I hated seeing her close to tears. I hated it more than almost anything. Something in my chest went tight and I looked at the lettuce in my hands and said, before I’d decided to:
“We also keep her around for the donut pillows.”
August laughed. It came out fast, and she shook her head and the near-tears disappeared back to wherever they’d come from and the kitchen picked back up again.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
I went back to the lettuce.
“A portion of our gala proceeds,” Margaux said, “could go to people like you, actually. We fund several outreach programs for—”
“She’s not a charity case,” I said.
The kitchen went quiet again.
I set the lettuce down. I looked at Margaux directly.
“Can you see the difference,” I said, “between someone who lives off of other people’s money, and someone who works every day for herself and still finds a way to give to other people? Because I can. It’s not a subtle difference.”
Margaux’s jaw went tight. “I was being generous.”
“She’s not a cause.”
“Whatever,” Margaux said, as flat as she could.
August cleared her throat. “Actually,” she said, “if you’re really looking for somewhere to direct that funding, I do donate flowers every morning to the children’s cancer ward at Millhaven General. Fresh stems, every day. If your trust ever wanted to sponsor that—”
“We only do large-scale initiatives,” Margaux said. “Not local.”
“Like gala dances,” Poppy said, from the dessert bar, without looking up from her menu card. “And fashion shows.”
I looked at Dad. Dad looked at Mom. Mom had turned back to the grill and was staring at the fish with more focus than it required.
Margaux’s phone rang.
She looked at it. Something in her face shifted, softened. “It’s daddy.” She stepped away from the counter. “Daddy?” She walked out of the kitchen toward the hallway.
The kitchen exhaled.
We finished the salad in near silence, the good kind. August was quiet, passing me the tomatoes when I reached for them before I asked.
“I need some fresh air.” I nodded toward the patio door. “You want to come out?”
The sun was still going down. It hadn’t finished yet. The sky over the water was doing the thing it only did at Sable Cove — layers of orange and pink going all the way down to the horizon, the kind of sunset that looked fake in photographs but was completely real in person.
August leaned on the railing and looked at the water.
I stood next to her.
“I’m sorry about what Margaux said back there,” I said.
“Don’t be.” She kept her eyes on the water. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“She’s had a lot of wine. People say things.”
