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.
