“Cinderella’s coming to dinner,” Chloe announced, folding a napkin into something vaguely swan-shaped.
“Be nice.”
“I’m being nice. I’m just saying. The man runs on a Cinderella schedule.”
“Cinderella’s coming to dinner.”
“Chloe.”
“What?! He does! Every Sunday, boom, 7:30 p.m., out the door like the pumpkin’s about to blow.” She held up the crooked napkin swan and squinted at it. “I’m only half joking, by the way.”
I opened my mouth to defend him, then closed it because she wasn’t wrong.
Six months of Sunday dinners, and the man had never once stayed past 7:30 p.m. He was always polite about it. Always had a reason. But the reasons kept shuffling, like someone dealing a new hand every week.
I opened my mouth to defend him.
“Set out the water glasses,” I said instead.
“Deflection…”
I gave my daughter a look.
Mom came down the stairs then, and Chloe whistled low. Mom swatted at her, blushed like a schoolgirl, and asked if her lipstick was too much. It wasn’t. It was perfect.
She looked 10 years younger than she had at Christmas!
I gave my daughter a look.
***
Richard arrived exactly at 5 p.m., holding a bouquet of daisies and a bottle of the sparkling grape juice Chloe liked because she was too young for wine. That charming man shook my hand, kissed my mother’s cheek, and asked my daughter about her history project.
He was, on paper, wonderful.
But at 7:29 p.m., he’d be gone.
He was, on paper, wonderful.
Chloe caught my eye across the kitchen while Richard was in the living room with Mom, but didn’t say anything. She just tapped her wrist, mouthed the numbers seven-three-zero, and raised one eyebrow so high it nearly touched her hairline.
I turned back to the stove and stirred the gravy that didn’t need stirring because, somewhere in my chest, a small, tight knot had started to pull.
Chloe caught my eye across the kitchen.
***
The Sunday after Chloe’s little Cinderella joke, I watched Richard like a woman studying a suspect through a two-way mirror. He was carving the roast beautifully, but also checking his watch between slices.
“Big plans tonight, Richard?” I asked, sliding the potatoes over.
“Oh, nothing exciting. I’ve got a client in Singapore, believe it or not. Eight o’clock call.”
Chloe’s fork paused halfway to her mouth.
I watched Richard like a woman studying a suspect.
