“I will set the third place,” I said.
I walked into the dining room and placed the silver bracelet on the sideboard, right next to the blue linen napkins.
At half past six, Evan came down the stairs wearing a fresh charcoal suit. He did not look at me as I finished aligning the silver forks on the heavy mahogany dining table.
He walked straight to the mahogany console under the window, where our wedding photograph sat in a heavy silver frame. Without a word, he picked up the frame and turned it face down on the wood.
From his breast pocket, he pulled a small leather frame containing a photo of Vanessa. She was wearing her dark designer sunglasses, leaning against the bar at Mercer House.
He placed her picture exactly where our wedding photo had stood for twenty-eight years.
“That looks better,” he said, adjusting the angle so the light from the chandelier hit it.
I stood by the sideboard, holding a stack of small dessert plates. The pain in my wrist had settled into a steady, throbbing ache, but I kept my hands still.
“We should use the Burgundy,” he said, turning toward the small wine refrigerator in the corner. “The ninety-five.”
“That bottle was for our anniversary,” I said.
He laughed, a short, barking sound that had no humor in it. He did not answer me as he pulled the dusty bottle from the rack and reached for the corkscrew.
By seven o’clock, the dining room was filled with the scent of the rosemary chicken, but the food remained on the stove.
Evan sat at the head of the table, his phone resting face up on the blue linen place mat. Every few seconds, the screen illuminated with a new notification, casting a pale blue light across his face.
“She is late,” I said, sitting two chairs down from him.
