Chapter 5
No one speaks. The only sound is Mary’s shallow breathing as she stares at images that failed to rewrite reality. The silence stretches, taut and dangerous, until she snaps it with sudden, brittle efficiency. She closes the album with a sharp snap that makes us all flinch.
“Dinner is served,” Mary announces, her voice slicing.
Just like that, we’re expected to pretend the last twenty minutes never happened.
Mary rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her perfectly tailored slacks. Her spine straightens as she recalibrates, shifting seamlessly to perfect hostess. The transformation would be impressive if it weren’t so terrifying.
“This way,” she commands, avoiding eye contact. Her heels click against the hardwood as she leads our reluctant procession from the family room.
Cillian’s fingers find mine, squeezing once before releasing. I take a deep breath and follow, aware of my red dress reflecting in every polished surface we pass. I understand his strategy of not engaging with his mother. I remember the term “gray rocking” in my college psychology class.
The dining room emerges through double doors. A crystal chandelier casts rainbows across white walls; silver candlesticks reflect the polished room. At the center stretches a mahogany table so dark and glossy it looks carved from obsidian. The wood gleams with generations of obsessive polishing.
White china sits at perfect intervals. I count five identical settings, each an island of porcelain and silver. Four settings cluster at one end, centered on a massive floral arrangement that leaves no room at the table’s head. The fifth setting is isolated.
I don’t need to ask which one is mine.
“Arthur,” Mary directs, gesturing to the first seat. Arthur moves to his designated spot without comment.
“Bea, here beside Arthur,” Mary continues, pulling out a chair. Bea hesitates momentarily before sliding into place.
“Cillian, darling, next to me of course,” Mary says, positioning herself like a monarch ascending her throne. The placement is deliberate: Cillian by his mother, directly across from his ex-wife. I am diagonal from him.
I remain standing until Mary’s gaze finally lands on me, acknowledging my existence with the minimum required politeness.
“Star,” she says. “There’s a place for you there.” Her hand waves vaguely toward the furthest seat away.
“There’s a draft near the head, dear,” she adds. “You’ll be warmer down there.”
The transparent excuse hangs. There is no draft. The temperature in this house is as meticulously controlled as every other aspect of Mary’s domain.
Cillian’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “Mother,” he begins, his voice carrying a warning edge that promises confrontation.
Our eyes meet, and in that brief connection, I try to communicate everything I’m feeling. I’m okay. This isn’t worth the fight. Not yet. Save your ammunition.
His expression softens, understanding passing between us without words. We’ve built this language over months—a way to read each other’s thoughts in the smallest gestures. It’s something Mary can’t touch, can’t control, can’t understand.
“It’s fine,” I say quietly, just for him.
It’s not fine. We both know it.
I straighten my spine and begin the walk to my designated exile. The red dress brushes against my legs with each step. Now that choice feels like a target on my back as I sense every pair of eyes tracking my journey down the length of the table.
Arthur sighs. Bea offers a small, apologetic smile that makes everything worse. Cillian’s eyes never leave mine, his gaze a lifeline stretched across the growing distance. Only Mary watches with satisfaction, her lips curved.
I reach my designated place and pull out my chair.
The legs scrape against the floor in an unintentionally loud sound that makes Mary wince.
Great, now she’ll passive aggressively mention her scuffed floors.
Still, I settle into the seat, the fine upholstery firm beneath me.
From this position, I can see the entire table.
A uniformed server appears from a side door. Another joins, then a third. They move around the table, filling water glasses, placing bread baskets, adjusting silverware that doesn’t need adjustment. They work from Mary’s end downward, reaching me last. Naturally.
I smooth my napkin across my lap, the crisp linen beneath my fingers.
The isolated place setting before me gleams with silver.
I trace a finger along the edge of a fork, feeling its weight, its history, its belonging.
These objects have sat at this table for generations.
They have more right to be here than I do.
But unlike them, I can choose to leave.
The thought steadies me. This isn’t my prison. Real life awaits outside these doors in the messy, colorful, honest life Cillian and I have built.
I meet Cillian’s eyes across the distance and offer a small smile. Not defeated. Not broken. Just waiting. Watching.
Mary lifts her water glass in a gesture meant to signal the official start of dinner. “Shall we?” she asks, though it’s not really a question.
Dinner has begun.
Distance transforms them into a diorama of family perfection.
Their voices easily reach me but because of the angle, unless someone is staring right at me, I’m inconvenient to notice.
Which is how I observe Mary lean toward Cillian, her hand touching his sleeve with possessiveness as she speaks.
The gesture radiates ‘I am his mother, and what I say goes.’
“The governor sends his regrets,” Mary announces to the table at large, though her eyes remain on her immediate circle. “The snowstorm has delayed his return from Albany.”
Arthur makes a noncommittal sound from his end of the table. He sits with perfect posture, yet something about him suggests detachment rather than engagement. His eyes occasionally flicker toward me, a hint of sympathy crossing his features before disappearing behind his practiced neutrality.
“I suppose we’ll have to manage without political conversation this evening,” Mary continues, as if this is a genuine hardship.
Bea shifts in her seat, fingers plucking at her napkin’s edge. She folds and refolds the corner, creating and smoothing invisible creases.
“I had Cook prepare the scallops with that reduction you love,” Mary says. “Remember when you and Cillian discovered it in Newport?”
“Yes,” she murmurs, eyes on her plate.
“What do you think of the Bordeaux?”
“It’s lovely,” she responds automatically, though she hasn’t yet sipped.
“My father is a sommelier,” I say to everyone and no one in particular.
Cillian speaks, “Ah yes, and he has an incredible cellar in Star’s family home in Hudson Valley. Her father was kind enough to invite us over for Thanksgiving.”
Mary’s hand freezes around her wine glass, her lips tightening before she recovers.
“How... interesting,” she says without looking at me or Cillian. “Arthur, did I mention Congressman Wilson is joining us for the New Year’s gala? He specifically asked if Bea would be attending. He was quite taken with her at the hospital benefit last spring.”
The deflection is a transparent attempt to redirect the conversation back. Arthur’s eyebrows lift slightly, the only indication he’s noticed the manipulation.
“I believe you mentioned it several times, Mary,” he says mildly, then turns to me. “You’re from the Hudson Valley originally, Star?”
“Yes,” I answer. “My family has a small vineyard. Nothing like this scale, of course.” I gesture to indicate the grandeur around us. “Just three acres of Cabernet Franc and Riesling grapes, but my father loves it.”
“Cabernet Franc can be challenging in that climate,” Arthur observes, genuinely interested. “I’d be curious to taste his results sometime.”
Before I can respond, Mary interjects. “The second course will be getting cold,” she announces, signaling the servers who have been hovering at the periphery. They swoop in, removing appetizer plates with synchronized efficiency.
I catch Cillian’s eye as the plates are cleared. He offers a small smile. I straighten my posture, refusing to slouch despite my isolation.
The main course of roasted meat and delicate vegetables arrives. The plate before me is a work of art, though the food holds little appeal under the circumstances. I lift my fork anyway, determined to maintain composure. The silver feels heavy in my hand.
“I had Cook prepare Cillian’s favorite,” Mary says, drawing his attention back. “Remember when you requested this for your graduation dinner?”
“It looks wonderful,” Cillian responds neutrally, still not eating.
Bea shifts uncomfortably, her fork moving food around her plate.
“The sauce is exactly how you like it, Cill,” Mary continues. “Remember how you and Bea tried to recreate it that summer in the Hamptons?”
“No.”
I stifle a laugh at his bluntness.
Arthur changes the subject. “The weather report suggests the snow might clear by tomorrow afternoon. Let’s show Star the property.”
The invitation clearly irritates Mary, whose smile tightens to something barely polite.
“I’m sure Star wouldn’t be interested in trudging through snow to see dormant gardens,” she counters without looking at me. “Bea, you mentioned wanting to see the new greenhouse. Perhaps you and Cillian could tour it.”
“I’d love to see the property,” I interrupt, my voice calm but carrying. “I’m working on a winter landscapes series. The snow against stone would be fascinating to capture.”
Mary’s lips press into a thin line at my interruption. For a brief moment, her mask slips, revealing the fear beneath her hostility.
I meet her gaze across the table, neither challenging nor submitting. Just seeing her perhaps for the first time. And in that moment, something shifts in the atmosphere, subtle but unmistakable.