Boston Mother Cancels Twenty Two Million Dollar Wedding Gift After Morning Betrayal
I reached out and touched the high back of the chair where Michael used to sit during Sunday dinners when his father was still alive.
The mahogany was cold, polished to a dull shine that showed every scratch from his childhood signet ring.
“Shall I set the head of the table for Mr. Michael?” Mrs. Gable asked, her hands hovering over the linens.
“No,” I said. “I will sit at the head.”
“And where shall I place the young lady?”
“Victoria will sit on my right,” I said. “Directly across from her brother.”
“And Mr. Whitman?”
“Avery will sit on my left,” I said. “Next to Michael.”
I picked up the heavy silver candlesticks from the center of the table, adjusting their position by a fraction of an inch until they were perfectly aligned with the grain of the wood.
“They are slightly uneven,” I said.
“I will polish them again, ma’am,” Mrs. Gable said, reaching for the silver.
“No need,” I said, my voice steady and quiet. “They will serve their purpose.”
I walked to the sideboard and picked up a small silver bell, placing it next to my plate.
