Chapter 3 - The Empty Table
At 6:30 PM, thirty miles away in Lake Forest, Vivian’s grand dining table was set with fine linen, polished silver, and crystal wine glasses.
The guests had arrived. Uncle Richard, a man who wore his wealth like a heavy coat, sat at the head of the table next to his wife, Clara. They had spent the last hour talking about their recent trip to Martha’s Vineyard, occasionally pausing to sip the expensive Chardonnay Vivian had poured for them.
In the kitchen, Vivian was starting to sweat.
"Where is she, Daniel?" Vivian whispered, her voice sharp as she hovered by the empty stove. "It’s past six. The corn is cold, and we have absolutely nothing to serve as a main course."
Daniel looked at his phone. He had sent three texts, none of which had been read.
"She's probably stuck in traffic," Daniel said, though a cold knot was beginning to form in his stomach. He remembered the look on my face when I had lifted that cooler—the quiet, absolute stillness that he had mistaken for compliance.
Brooke walked into the kitchen, holding an empty wine glass. "Mom, Uncle Richard is asking when we're eating. He says he skipped lunch."
"Did you call the bistro?" Vivian asked, her voice rising in panic.
"I did," Brooke said, wincing. "They're booked solid for a private event. They won't have any takeout platters available until after nine. And the local supermarket is completely out of fresh seafood."
Vivian turned to Daniel, her eyes wide with disbelief. "This is unacceptable. Your wife has completely ruined this evening. She knew how important this dinner was to your father and Richard."
"She didn't ruin anything, Mom," Daniel said, though his own annoyance was rising. "She went to get the crabs you asked for."
"But why isn't she answering?" Vivian demanded. "It doesn't take three hours to drive to the seafood market and back. Even if she had to go all the way to the harbor, she should have been back by now."
Daniel stepped out onto the back porch, away from the chatter of his relatives. He dialed my number again. It rang four times before going straight to voicemail.
He looked out over the manicured lawn, the dusty box fan he had repaired still sitting on the porch table. For the first time in his life, he began to wonder if he had miscalculated. He had always assumed that I would bend, because I always had. He had never considered what would happen if the branch finally snapped.
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Inside, Uncle Richard’s booming voice carried through the open window. "Vivian! Do we need to order a pizza, or is there actually food coming tonight?"
Vivian’s face flushed a deep, angry red. She grabbed her own phone and dialed my number, her fingers tapping the screen so hard it clicked.
