“It’s sweet and sour,” Lavender offers.
“Sounds like someone I know.”
“This is shit,” I mouth silently across the table.
“Baby,” she mouths back.
Maria would’ve ordinarily arranged a private chef from an agency, given Sam’s illness. But as she’d also come down with the flu, that task was overlooked until this afternoon. I’d called Lavender to ask what she’d like for dinner—it had occurred to me I don’t know if she has preferences or allergies—and I’d intended to order in from a nearby hotel when she’d offered to take care of dinner herself.
I should’ve asked her to elaborate.
“Lavender says that when I go to the gallery again, she’ll ask Tod to teach me to sculpt.”
“Tod?” I turn my attention Lavender’s way as my dinner turns in my gut. “Tod was at the gallery?”
“He works there.” From across the table, Lavender picks up her glass, her tone airy. “Didn’t I say?”
“No, you didn’t.” That spineless fucker lives with her—off her. And she pays him to hang out in the gallery? Maybe I’m too shocked to be angry. Or maybe I can just see through her little facade.
“I must’ve forgotten,” she says with a shrug.
Oh, darling. I have eyes in my head. I know you’re not in love.
Daisy continues with tales of “the best day ever” while Lavender and I maintain our stare fest. It looks to me as though she’s considering sliding the dishes to the floor in favor of lunging across the table to make me choke on her tongue.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
“And how was Tod?” I find myself asking, though my tone isn’t deliberately icy.
“His usually whiney self,” my wife replies.
My wife.Or not quite.Technically.
I glance down at my phone as it vibrates against the marble tabletop. No need to look at the display. I know who’s calling. The same person who’s been trying to get ahold of me all day.
“Tod is doing an art show,” Daisy puts in, taking another bite of her chicken nugget.
“Is he?”
Probably at Lavender’s expense. When will she see him for what he is—see him as not right for her?
You’re not right for her either.With a frown, I push away the voice of reason.
“I want to be an artist when I grow up.”
“You’re an artist now,” Lavender says. “And when your masterpiece is finished, I’m going to hang it up. Well, if that’s okay? You can always bring it home if you’d prefer.”
“Nononono!” Daisy practically bounces with excitement. “Keep it for the gallery, like I’m a real artist.”
“Okay then.” Lavender, the master of the understatement smiles a secret smile. She’s enjoying being around my niece, it would seem. “You are a real artist, you know.”
“How?” Daisy asks.
“Anyone who makes art is.”
My phone vibrates again. Lavendertsks.
“Such bad manners to bring your phone to the dinner table.”
