Chapter 7 - The Mothers' Defense
At four o'clock, the doorbell rang.
Not the front door—the side door that led into the kitchen from the driveway.
Elena stood up immediately, her hand reaching for an empty wine bottle on the counter, but I held up a hand to stop her.
"I'll handle it," I said.
I opened the side door.
Standing on the porch in a long camel-hair coat, holding an expensive leather handbag and a covered casserole dish, was Evelyn Reed—Marcus’s mother.
Evelyn was sixty-eight years old, a woman who had spent forty years maintaining a fragile, highly polished social standing in northern Baltimore. She had never liked me. She had tolerated me because my family owned property and because I worked in medicine, but she had spent eleven years offering subtle, passive-aggressive critiques of my cooking, my clothes, my decision not to have children immediately, and my refusal to join her garden club.
"Simone," Evelyn said, her tone cold and clipped as she stepped past me into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation. "We need to talk about this hysterical episode."
She set the casserole dish on the granite island, right beside the stack of legal documents and Sarah Sterling’s open briefcase.
Sarah did not look up from her laptop. Elena simply crossed her arms and leaned against the refrigerator, her eyes narrowed like a cat watching a bird.
"Hello, Evelyn," I said, closing the door behind her. "You brought a casserole?"
"It’s chicken divan," Evelyn said, smoothing her coat. "Marcus is staying at my house. He is completely distraught, Simone. He hasn't slept a wink. He told me what happened at the hotel."
"Did he tell you about Brielle?" I asked politely. "Or did he leave that part out?"
Evelyn flinched slightly, but her chin remained lifted.
"Marcus is a man, Simone," Evelyn said, her voice dropping into that familiar, condescending register she used when instructing service workers. "Men in high-stress positions occasionally make indiscretions. It is unfortunate, yes. It is distasteful. But a woman of quality does not throw eleven years of marriage into the gutter over a temporary lapse in judgment with a young co-worker."
Elena let out a loud, snorting laugh from the refrigerator. "A temporary lapse? Evelyn, he’s been running an illegal slush account in Delaware for two years to take her to Miami!"
Evelyn turned her sharp gaze on Elena. "This is a private family matter, Elena. It does not concern you."
"Actually, Mrs. Reed," Sarah Sterling interjected, turning her laptop screen around so Evelyn could see the bright blue header of the state court portal, "it concerns the State of Maryland, the Internal Revenue Service, and the senior partners of Reed, Sterling & Vance. I am Simone's legal counsel. And I suggest you take your casserole and leave before I add a third-party harassment motion to the filings."
Evelyn looked at the screen, then at the gold wedding ring sitting on top of the watch box.
For the first time since she had walked into the room, a crack appeared in her icy composure.
"Simone..." Evelyn said, her voice softening slightly as she reached out a gloved hand toward me. "You can't ruin his life. He worked so hard for that partnership. If this gets out, his father's reputation in the club will be completely destroyed."
I looked at Evelyn. I looked at the dark spots on the back of her hands, the expensive pearl necklace at her throat, the desperation in her eyes—not desperation for her son's soul, but desperation for her family's social standing.
"I didn't ruin his life, Evelyn," I said gently. "Marcus ruined it when he let Brielle wear his blue shirt in suite 914. I am simply cleaning up the mess."
"You're heartless," Evelyn whispered, her lip trembling with rage.
May you like
"No," I said, opening the side door for her once again. "I'm just no longer your daughter-in-law. Take your chicken, Evelyn. The smell gives me a headache."
Evelyn grabbed her casserole dish, turned on her heel, and marched out into the cold afternoon air, her high heels clicking loudly against the wet concrete steps.
