“He seems nervous.”
“He should be.”
She did not understand my answer.
At the table, I pulled out the clean chair.
Patricia examined the place card.
“Oh. I thought I was farther from the center.”
“The lighting is better here.”
She smiled and trusted me.
She sat carefully. I placed her cane within reach.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
Beside her, Brittany’s place card rested before the prepared chair.
The bride and groom entered to applause ten minutes later.
Brittany waved to the room, blowing kisses and lifting her bouquet for the cameras. She never looked at the seat cushion.
Brandon did.
His eyes moved first to the chair Patricia occupied, then to the chair beside her. Confusion passed across his face.
He remembered where they had placed the adhesive.
He also knew he could not warn Brittany without revealing why.
She gathered her gown and sat.
The layers of silk settled across the velvet. She shifted twice to make room for the skirt, pressing the fabric more firmly against the cushion.
Brandon’s eyes met mine.
I lifted my water glass.
No smile.
No accusation.
Just acknowledgment.
His hand shook slightly as he reached for the champagne.
Dinner began.
The ballroom filled with the scent of rosemary, warm bread, and wine. A string quartet played near the windows. Guests leaned toward one another beneath the chandeliers, trading business cards and compliments.
Patricia reached for a dinner roll.
Brittany noticed.
“Are you sure you want that?”
Patricia paused.
“I was going to have half.”
“I’m only thinking of your recovery. Extra weight puts pressure on the joint.”
“It is one piece of bread.”
Brittany smiled as though speaking to a child.
“Inflammation begins with little choices.”
Patricia returned the roll to the plate.
Brandon cut into his steak.
“Brittany reads a lot about nutrition, Mom.”
“So do doctors,” I said.
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Brittany shifted in her chair.
The adhesive had begun to hold.
She did not notice.
Patricia folded her hands in her lap.
I placed the roll on her plate and added butter.
“Eat.”
“George.”
“You spent six weeks eating hospital food. You can have bread at your son’s wedding.”
Brittany’s mouth tightened.
“I’m trying to help.”
“No one asked you to manage Patricia’s plate.”
The conversation stopped.
Brandon put down his fork.
“Dad, she means well.”
I looked at him.
“People keep saying that.”
Patricia touched my sleeve.
“Let’s enjoy dinner.”
So I did.
I ate slowly and watched.
Brittany spoke about the penthouse as if she already owned it.
“We had a designer look at the living room,” she said. “The dark wood feels heavy. We’re thinking white walls, pale concrete, maybe removing the fireplace.”
I had restored that fireplace from an early twentieth-century building scheduled for demolition. The mantel alone had taken three craftsmen a month to repair.
Brandon nodded.
“The place needs to feel younger.”
“The deed has not transferred,” I said.
He laughed.
“I know. Monday.”
Brittany leaned toward me.
“The renovation estimate is around sixty thousand dollars. We thought it would be easier if you covered that before the honeymoon so work could begin while we’re away.”
“You want me to pay to remove the work I already paid to install.”
She tilted her head.
“It’s not personal. It just doesn’t fit our style.”
“Our brand,” Brandon added.
Patricia looked from them to me.
“I thought the apartment was a gift.”
“It was being considered as one.”
Brandon’s fork stopped.
“Being considered?”
I reached beneath the table and opened my phone.
To Sarah, I wrote:
List the penthouse for sale. No transfer. Change the access codes tonight. Store any personal belongings Brandon moved in this week with a licensed moving company.
Her response came seconds later.
Understood.
Brittany was still talking.
“The kitchen island should be replaced, too. The stone is beautiful, but it’s not very camera-friendly.”
I placed my phone beside my plate.
“I’ll think about it.”
She smiled.
“I knew you would.”
Across the table, Brandon relaxed.
He believed silence meant surrender because that was what my silence had always meant before.