The sound of the heavy Le Creuset lid slamming against the marble countertop didn’t just echo; it cracked through the sterile silence of the house like a gunshot in a canyon.
“I told you, Martha, we are not having stew,” Chloe hissed. Her voice possessed a frequency that vibrated in the fillings of my teeth. “This is a fundraising gala pre-party. People like the Van Der Bilts do not eat brown sludge.”
I gripped the wooden spoon tighter, my knuckles white and swollen, the familiar ache of arthritis flaring in protest. The air around the stove was thick with the scent of searing beef, red wine, and thyme—a smell that, thirty years ago, used to make my son, David, come sprinting into our tiny kitchen with eyes lit up like Christmas lights. But here, in this cavernous, grey-and-white mausoleum of a kitchen in Greenwich, Connecticut, the smell didn’t feel like home. It felt like a transgression.
“It’s David’s birthday, Chloe,” I said, keeping my voice level, anchoring myself against the granite island. I had learned a long time ago that raising your voice at Chloe was like throwing gasoline on a grease fire. “He specifically asked for it. He called me on Tuesday, sounding so tired, and said, ‘Mom, I miss your Bourguignon.’”
Chloe stopped pacing. She pivoted on her six-inch Louboutins, staring at me with eyes that looked like shattered glass held together by mascara. She was beautiful, certainly, in that terrifying, polished way that extreme wealth buys. Not a hair out of place, skin glowing from treatments that cost more than my Honda, and a terrifying, howling emptiness right behind the pupils.
