“Do that,” she said, without looking up from her silver. “And make sure the brass clips are tight this time. We don’t want the table separating during the main course.”
I walked toward the kitchen, the weight of the laundry receipt in my pocket a silent, crinkling pressure against my hip.
The commercial kitchen mixer hummed on the counter at six, its heavy metal paddle turning a pale yellow batter for the rolls. I stood near the sink, the crisp snap of fresh celery under my knife the only other sound in the room.
Daniel came through the rear hallway, his movements quick and efficient as always. He tossed his keys onto the counter and immediately reached for his phone, his face instantly lit by the pale screen.
“Your mother texted,” I said, the knife striking the wooden board with a clean, rhythmic pace. “She wants to add two more guests for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Daniel did not lift his eyes from the screen, his fingers moving rapidly over the glass.
“So add them,” he said.
