“Do you think he’ll let you?”
I hesitate. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Will he listen?”
“I’ll try to make him.”
Dale watches me for a moment. Not judging, just seeing me.
“Good,” she says. “Because I was serious when I said I’d like to be friends.”
She gives a small smile, not pressing any further.
“I’ll try to be there,” I say quietly. “I promise.”
And I mean it, even if I have to lie to get out the door.
“It’s a tough subject to bridge, Martine, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Ford…” She purses her lips, pausing as if rolling the words over her tongue.
I bristle at her words, not because I detest her for asking, but because it's too painful. So instead, I sit silently, staring at her as she chews on her words.
“If I told you we were involved, would you believe me?” She says, shocking my nervous system for the second time in just a few seconds.
“I would say yes, but it would be hard to. I know my brother was a bit of a…”
“Womanizer?” She laughs sadly, as though talking about him is painful, and I couldn’t relate more.
The grief is sitting in my throat, causing me to pause to speak for fear a sob will come out instead.
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” I say with a quivering voice, and her eyes soften to me.
“Neither of us expected it. Truly, I think we hated each other more at first, but something shifted just before he…” her eyes fill with tears.
“I understand. There's no need for us to visit with this now. Let us enjoy our gin.” I pat her hand and then dab my eyes with mycloth napkin, trying to control the shaking sobs that are bubbling in my chest.
Dale stayed longer than I expected. We drink our martinis, pick at the sugar almonds, and talk about everything and nothing. The conversation drifts easily, touching on fashion, mutual friends, and the flat at Eulogia, which I haven’t returned to.
She doesn’t press me again, and I’m grateful. She knows when to leave things alone. By the time she gathers her coat and kisses my cheek goodbye, the sun has started to slip behind the trees. The house feels bigger once she’s gone.
I wait for Hayden to come back, but he doesn’t. No phone call, no message. Just absence. The staff returned sometime mid-afternoon, silent as ever, to serve tea, their movements precise, practiced, invisible until they aren’t. Now, it’s just them and me. The house is hollow without him, even with the fire still lit. I sit for a while in the drawing room, legs curled under me, the ring on my finger catching the fading light.
The footman appears at the doorway, as he does each evening when the meal is ready to be served.
“Mrs. Herron,” he says, “are you ready for dinner in the blue room?”
I nod, shocked by being called that for the first time. “Yes. Thank you.”
He disappears as quickly as he came. I stand, smooth the front of my trousers, and follow the soft sound of footsteps down the hall.
I stand up and look in the mirror on the wall, straightening the large emerald choker around my neck. Since wearing it, I’ve noticed it loves to get tangled in my hair and pull it, just like the man who gave it to me.
The dining room is glowing when I enter, the light low, flickering against the silverware. Only my place is set.
A single plate. A single glass. One chair pulled slightly out from the table.
The room is silent except for the faint clink of porcelain being adjusted behind the double doors. Everything is perfectly arranged: monogrammed linen, polished cutlery, a delicate crystal tumbler half-filled with vodka on ice. The same thing Hayden always drinks with dinner. It smells sharp and green, like crisp citrus.
I sit.
