Chapter 4: Sunday Lunch

All night I turned over what Mireille had said: an announcement, and Preston knowing it for weeks.

Sunday lunch at Eleanor's house is the one meal a week I'm not allowed to cook.

Solène would be there, and I meant to watch her face for it.

Eleanor is Preston's mother. She is sixty-one, silver-haired, and she sets her table with twelve forks.

I arrived with Preston at one o'clock, and Solène was already sitting in my chair.

It is the chair on Eleanor's left, the one she gave me the first Sunday I came.

"Aimée!" Solène said, and she did not get up. "We were just saying how pale you look."

"Tired," Preston said, before I could answer. "She works too hard."

He kissed my forehead and sat down on the other side of Solène.

That left me the seat at the end, by the kitchen door.

I took it. I put my napkin in my lap.

Eleanor watched me do it. She didn't say anything about the chair.

"How is the restaurant?" she asked me instead.

"Busy," I said. "We did ninety covers last night."

"Who makes your stock?"

"I do. It's the first thing I start every morning."

She nodded slowly and looked at me a moment too long.

The housekeeper brought in a salmon. Eleanor praised Solène's work for the foundation, and Solène praised Eleanor's pearls.

Preston poured the wine and skipped Solène's glass. She nodded her thanks and reached for the water.

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