Chương 3
“We arranged a consultation,” he said.
“What kind?”
“A medical assessment.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“Without asking me.”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Her face became very quiet.
Celeste stepped around the chair. “It isn’t an ambush. The physician is excellent. She works with families who—”
“Who cannot be trusted to choose their own chairs?”
Celeste stopped.
Adrian heard Ivy’s voice in the hallway, asking Rosa whether five minutes had passed.
He lowered his own voice. “Mother, please.”
Eleanor picked up her handbag.
“You don’t get to say please after arranging for a stranger to decide whether I can be believed.”
“That isn’t what the appointment does.”
“You haven’t even told me her name.”
“Dr. Lang.”
“And who found Dr. Lang?”
He hesitated.
Celeste answered for him. “I did.”
Eleanor looked at her son for another second, then walked toward the door.
Adrian moved after her.
“Mother, don’t drive.”
She did not turn. “Why? Will I forget which side of the road?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It is exactly what you meant.”
The door opened before she reached it.
Rosa stood there with Ivy beside her.
Eleanor stopped so abruptly that the heel of one black shoe scraped the floor.
Ivy looked from her grandmother’s handbag to Adrian’s face.
“Are you leaving?”
Eleanor adjusted the strap on her shoulder. “I think I should.”
“Before cake?”
The ordinary disappointment in the question seemed to reach Eleanor more deeply than the accusation had. She looked down at Ivy, and the tremor in her fingers worsened.
“I’m not very hungry.”
“There are strawberries in it.”
“I know.”
“You picked them.”
Eleanor swallowed.
Rosa said gently, “Mrs. Vale, I can drive you home.”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
The room tightened again.
Eleanor looked at Rosa with wounded disbelief. “You too?”
“I didn’t say you shouldn’t drive. I said you shouldn’t be alone.”
“That sounds better because you’ve had practice.”
Rosa accepted the blow without moving.
Ivy stepped forward and took Eleanor’s hand.
No one told her to.
Eleanor’s fingers closed around hers.
The child glanced back at Adrian. “We can eat cake in the library.”
Celeste exhaled, almost a laugh, though there was no amusement in it. “We cannot move every difficult conversation because Ivy wants dessert.”
Adrian turned toward her.
The look on his face finally silenced her.
He led his mother and daughter to the library himself.
The library had none of the dining room’s ceremonial perfection. One cabinet door would not close unless lifted at the hinge. A stack of architectural journals leaned against a brass lamp. Ivy’s colored pencils occupied a ceramic bowl that had once held potpourri and still smelled faintly of cedar. Claire’s old reading chair remained by the windows, its green upholstery faded where the afternoon sun struck it.
Eleanor sat there.
Ivy climbed onto the rug near her shoes.
Rosa brought water without asking and placed it on the side table.
“I’ll have the cake sent in,” she said.
“No,” Adrian said. “Cancel dinner.”
Rosa gave him a look.
He had known her long enough to understand it.
“Pack the food for the staff,” he amended. “And send the caterers home with full payment.”
“They have already been paid.”
“Then add the gratuity we discussed.”
“I already did.”
“Of course.”
It was an absurd exchange, but the familiar precision gave him something to hold. Rosa nodded and left.
Eleanor watched her go.
“She thinks I’m losing my mind.”
“She thinks you’re hurt.”
“She answered a different question.”
Adrian sat across from his mother.
Ivy remained on the rug, unfolding and refolding the stained card.
He reached for it, then stopped. Taking it from her would turn it into forbidden evidence, and he had already made too many decisions without asking.
“What did you see?” he asked.
Ivy traced the blue edge with one finger. “Celeste was at the table.”
“When?”
“When Rosa went to tell the kitchen about the green beans.”
Rosa had argued with the caterer because Eleanor disliked almonds on vegetables.
“What was Celeste doing?”
“She took Grandma’s card and put it in my place. Then she wrote my name.”
“Did she say anything?”
Ivy shook her head.
“Was anyone else here?”
“Grandma came in after.”
Eleanor looked down. “I sat where my card was.”
Adrian pictured the sequence. Celeste alone at the table. Two cards switched. Eleanor entering and taking the seat beside Celeste because she trusted the printed name more than her memory of Rosa’s plan.
“What happened then?” he asked.
“Celeste said Grandma was confused again.”
Ivy’s fingers stopped moving.
Eleanor closed her eyes.
Adrian leaned back. The chair creaked under him.
He remembered arriving in the dining room to find Celeste guiding Eleanor toward the correct water glass. He had seen tenderness. Patience. Evidence that the woman he loved was willing to shoulder the difficult future he had begun to fear.
Now the memory rearranged itself.
“Did you hear the exact words?” he asked.
Ivy looked offended. “I hear words.”
“I know. I’m asking because it matters.”
“She said, ‘It’s happening more often.’ Then Grandma said, ‘What is?’ And Celeste said, ‘Never mind.’”
Eleanor turned her face toward the windows.
The last daylight had faded from the garden. Their reflections floated faintly in the glass: an old woman in black, a man in a dinner jacket, a small child on the floor holding a piece of paper.
Adrian rubbed his thumb against the edge of his palm.
“Mother, have there been other things?”
She gave a dry, small laugh. “You have a list. Why ask me?”
“I don’t have a list.”
“Celeste does.”
Ivy looked up. “It’s in the yellow book.”
Adrian became still.
“What yellow book?”
“The one with the bee.”
Eleanor opened her eyes.
Ivy pointed toward the hallway. “Celeste writes in it when Grandma forgets things.”
“How do you know?”
“She wrote when Grandma put salt in her tea.”
May you like
Eleanor frowned. “I did not put salt in my tea.”
“You almost did,” Ivy said. “The sugar was in the salt bowl.”
