Chapter 7: Sunday at the House

"Landon's," I said. "You can count, Marilyn. You said so yourself."

She studied my face for a long moment.

I kept it still.

I had spent three years learning how to be unreadable at her table.

"Then take the check," she said.

"No."

"Then come to Sunday brunch and say it to the family." She tucked the envelope back into her coat. "Noon, at the house. Wear something nice."

"It's my house," I said. "According to a prenup you wrote."

For the first time, Marilyn blinked.

"We'll discuss legal fantasies on Sunday," she said, and went down the stairs.

I locked the door and called my lawyer.

"Go," the lawyer said. "Bring your phone. Don't eat anything you didn't see made."

I took the train to Larkwood Drive that Sunday in the green dress Kerry lent me, with my hair pinned and my mother's garnet at my throat.

I had spent two hours cutting a recording on my laptop.

It was a short clip, and it didn't contain a word about a hotel.

The long table on the back terrace was set for twelve.

White linen, silver, a vase of pale roses I had chosen myself in June.

Marilyn sat at the head, in pearls.

Beside her sat Kendra, in a cream dress, with one hand resting on her flat stomach.

She was sitting in my mother's chair.

It was a small painted blue chair with a split in the cane seat, which I had carried into this house in a taxi three years ago.

Marilyn had banished it to the garden shed in my second month.

Someone had gone and fetched it out.

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