Chapter 5 - Saving Face
Downstairs in the kitchen, the silence Colin and Evelyn left in their wake was suffocating. Beatrice stood frozen near the kitchen island, staring blankly at the crumpled, grease-stained apron Colin had tossed onto the floor.
Her heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of indignation and unfamiliar panic. Colin had never spoken to her that way. He had always been the dutiful son, the high-achieving lawyer who tolerated her extended stays because, as she frequently reminded him, family was everything. But the cold, unflinching look in his eyes had stripped away her illusions of control. Or you can pack your bags.
The patio door creaked open, and Mrs. Gable, one of Beatrice’s oldest friends and chief rivals in the local country club circuit, poked her head inside.
"Bea, darling? Is everything quite alright?" Mrs. Gable asked, her eyes darting greedily around the messy kitchen, taking in the towering stacks of dirty china. "We thought we heard... well, shouting."
Beatrice’s spine instantly stiffened. Her pride, a deeply ingrained defense mechanism, snapped into place. She smoothed down the front of her cream-colored skirt and pasted on a tight, practiced smile.
"Everything is perfectly fine, Martha," Beatrice lied smoothly. "Colin just popped home early to surprise Evelyn for her birthday. The poor girl is just so overwhelmed with the baby, she was having a bit of a meltdown over the state of the kitchen. Colin sent her upstairs to rest."
Martha raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Oh. How... considerate of him. But what about the caterers? The head waiter was just asking if they should begin packing up the plates."
Beatrice’s eyes flicked to the mountain of dirty dishes. She had specifically dismissed the catering cleanup crew to save a few hundred dollars, fully intending to force Evelyn into doing it under the guise of "earning her keep." Now, if Martha or the other guests realized Beatrice was too cheap to pay for cleanup, she would be the laughingstock of her social circle.
"Tell the head waiter not to worry about the dishes," Beatrice said, her voice strained but airy. "I will handle them myself. I wouldn't want the caterers scratching my good china in their rush."
Martha looked skeptical but nodded slowly, retreating back to the patio.
May you like
Left alone again, Beatrice looked at the sink full of cold, greasy water. She looked at her perfect manicure and her expensive silk suit. For a brief moment, she considered walking upstairs and demanding an apology from her son. But the memory of his cold ultimatum stopped her. She was a guest in his home, a fact she had conveniently ignored for months.
With a heavy, resentful sigh, Beatrice walked over to the sink. She gingerly picked up a sponge, ignoring the ruined apron on the floor, and began to scrape caviar off a plate.
