The man on my porch wears a charcoal suit that costs more than my monthly pension. Snow dusts his shoulders. His briefcase gleams under the porch light.
“Mrs. Naen Creswell.”
His voice cuts through the December cold.
“That’s me.”
I step aside. The hinges creak.
“Please come in.”
Behind me, someone gasps. I don’t turn around. Not yet. I want to savor this.
Hi viewers, kindly tell us where you’re watching from and what time it is.
The stranger crosses my threshold, bringing winter air and the scent of expensive cologne. His shoes leave wet prints on the hardwood—the hardwood Darien refinished last spring without asking me first.
“Mom.”
My son’s voice cracks like river ice.
“Who is this?”
Now I turn. Darien stands frozen in the hallway, one hand gripping the door frame. His face has gone the color of old newspaper. Beside him, his wife, Rianna, clutches her wine glass so hard I hear the stem creak. The turkey smell from the kitchen suddenly seems too sweet. Cloying.
“This is Quinton Merrick,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than my hands feel. “He’s an attorney. Estate planning specialist.”
The grandfather clock ticks once, twice, three times.
Rianna’s mother, Vivienne, emerges from the living room in her white silk blouse. Always white. Always pristine. She looks at Quinton the way you’d look at a stain on expensive fabric.
“An attorney?”
Rianna’s voice climbs higher.
“Mother Naen, why would you invite an attorney to Christmas dinner?”
I smile. The same smile I used to give fourth graders who thought they could hide their copied homework.
“Because Mr. Merrick and I have been working together for three months.”
I pause, let that sink in.
“And since we have important family matters to discuss tonight, I thought it would be efficient to handle everything at once.”
Quinton extends his hand toward Darien.
“You must be Mrs. Creswell’s son.”
Darien doesn’t move. His hand stays frozen at his side. The heating vent kicks on. Warm air rushes through the register, but nobody looks warmer.
“What kind of family matters?”
Vivienne steps forward. Her heels click against the floor. Click, click, click. Like a countdown.
I meet her eyes. She’s called me Norine twice tonight already. Wrong name. Doesn’t care enough to remember the right one.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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