He moved toward the hallway to open the door, but stopped when he heard the sound of footsteps on the front steps. They were not the light, quick steps of Vanessa in her high heels.
The brass handle of our front door turned.
I did not move from my seat at the table. I simply reached over and touched the blue linen napkin at my place, my fingers brushing the cool silver of my grandmother’s bracelet.
The metallic click of the front door opening as Daniel steps inside.
Daniel steps into the dining room, his wet trench coat dark from the autumn drizzle. He carries a slim leather case under his arm. He does not look at the roasted chicken on the table or the silver serving spoon resting near my hand.
Evan did not move from his chair. His hand still held his phone, the screen glowing against his palm. “Daniel? What the hell are you doing here? Vanessa is on her way.”
Daniel did not answer him immediately. He unzipped the leather case with a slow, deliberate scrape of metal. He drew out a thick stack of papers bound in a blue backing folder.
“I am here to serve you, Evan,” Daniel said, his voice flat and formal.
He laid the blue folder on the mahogany table, right over Evan’s linen napkin.
Evan laughed, a short, barking sound that rattled the wine glasses. “Divorce? You think you can walk in here and hand me a piece of paper? I co-own this house. I co-own Mercer House. You can take your little blue folder and get out of my dining room.”
Daniel took out a white silk cloth and began polishing his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “The petition is eighty-five pages, Evan. I suggest you look at page twelve first.”
Evan snatched the folder, his thumb smudging the clean white paper. He flipped the pages rapidly, his eyes scanning the dense legal print.
