orty years telling myself my father’s treatment of Thomas belonged to another era.”
His eyes dropped to the metal bowl.
“Apparently I was wrong.”
Natalie’s face hardened.
“Don’t compare me to Grandfather.”
“Why not?”
Arthur’s question was quiet.
“You looked at Martha and decided her dignity depended on her usefulness to you.”
Natalie flinched.
“You looked at Ryan’s past and used it to remind him he should be grateful.”
Another silence.
“My father did exactly that to Thomas.”
Natalie’s eyes filled.
“That isn’t fair.”
Arthur’s voice softened.
“No.”
He looked at Martha.
“It wasn’t.”
For the first time that afternoon, Evelyn—no, Natalie—seemed to have no argument prepared.
Ryan stood.
He folded his father’s letter carefully.
Then placed it inside his jacket.
Natalie watched.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
Her face changed.
“This is our home.”
Ryan looked around.
The mansion.
The dining room.
The polished walnut table where his mother had just been humiliated.
“Not tonight.”
“You’re really walking out because your mother embarrassed me at my own dinner?”
Martha stared.
Ryan did too.
Then he almost smiled.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the distortion was so complete there was nowhere left to hide.
“My mother embarrassed you?”
Natalie’s expression faltered.
Ryan looked at the wet collar of Martha’s blouse.
At the dog bowl.
At the ice melting beneath the table.
“I think we’re done pretending.”
Natalie stepped closer.
“If you leave, don’t expect to walk back into the company Monday morning.”
Arthur spoke from behind her.
“He won’t need your permission.”
Natalie turned.
Arthur’s face was calm.
“I never authorized you to threaten employees with termination over family disagreements.”
Her lips parted.
Arthur continued.
“And Ryan’s position does not belong to you.”
She looked toward the executives.
Nobody defended her.
That silence again.
But now it had changed direction.
Ryan looked at Martha.
“Come on, Mom.”
She hesitated.
“My handbag.”
He picked it up.
Then stopped.
He lifted the stainless-steel dog bowl from the table.
Natalie frowned.
“What are you doing with that?”
Ryan looked at it.
Then at her.
“Remembering.”
He carried it to the kitchen.
Rinsed it.
