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It’s a textbook case of awkward silence, broken only by clinking forks and teacups plinking on the dark cherrywood table.
The food is good.
The tea, a delicate Ceylon with hibiscus.
Once again, it reminds me of better times.
I wasn’t always a C-level corporate consultant.
The Fixer, I’m called in some circles. Less kind four-letter names in others.
Regardless, I’ve staked my name on working corporate miracles.
Before that, there was a time when I was a boy sitting around a table in a homey kitchen just like this, watching the rain patter against a different set of windows while a gentle reminder told me to tuck my napkin in my lap, keep my elbows off the table, and always thank the chef for the food.
After a few bites of flavorful eggs, I look up. “Delicious, Mrs. Lark. Thanks for sharing your table with me. It makes this easier.”
I’m not sure there’s any way this could ever be easy, but it’s a start.
I’m surprised to feel a wizened hand patting my knee. Jacqueline Lark smiles at me, her wrinkled face creasing up, and in that moment I can see the resemblance between her and Eleanor quite strongly.
“There now, isn’t the morning nicer when you slow down?”
“I’m not a morning person,” I say. “So I don’t really have anything to compare it to.”
“Oh, I love a good morning,” Jacqueline says. “Right at dawn, before the morning glories get frightened and curl up. They’re gorgeous with fresh dew gleaming on their petals. Perfect little magnifying glasses that highlight every delicate color.”
To my other side, Miss Lark laughs softly. Somehow it evokes the image Jacqueline just described: morning glories in the palest blue violet, a few diamond dewdrops along the rim of their trumpets, enhancing every subtle detail until it shines.
I shake myself from my thoughts.
Where the fuck is my head?
I don’t daydream. The creative, artsy gene in the family skipped my DNA, and so did any special appreciation for delicate, breakable things.
If anything, they’ve been my curse.
But when I glance at Miss Lark, she’s smiling at her grandmother with an affection that makes her ivory face shine. “Don’t mind my grandmother, Mr. Marshall. She loves her flowers more than she could ever love any human after Gramps. She used to be a botanical illustrator before she retired.”
“Nonsense,” Jacqueline chides with an amused cluck of her tongue, pointing her fork at Miss Lark. “I certainly love you as much as I love my begonias.” She frowns, tapping her lower lip. “Almost. On a good day.”
“Gran!” Miss Lark laughs brightly again.
Miss Joly chokes out a sound. “How do you—”
Then she simply chokes.
A few muffin chunks fall out of her mouth as she goes into a purple-faced coughing fit, her eyes bulging.
Again, I act without thinking, launching myself from my chair. I round the table to hoist her up out of her seat, pulling her back against my chest and embracing her with my hands clasped together for the Heimlich.
One, two, three quick thumps that make her gag—then she spits out the enormous bite of muffin she’d choked on, sending her fork spinning off her plate as it strikes like a meteor.
Miss Joly slumps against me, sagging down into her seat as I gently let her go.
Wiping at her mouth, she clears her throat a few times, coughing out a “Thank you.”
Miss Lark and her grandmother were half out of their seats, expressions of frozen concern on their faces, but now they sink back down.
