Chapter 4 - A Quiet Dinner on Lincoln Avenue
By four o'clock, I was back in the apartment.
Diane had returned from the grocery store. A pot of boiled potatoes was bubbling on the stove, filling the living room with the heavy, starchy smell she considered cooking. She was standing at the counter, slicing carrots with my Japanese chef’s knife, which she had already run through the dishwasher twice despite my asking her to hand-wash it.
“You’re late,” Diane said without turning around. “Dinner is at six. The roast needs thirty minutes in the oven, and the table isn't set.”
I walked into the kitchen, picked up the white chore schedule from the refrigerator door, and crumpled it into a tight ball in my fist.
Diane stopped chopping. She turned, her eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing?”
I dropped the paper ball straight into the trash can under the sink.
“I’m not setting the table tonight, Diane,” I said, my voice mild and steady. “And we aren't eating roast beef.”
Diane stared at me as if I had spoken in Aramaic. “Rachel, I don't know what kind of mood you’re in from sitting on that computer all day, but Mark will be home in forty-five minutes. He works a real job with real clients, and he expects dinner on the table.”
“Then Mark can take us out,” I said. “There’s an Italian restaurant on Lincoln Avenue. I made a reservation for four at seven o'clock.”
Walter walked in from the hallway, tucking his shirt into his trousers. “Italian? Well, that sounds nice, Rachel. A break from cooking.”
“We have food in this refrigerator, Walter!” Diane snapped, turning her glare onto her husband. “Food I paid for with my grocery money!”
“It’s on me,” I said smoothly. “A celebration.”
Diane narrowed her eyes, suspiciously wiping her hands on my linen towel. “Celebration for what?”
“Mark had a very big closing today,” I said, looking her directly in the eyes without flinching. “A real estate closing. He’s been keeping it as a surprise for both of you.”
Walter smiled broadly, his chest puffing out. “I told you! The boy knows what he’s doing. He probably got the paperwork sorted on the refi.”
Diane’s mouth softened into a triumphant smirk. “Well. It’s about time you acknowledged how hard my son works for this household, Rachel. All this fuss about who owns what... Mark always takes care of his family.”
“He certainly does,” I said. “Seven o'clock sharp. Don't be late.”
I went into the master bedroom, took a navy dress from the closet, and hung it on the door. Then I opened my laptop on the ironing board one last time, printing out four copies of the documents Joanne Feld had prepared: the Florida property deed, the Delaware LLC articles of incorporation, the wire transfer receipt with Mark’s signature, and an emergency thirty-day notice to quit addressed to Walter and Diane Hartley.
I placed each set inside a crisp manila folder and tucked them into my leather tote bag.
When Mark came home at six-fifteen, loosening his tie and complaining about the traffic on the Kennedy Expressway, Diane met him in the hallway with a beam of maternal adoration.
“Mark, darling! Rachel told us! You didn't have to keep it a secret from your own mother!”
Mark froze by the coat rack, his hand stopping midway through unbuttoning his collar. His eyes darted past Diane to where I was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing my navy dress and holding my purse.
“Secret?” Mark asked, his laugh sounding brittle and thin. “What secret?”
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“Dinner on Lincoln,” I smiled, stepping forward to smooth his lapel with fingers that felt like ice. “To celebrate your new property, Mark. We’re so proud of you.”
Mark’s face drained of every ounce of color. For a second, he looked like he might pass out right onto the entryway mat.
