“That’s very generous of you,” Poppy says pleadingly, her entreaty directed at Adair, whose scowl could kill a man.
“Sometimes, I think I like dogs better than people,” I say, meaning it. Dogs are loyal. They don’t test you or manipulate you or leave you.
“Do you have a dog?” A tiny voice pipes up from the chair swallowing her across the table.
“Ellie,” her mother says in a strained voice, “what is the rule at the table?”
“Children should be seen and not heard,” she squeaks, her eyes turning down to the full bowl at her place. She drags her spoon again. No one’s noticed that she hasn’t had a bite.
The hollow place inside me that I’ve learned to ignore groans for recognition. She has so much of the things I never had but she’s missing out on the one thing I’d always wanted, too. I lean across the table to see her better. She has her daddy’s hair. “I don’t have a dog. Do you?”
Her gaze darts between her mother and father. She doesn’t dare answer until Ginny nods. “No. Mommy won’t let me get one. She says dogs pee on the carpet.”
“That’s quite enough,” Malcolm cuts her off.
“This is why we don’t have Ellie at the table,” Ginny laughs nervously but she’s glaring at Adair not the girl. “She doesn’t understand how to behave appropriately.”
“She’s four,” Adair spits back.
A nerve has been touched, and now I’m stuck in the middle of a passive-aggressive tournament of champions. I suspect this is about more than the little girl coming to dinner.
“She’s happier in the kitchen with Cara at dinner,” Ginny disagrees. The two women glare at each other.
“She doesn’t enjoy eating the same things,” Malcolm explains to me, trying to distract me from the fight between his wife and his sister. “I suppose I didn’t have much of a palate then either.”
“Then bring her food up here,” Adair says.
Ginny turns away from her and gives me a brittle smile. “It’s just so important for us to have adult time.”
“That’s all you ever have,” Adair murmurs.
While the adults argue, the glum frown on Ellie’s face deepens as she pretends to play with her soup. She can hear everything they’re saying. She knows they don’t want her here. Maybe her aunt does, but Adair has never had a talent for going about things the right way.
“Regardless, when we have company, she doesn’t belong at the table.” Ginny reaches for her wine. She’s on the second glass of the evening, but it isn’t mellowing her a bit. Every word from her mouth is clipped, strung as tightly as she is. One wrong move and she’ll snap.
Tears well in Ellie’s eyes and I try to think of something to say or do to end this that won’t result in hurting her. Someone should fucking consider that. I turn to Adair, my jaw clenching tightly as I try to think of what to say. Despite her antics, she seems to care the most about the girl. When our gazes lock, I see it there: the trapped, wild look she always wore in this house when we first met. It’s like a bird caught inside beating against the window for release. I start to open my mouth—to demand she do something—but before I can she mouths one word:
Don’t.
Another time I might enjoy ignoring this plea, but this isn’t about us.
Adair pushes her chair roughly back, its legs catching on the Persian rug. “I’ll get her ready for bed.”
“That won’t be necessary. You’re not her mother,” Ginny says, her voice as smooth and cold as glass. But she doesn’t move to stop Adair as she circles the table. “Cara!”
“I said I would do it,” she repeats, lifting Ellie into her arms.
“Adair,” Poppy calls to her friend softly, “why don’t we—”
“It’s not your place,” Ginny hisses, abandoning any pretext of forced civility.
A woman appears dressed in a pressed, white dress that makes her look like she just stepped out of the goddamn nineteenth-century. She halts at the table and waits with her arms behind her back. “Cara, please put Ellie to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She reaches for her and waits for Adair to release her. When she does, the nanny exhales in relief. Adair leans over and kisses Ellie’s forehead.
“I’ll come in and read you a story in a little bit,” she whispers.
“I think we’re ready for the main course,” Malcolm says to Ginny who sits like a seething volcano at the other end of the table. She’s on the verge of eruption.
“I’m not hungry,” Adair says, and Ginny moves to stand.
For a second, I think that I might actually be privy to a chick fight, but before it can come to blows, Poppy interrupts. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late. I need to go!”
“Yes, you do. I’ll walk you to the door.” Adair grabs Poppy’s hand and leads her out of the room.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Malcolm says. “MacLaine women are feisty.”
Ginny sniffs as though she suspects this doesn’t apply to her. Now that Adair is gone, she looks as though someone dumped water over her anger. It’s still there smoldering, but it can’t do anything but slowly fade.
Malcolm presses forward as the entrees arrive. It’s as if nothing happened. “I’ll have my secretary send the details over about the Gala. I think it’s in…”
“The second week of May,” Ginny says dutifully.
Ginny MacLaine is a walking calendar—and little else—to her husband, except maybe an accessory to hang from his arm at parties. It’s hard to believe they even procreated given the constant chill between them.
“I look forward to it,” I say. Lifting my napkin from my lap, I stand. “Would you mind if I use the restroom?”
Malcolm directs me to the nearest one. I don’t need it, but I do need to put some much-needed distance between the two of us. I pace the length of the hall until I reach the solarium doors and stop. It doesn’t matter how far I go.
