“Of course he does,” Gloria said, her voice dropping a register. “A landscape contractor in the summer is like a doctor in flu season. But a man should still be home to help his wife set up the tables for his only son’s birthday.”
She smoothed her floral skirt, her fingers tapping a rhythm on her knee that made my neck tighten. Brad had complained about the three-hundred dollar lawnmower repair bill only yesterday, claiming we needed to watch our spending, but he had not argued when I ordered the expensive catering. I spent my mornings keeping the books for local businesses with precise margins, and the discrepancy sat in the back of my mind like a misplaced decimal.
“He works hard, Gloria,” I said.
“We all work hard, dear,” she replied, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the side of the house. “But some of us know how to keep our appointments. I hope she did not get lost on the highway. It would be a shame if she missed the singing.”
“Ellie knows the way to our house,” I said. “She has been coming here for twelve years, ever since Brad and I bought the place.”
“People change their routes,” Gloria said, her tone light but her eyes cold. “Sometimes they find a shortcut they prefer, even if it is a bit more dangerous.”
A small, warm hand sticky with dark chocolate gripped my ankle from beneath the table. Will crawled out from under the long dessert table, his cheeks smeared with brown smudges from the cake I had spent the morning frosting.
“Look, Mommy,” he piped, his high-pitched voice bubbling with four-year-old excitement.
I knelt on the concrete patio, reaching into my apron pocket for a damp cloth. “You were supposed to wait for the candles, sweetie.”
