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Monday
6:30 p.m.
Sonia poured a stream of red wine into the tomato sauce that hissed on the stove.
Nearby on the kitchen counter, a half-finished grant proposal for the dance company lay beside Diana and Ian’s wedding invitation. As she stirred the sauce, the seething red mass frothed up, splattering her arm and the counter.
“Fuck!” Turning the stove down, she shoved the papers out of the way and ran cold water over the burn.
In two and a half hours, Brendan O’Brian was coming over. They’d be alone.Leave the lights off and be ready to run.His words had echoed through her mind since she hung up the phone.
She’d done a quick once-over of the house, checking that the paths were clear as she put away fragile ceramics and antiques. If anything broke, she’d never forgive herself.
“Try using an oven mitt,” said a cheerful voice from the table.
“Thanks.” Sonia sprinkled oregano into the pot. “I don’t need one.”
“If you’re cut, do you bleed?” came the dramatic response. “If you’re spritzed with tomato sauce, do you burn?”
Sonia snorted. “Grandma, the quote goes, ‘If youprickus, do we not bleed?’”
“Shakespeare. Never did connect with him. You probably memorized all his plays in your sleep. Sonnets, too.”
“Penne or spaghetti?” Sonia asked without turning around.
“Let’s do penne. I always feel so undignified when I slurp spaghetti.”
A small laugh escaped Sonia. She opened a package of penne and emptied it into a pot of bubbling water. Giving the sauce a final stir, she turned to face the petite woman at the table.
“Grandma, you’re going to break your neck walking around in those shoes.”
Her grandmother scoffed, sounding exactly like Sonia. Smoothing back her coiffed gray hair, she swung a navy-blue stiletto heel from the ball of her foot. “I’ve been wearing ‘those shoes’ for fifty years. I’m not about to stop now.”
“I can tell you every terrible thing they do to your posture. Anatomically. In detail.”
“Please don’t.” Her grandmother lifted a glass of wine and took a sip. “They give me joy. Speaking of which…you’re going to that joyous occasion after all?” She pointed to the wedding invitation, with its swirls of blue and silver.
“Yeah.” Sonia picked up the invitation and flapped it. “Di said she’d be fine if I didn’t, but she was clearly lying and I felt bad. Three days…. A rehearsal dinner, abachelorette party…Ugh. I’ll try to survive.”
“What about me? How willIsurvive? Rattling around this creaky old house all weekend… Send a postcard.”
Sonia snorted. “For Christ's sake, Grandma. You’ll be fine.”
She busied herself with stirring the pasta. Her grandmother was joking, she knew. Adrienne Jacobson was fiercely independent, which Sonia respected.
When her grandmother had invited her to move in last summer, it was under the pretext that it would be helpful for Sonia, not Adrienne. It eased Sonia’s financial burden to have free food and housing while she put her energy and savings into the dance company. In return, she shopped and cooked for her grandmother, who detested anything to do with a kitchen.
Easing off her high heels, Adrienne stretched her toes. “Lovely flowers,” she said, pointing to the bouquet of stargazer lilies in a glass vase on the table. A couple of the flowers still showed signs of being crushed against a dressing room mirror, but Sonia had kept them in the mix. “Did someone give them to you at your final show?”
“Maybe.” Sonia added more salt to the pasta water. Her grandmother had attended opening night on Thursday, but not the other shows, which had been for the best.
Adrienne’s tone turned gentle. “I reached out to your parents. I hoped they would come. But they—”
“It’s fine,” Sonia said quickly. “Not a big deal. We both know they’re unreliable.”
Adrienne nodded. Flicking the petal of the nearest lily, she asked briskly, “Any new men on the scene?”
“Just some Senate staffer.”
