Chapter 4 - THE GUEST LIST
Friday evening arrived with the heavy, humid heat of late summer.
By six o’clock, the living room had been transformed. Thalia had rented a set of minimalist modern furniture from a staging company downtown, pushing my floral armchair and coffee table into the garage to make room for sleek white leather couches and glass tables.
A catering service had delivered three large boxes of appetizers and a rack of expensive wine glasses earlier in the afternoon.
I stayed upstairs in my bedroom, listening to the muffled thud of heels on the hardwood floor and Thalia’s sharp, commanding voice directing Desmond where to place the floral arrangements.
“No, lower the lighting, Desmond! We want ambiance, not a boardroom meeting. The VP of operations from Apex Corp is coming tonight. If you blow this, we’ll be living off your mother’s nursing pension forever.”
Forever.
I sat at my vanity mirror, brushing my silver hair with slow, rhythmic strokes.
I wore my favorite navy blue silk dress—the one Robert had bought me for our wedding anniversary twenty years before he passed away. It was elegant, understated, and completely out of place in Thalia’s newly curated minimalist aesthetic.
At seven-thirty, the doorbell rang.
The low murmur of voices floated up the stairwell. Laughter, clinking glasses, the smooth, oily timbre of corporate small talk.
I waited until eight o'clock, giving them enough time to settle into their drinks and appetizers, before I stood up, smoothed down the front of my dress, and walked slowly toward the stairs.
My heart wasn't racing. I didn't feel nervous.
Instead, I felt a calm, crystalline clarity—the exact same feeling I had when prepping a trauma patient for emergency surgery. Everything was in place. Every variable had been accounted for.
I reached the top of the landing just as Thalia was laughing brightly at something a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive gray suit had said.
“Oh, Arthur, you always were a card!” she trilled, touching his arm with a manicured hand.
Desmond stood beside her, holding a bottle of Pinot Noir, smiling that wide, desperate smile that used to charm teachers and neighborhood committees.
Then Arthur looked up toward the stairs.
His eyes met mine.
The polite corporate smile on his face faltered, replaced by a sudden, violent shock of recognition.
“Good evening,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the silent living room.
May you like
Thalia’s head whipped around, her smile evaporating instantly. Her face flushed a mottled, furious red.
“Estelle,” she hissed, marching to the foot of the stairs and looking up at me as if I were a cockroach on a wedding cake. “I told you to stay in your room. We have guests.”
