Daniel ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping under his wool sweater. He looked tired for thirty-two, the shadows under his eyes dark against his pale skin.
“Melissa is just trying to help, Mom,” he said, speaking quickly and apologetically. “She thinks the kitchen needs a modern flow. She wants to make things easier for you.”
“I know my way around my own kitchen, Daniel.”
“I know you do,” he said, stepping closer and reaching for a box of tea. “But she is my wife now, and she wants to feel like she belongs here. Please do not create conflict over a few jars.”
“She is looking for something,” I said.
Daniel paused, his hand gripping the cabinet door. He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair again, smoothing down the stray strands.
“We just want to make sure you are completely safe here, Mom,” he said.
His quick, apologetic tone did little to ease the tightness in my chest. He turned his back to me and began filling the kettle with water, his movements hurried.
“I am perfectly safe,” I said.
Daniel did not answer, his attention focused entirely on the rising steam from the kettle.
The silverware clinked against the porcelain plates during dinner. Victor Hale sat at the head of my table, his large frame filling the high-backed chair that used to belong to James.
Melissa sat beside him, watching her father with a quiet, watchful intensity. She adjusted her watch twice before the soup was finished.
Victor looked up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the deep, intricate curves of the original plaster molding.
“They do not build them like this anymore,” Victor said, his voice low and commanding. “This molding alone is a work of art. The oak must go all the way through.”
“James spent three months restoring it,” I said.
