All I can focus on is her, settling into her chair at the far end, raw and beautiful, like a different woman entirely.
An awkward delay ensues before the waiter brings her plate. I watch her avidly as she immediately digs in. Surprise flickers through me at the way she attacks the food, fork spearing a juicy piece of fish. No hesitation, no picking at it like a bird. Her lips part around the bite and a soft hum of satisfaction escapes her. It's strangely satisfying watching her eat with real hunger, juices glistening on the corners of her mouth for a second before she dabs it away.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, she freezes. Then she blushes, looks down at her plate, and starts poking daintily at her food. Strange. Very strange.
Dinner is stilted and stiff from there on. The dark oak paneling absorbs our sparse words and only the clink of silverware survives. Frances sips her wine, Freya tucks in, oblivious to the tension humming around her. My gaze drifts back to Carolyn more than it should. My eyes trace the line of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts.
My mother, ever the observer, breaks the quiet first, her voice dry but with a hint of amusement. “Your appetite is unusual. You’re eating like a human being for a change," she comments, eyeing Carolyn's plate, at the food disappearing steadily.
Carolyn pauses, fork midway, and says evenly, "I've decided to put my diet on hold for a few months." Her tone is light, almost defiant, but without the usual bite.
Maybe do that indefinitely,I think, the thought bubbling up unbidden, but I don't comment. I take a sip of my Châteauneuf-du-Pape Blanc. Chilled to perfection with notes of truffles and earth. It slides down my throat like butter. Carson did well to team it with the barbecued fish. It is a very goodBeaucastel, perhaps the best they have. I watch my wife over the rim, and the new attraction for her simmers brightly despite my best efforts to damp it down.
My mother nods and tries not to show her surprise. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
She turns and starts talking to Freya.
Eventually, the plates are cleared away. Dessert isMoelleux au Chocolat.
My mother turns to me. “By the way, it’s Dora’s birthday in a couple of days. You won’t forget to prepare a birthday check for her, will you, darling? Since I'm not feeling all that well to go out and buy her a present, I'll probably have to give her money too."
Before I can even open my mouth to answer my mother, Carolyn’s voice cuts across the table, soft but perfectly clear. “I can shop for her, if you’d like.”
The words hang, suspended in the candlelight like a note no one expected to hear. My fork stays suspended halfway to my mouth, a piece of chocolate cake speared on it. My mother’s water glass pauses an inch from her lips. Even Freya stops swinging her legs.
Silence swells, thick and sudden.
Carolyn has never, not once in three years, offered to do anything for anyone in this house unless it came with a price tag or a photo op. She has never volunteered to run an errand, lift a finger to help anyone, or spend her own time for someone else’s comfort. And now she just… offered to help buy a present for the housekeeper. The woman she hates. And so calmly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My mother recovers first, her lashes flickering as if she’s checking she heard correctly. She sets her glass down with deliberate care. “Very well. That would be nice of you,” she says, voice thin, polite, but laced with something I can’t name, suspicion, maybe wonder.
My pulse is thudding in my ears, slow and heavy. I can feel the heat crawling up my neck because I’m staring at Carolyn like an idiot, and I can’t stop. The sundress straps have slipped a little lower on her shoulders, the red-and-white fabric clinging to the swell of her breasts, rising and falling with each breath. Strands of her hair curl against her flushed cheeks. She looks… undone. Real. Human in a way she has never allowed herself to be in this room.
My mother folds her napkin in two and puts it on the table. “Please excuse me. I’m tired. I think I’ll retire early.” She pushes her chair back and stands.
I stand too. “I’ll take you to your room.”
“No, no. Don’t worry. I can make it to my room. You stay and finish your dessert.”
She leans down and kisses Freya’s forehead, murmurs goodnight, and glides out. The sound of her shoes fades down the hall, each step measured, deliberate, until the house swallows the sound.
Freya lingers a second longer, eyes huge, darting between Carolyn and me. I can see that she is desperate to be excused. Carolyn and her used to be friends, but they are no more and Freya says almost nothing when Carolyn is around and tries to escape at the first chance she gets.
I smile at her and ruffle her curls. “Okay, sweetheart. You can go too.”
Instantly, she hops down, gives me a quick hug around the neck, then scampers off, her little footsteps pattering up the stairs.
Now it’s just us. My wife and I.
The dining room feels cavernous suddenly, and the long table a ridiculous distance between us. The candles flicker and dance. The air is warm, heavy with the scent of fish and melted butter.
I draw a slow breath. “Have a nightcap with me.”
It’s not a request. More like an order wrapped in velvet. My pulse is kicking hard now, a steady thrum under my skin, because I need to be with her alone. I need the noise of the house gone, the audience gone, so I can figure out what the hell is happening to me, between us. Because, unless I’m losing my mind, the woman sitting at the far end of this table in a casual sundress is not the same woman who left for “surgery” a month ago.
And whatever she is now, she’s got me hard under the table, aching in a way I haven’t ached in years, questioning every cold, bitter certainty I thought I had about this marriage.
She looks up, those blue eyes suddenly wary, catches mine across the candles, and for a single, suspended second the room narrows to just the two of us - her parted lips, the quick rise of her chest, the way the polka-dot cotton shifts when she breathes.
