The smell of vanilla frosting did not quite cover the sharp, chemical tang of the floor wax the cleaning crew had used to prepare the house for Russell’s guests. In the corner of the marble island, a five-dollar spool of pink silk ribbon lay next to a pair of heavy silver kitchen shears.
Phoebe squeezed a piping bag with both hands, her small forehead creased in concentration as a crooked star of pink icing landed on the yellow cupcake. She was five today, though the grand party downstairs was not really for her. It was for the investors Russell had been courting for months.
I wiped a smudge of sugar from her cheek with the corner of a damp dishcloth. The fabric was old, the hem fraying from years of washing in the sink.
“Is Daddy going to help us light the candles?” Phoebe asked.
She looked toward the high arched windows that faced the front circle, where the gravel lay swept and neat under the grey autumn sky.
“He will be here soon, sweetheart,” I said, my finger drifting to touch my collarbone as I looked at the clock above the range.
The kitchen was too quiet, the copper pots hanging from the ceiling perfectly still in the drafty air. The house was thirty thousand square feet of stone and glass, but it felt smaller every day, crowded with things Russell bought to prove he belonged here.
“His car is not in the driveway yet,” Phoebe whispered.
She rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist, her other hand clutching her grey stuffed rabbit against her apron.
“He had an important meeting at the office about the public offering,” I said, picking up a yellow cupcake and placing it on a small ceramic plate. “He has to talk to the bankers before the weekend.”
“Will Aunt Gwendolyn be at the party too?” Phoebe asked.
I held the plate in both hands, keeping my fingers steady so the ceramic would not rattle against the marble.
“Yes, she will be there,” I said.
The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only response.
“We should get dressed,” I said, putting the frosting bowls in the sink. “The guests will be arriving at the country club venue in an hour.”
I sat on the low velvet bench in the private dressing suite of the Lake Forest Country Club, smoothing the skirt of Phoebe’s white linen dress. The room smelled of lavender sachet and old carpet that had seen too many wedding receptions. Through the closed door, the faint sound of catering carts rolling over brass floor strips echoed down the corridor, accompanied by the clink of champagne flutes.
Phoebe sat quietly next to me, her small leather shoes swinging back and forth, not quite reaching the carpet. Her toy rabbit sat on her lap, its grey ears drooping over her knees. She was tired, her small shoulders curved inward as she watched the door.
The door clicked open without a knock.
Gwendolyn Fairchild stood in the threshold, her breathing shallow and quick. She was wearing a cream silk gown, but the left sleeve was torn completely away at the shoulder, dangling by a few loose threads against the pale fabric. Her face was flushed, her lipstick slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth.
In her right hand, Gwendolyn held a pair of small, sharp sewing scissors she must have taken from the vanity downstairs.
“Look at what your daughter did to my dress,” Gwendolyn said, her voice rising in a high, breathless pitch.
She twisted a long, blonde lock of her hair around her index finger, her blue eyes wide as she looked at Phoebe.
“Phoebe has been sitting right here with me for twenty minutes, Gwendolyn,” I said, keeping my voice low and even.
“She crept into my room while you were not looking,” Gwendolyn said, stepping closer, her heels clicking on the hardwood border of the room. “She had these scissors. She said she hated the color of my dress because it looked like a wedding gown.”
Phoebe shrank back against my side, tucking her stuffed rabbit under her arm and burying her face in the crook of my elbow.
“That is a lie,” I said, my hand resting on my collarbone as I stood up to place myself between Gwendolyn and my daughter.
“Russell is already downstairs with the board members,” Gwendolyn said, a small, sharp smile flitting across her face before she squeezed her eyes shut and let out a soft, theatrical sob.
She dropped the sewing scissors onto the small wooden side table next to the door. They landed with a sharp metallic clatter, right beside my purse.
“He will want to know why his guest of honor is standing here in ruins,” Gwendolyn whispered, wiping an imaginary tear from her cheek with her fingertips.
I guided Phoebe out of the dressing suite and into the narrow, wood-paneled hallway that led to the main ballroom. The muffled sound of a cello tuning up drifted through the floorboards, a low, repetitive vibration under our feet that made the wood feel cold.
Russell was walking toward us, his gold watch catching the light of the sconces as he checked the time for the third time in two minutes. His face was flushed, his tie pulled tight against his collar, his movements hurried and impatient.
“What is going on here?” Russell asked, his words fast and sharp, cutting off my attempt to speak before I could begin.
Gwendolyn ran to his side, her torn sleeve fluttering as she buried her face in his chest.
“Phoebe took the scissors from the vanity,” Gwendolyn cried, her voice muffled against his lapel. “She ruined the dress you bought me for the presentation tonight, Russell. She just tore it apart.”
