Sabina’s forehead felt like a dry brick, radiating a quiet, dry heat that made my own palms sweat. Her small fingers twirled a dark curl of hair behind her ear, over and over, until the hair knotted.
The white roses in the center of the foyer smelled of cold earth and old paper, their heavy stems anchored in a leaded crystal vase that had belonged to Thatcher’s grandmother.
“The guests are arriving in exactly forty minutes,” Beatrix said, her voice cutting through the silence of the high-ceilinged room. She stood on the cold white marble, her hand rising to touch the double strand of pearls at her throat.
I did not look up from Sabina’s face.
“You are not even dressed,” Beatrix said, her eyes sweeping over my gray wool trousers and the simple cotton shirt I had worn to the office. “The invitations specified formal attire, Vivian.”
“Sabina has a fever,” I said. My voice was low, the flat tone I used when I was calculating the capitalization rate on a commercial strip mall.
“She has a common cold, Vivian. You are overreacting, and it is highly inappropriate.” Beatrix did not use contractions. She pointed a manicured finger toward the kitchen corridor. “Go and inspect the salmon platters before the caterers ruin them.”
I rubbed the silver watch on my left wrist, feeling the metal links click under my thumb. The catering bill was four thousand two hundred dollars, paid from my personal account, but Beatrix spoke as if she had personally ordered the kitchen staff to begin the preparations.
“She is burning up, Beatrix. Her skin is dry to the touch.”
“The caterers are charging fifty dollars an hour per server,” Beatrix said, her voice rising slightly. “They need direction, not a housewife hovering in the foyer over a toddler with a warm forehead.”
“I am her mother, not a floor manager,” I said.
“You are an Ashford by marriage, and that carries certain community expectations,” Beatrix said, her hand dropping to her side. “The Henderson family is arriving first, and they are highly observant of these details.”
