Chapter 2 - The Lemon Tart
Three weeks earlier, I'd stood on Ingrid's porch holding a homemade lemon tart and wearing a smile I'd practiced in the car. The door opened before I could knock.
"Renata, sweetheart," Ingrid said, glancing at the dessert. "You brought something. How brave of you."
"It's lemon. Dean's favorite."
"Mm. Well, we'll see how it holds up next to the pie Aunt Corinne brought. She used real butter."
I bit the inside of my cheek and walked in. The living room was already crowded. Dean had come earlier by taxi to help while I finished the tart. He waved from the couch, half rose, then sat back as Ingrid swept toward the kitchen.
I set the tart beside three other desserts, mine at the back.
Then the doorbell rang. I already knew.
"Oh, Vivienne, what a lovely surprise," Ingrid called from the entryway. "I had no idea you were in the neighborhood!"
Vivienne stepped in with her arms folded tightly over her stomach. "I, um, I brought wine."
This time I watched her closely. She wasn't smiling, kept glancing around like she was checking the exits. On her left hand was a thin band she quickly tugged beneath her sleeve when Ingrid pulled her inside.
Dean stiffened on the couch. He looked at me, gave me that same small apologetic smile, then looked away.
That was all I got.
I made it through dinner counting the tines on my fork. Vivienne barely spoke, pushing food around her plate, giving short answers to Ingrid's leading questions.
"Remember when you and Dean went to that little cabin?" Ingrid asked brightly. "Wasn't that the loveliest weekend?"
"That was a long time ago," Vivienne murmured.
"But such a sweet memory."
I put down my fork. "Ingrid, could I talk to you for a second? In the hall?"
She dabbed her mouth like a queen granting an audience. "Of course, dear."
Once we were out of sight, I asked, "Did you invite her?"
"Invite whom?" She tilted her head.
"Don't. Please."
Her smile didn't change. "Yes, Renata. I invited Vivienne. I always invite Vivienne."
"Why?"
"Because Vivienne was the only woman who ever truly deserved my son," she said calmly. "Some people just aren't meant to be part of this family." She patted my arm. "Now let's not ruin the evening. Corinne's pie is waiting."
Then she walked back to the dining room like she'd just commented on the weather.
I stayed there, staring at Dean's framed baby photos along the wall. Ingrid was in every one.
The drive home was quiet.
"You're mad," Dean finally said.
"I'm tired."
"Mom means well, Ren. She just — you know how she is."
"I know how she is. That's the problem."
He didn't answer.
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That night I lay awake listening to him breathe, remembering how I used to stay perfectly still when my own parents fought, believing silence could hold a house together.
I had been doing that for three years. I wasn't going to do it anymore.
