Emma looked down.
The guests began collecting their things, murmuring
awkward goodbyes. Michael tried to laugh it off, telling people I was jet-lagged. Jennifer stood near the doorway, pale and furious. Paul avoided my eyes entirely.
My mother didn’t move.
Neither did I.
When the last guests had left and the caterers began clearing the table, I turned to Emma.
“Where are your things?”
She hesitated. “The blue room.”
The blue room.
A guest room at the far end of the upstairs hallway, cold in winter, too bright in summer, mostly used for storage before I left. I had asked my mother to make sure Emma remained comfortable in our master suite. I had sent money for renovations, staff, security, personal expenses, anything she needed.
And my wife had been sleeping in the blue room.
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
My mother moved between us and the staircase.
