before. Been afraid of them, yes. Been hurt by them, sure. But I was always too worried about what they could do to me tohatethem. But I’m not one wrong move away from homeless anymore. I guess hate is now a luxury I can afford.
Minh, our chef, enters with our plated dinners on a tray. Vera follows him with a bottle of white wine in each hand. While Minh serves us, Vera asks Adrian, “Would you care for the Montrachet or the Screaming Eagle tonight?”
“Cora?” Adrian defers to me. That’s a first. He always chooses the wine. I know nothing about it, and besides, for a good percentage of our marriage, I’ve been pregnant, so I wasn’t drinking. I’m nursing now, but I pump so I can have a glass at dinner if I want.
“Whatever you want.” I’m proud that my voice comes out even.
Adrian immediately says, “The Montrachet then.” He always knows what he wants.
Vera pours straightaway. Thank goodness there’s no host taste at home. Adrian has explained on several occasions the history and reasons behind it, but I always feel embarrassed by the swirling and sniffing and swishing around. I know it’s normal for people like him, but it feels pompous. When we’re out, I’ve taken to excusing myself to the bathroom when I see the bottle coming.
Minh slides a plate in front of me with perfectly portioned, artfully arranged food. I recognize salmon under a glaze. There is also a dollop of yellow mush and a handful of burnt green beans.
“Steelhead salmon with pistachio pesto, corn puree, and charred string beans,” Minh murmurs as he circles the table to serve Adrian.
“Excellent,” Adrian says, snapping his napkin to unfold it and lay it across his lap.
Minh dips his head and slips out the door, leaving us alone.
Table manners were one of the first things I had to learn to be with Adrian Maddox. In the movies, they hire some stuck-up lady to teach the trashy upstart some manners, but in my case, Adrian coached me. He’d catch my eye, and with subtle exaggeration, he’d do whatever it was that I was supposed to do—switch to a different fork, clean my fingers in the little bowl, put my napkin on my lap.
