Chapter 3 - Three Glasses on the Table
The dining room had never felt so suffocating.
I took my seat at the head of the table. To my right sat Graham; to my left sat Natalie. Between them was an ocean of unspoken guilt and simmering resentment.
I poured sparkling water into my crystal glass, then gestured toward the bottle of vintage Bordeaux sitting in a silver cradle near Graham’s elbow. “Graham, pour some wine for your guest. Don't forget your manners.”
With trembling fingers, Graham lifted the heavy bottle. The glass chimed against the rim of Natalie’s goblet as he poured, spilling a dark crimson droplet onto the immaculate white tablecloth. Neither of them said a word. Natalie kept her hands firmly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the empty china plate before her.
“The chicken is tender,” I remarked casually, slicing a small piece onto my plate. “I used the fresh rosemary from the garden out back. Graham planted it three summers ago when we were remodeling the terrace. Do you remember that summer, Graham? We talked about where we’d put the nursery swing.”
Graham flinched as if I had struck him across the face. He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. “Maddie... please don't do this.”
“Do what? Reminisce?” I took a sip of my water, leaning back against the upholstered chair. “I think it’s wonderful that the three of us are finally sitting down. Natalie, tell me—how did you two meet? Was it at the architectural summit in Chicago, or did he approach you after you took the subcontract for the waterfront project?”
Natalie swallowed hard. Her manicured fingers tightened on her leather bag, which she had kept placed stubbornly on her lap beneath the table edge.
“We met at the charity gala last winter,” Natalie said quietly, her chin lifting slightly in an attempt to salvage some shred of pride. “He was alone. He told me you two had grown apart years ago.”
A dry, bitter chuckle escaped Graham’s throat, but he didn't dare look up.
“Did he?” I asked, tilting my head. “Did he mention that last winter we were undergoing our third round of IVF? Did he mention that while he was buying you champagne at that gala, I was at home giving myself hormone injections in our bathroom, praying for the daughter kicking inside me right now?”
Natalie’s eyes widened slightly. She turned a sharp, venomous glare toward Graham. “You told me she was seeing someone else. You told me the marriage was over in everything but name.”
“Oh, Graham tells many stories,” I said softly. “He weaves magnificent tapestries out of thin air. He told me he was working late on municipal bids. He told you he was a wealthy, misunderstood bachelor trapped in a loveless contract. But what he didn't tell either of us was the math.”
I reached down beside my chair, picked up a heavy manila folder bound with red legal tape, and placed it firmly in the center of the table, right between the roast chicken and the wine bottle.
“Let’s talk about the math,” I said.
Graham looked at the red folder, and the color drained completely from his lips. “Claire... no. Don't.”
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“Open it, Natalie,” I commanded.
Natalie looked from Graham to me, her breath hitching. She reached across the linen, her fingers grazing the edge of the folder as if it were radioactive.
