In the 3 years since Vivien had married Grant Hartwell, Dorothia had perfected the art of sweetness that cut like glass. Every compliment had a barb. Every kindness had a condition. Every smile was a warning dressed in pearls and Chanel.
The gravy boat landed in front of Vivien’s plate with a soft clink against the fine china. Dark brown, thick, steam rising in lazy curls that caught the candlelight.
“I used a new recipe,” Dorothia continued, her voice carrying the practiced warmth of a politician’s wife. “Extra herbs, rosemary, thyme, a touch of sage. Your favorite, dear. You need your strength. Growing my grandchild takes so much out of a woman.”
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Vivien caught the emphasis on the word my. Not your baby. Not the baby. Not even our grandchild. My grandchild. Αs if Vivien were merely the vessel, the incubator, the temporary housing for the next generation of Hartwell DNΑ.
She had learned to let such things go, to smile and nod and pretend not to notice the tiny cuts that bled out slowly over 3 years of holidays and family dinners and helpful suggestions about everything from her career to her hair to the way she held her fork.
But tonight, something felt different.
Vivien picked up the silver ladle, heavy and engraved with the Hartwell family crest, a lion rampant. How appropriate.
