Chapter 3 - The Cold War Escalates
Melissa didn't leave. Instead, she sank back down into her chair with all the grace of a collapsing scaffolding. Her face was flushed, her jaw clenched so tightly I thought her molars might shatter.
"Fine," Melissa hissed, snatching her fork off the table. "We’ll stay. But I’m not eating this garbage."
"Suit yourself," Diane said coldly. "More for the rest of us."
Dinner resumed in a state of suffocating tension. Nobody spoke. The only sounds were the scraping of cutlery against porcelain and the muffled bass of rap music drifting in from Ethan and Sophie's phones out in the driveway. Daniel kept stealing nervous sideways glances at me, trying to catch my eye, but I ignored him entirely. I ate my potatoes, savored the green beans, and enjoyed every single second of Melissa's quiet, seething misery.
When dinner plates were finally cleared—an awkward, silent operation where Scott actually helped me carry the dishes to the kitchen—Diane followed me through the swinging door.
"You knew," Diane whispered, leaning against the marble kitchen island as I loaded the dishwasher.
"Knew what?" I asked innocently, rinsing a gravy boat.
"You knew she’d insult the food."
I turned off the faucet and dried my hands on a dish towel. I looked my mother-in-law straight in the eye. "Diane, if you put a starving wolf in a pen with a steak, it’s going to bite. I didn't force Melissa to open her mouth. I just stopped holding her leash."
Diane stared at me for a long, hard moment. Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth twitched upward into a genuine, albeit grim, smile.
"You’re a dangerous woman, Emily," Diane said softly.
"I’m a tired woman, Diane. There's a big difference."
"What’s your next move?"
"Move?" I raised an eyebrow. "I don't have a move. I'm just hosting dinner."
"No," Diane said, stepping closer. "You started something tonight. Melissa doesn't know how to lose gracefully. By the time we leave this house, she’s going to try to detonate a nuclear bomb."
She was right, of course. Melissa Carter was incapable of letting herself look foolish. If she couldn't win through superiority, she would win through drama.
We returned to the dining room carrying a homemade apple pie and a pot of dark roast coffee. Melissa was staring fixedly at her phone screen, her thumb scrolling frantically. As soon as we entered, she locked the screen and tossed the phone onto the table with a sharp clack.
"Hope you didn't bake that pie yourself, Emily," Melissa said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Knowing your baking, it’ll probably give us botulism."
I set the pie down on a trivet. "Actually, Diane baked it. From scratch. The same recipe she’s been using since 1984."
Melissa didn't blink. She turned to Daniel. "So, D. Did you tell Emily about the country club membership yet?"
Daniel froze, a ceramic mug of coffee halfway to his mouth. A dark red flush crept up his neck, all the way to the tips of his ears.
I turned my head slowly to look at my husband. "Country club membership? What country club membership?"
Melissa smiled—a vicious, triumphant little grin that reached right up to her eyes. "Oh! Did you not tell her? Well, I suppose that’s what happens when you keep separate finances, or when your husband spends all his extra cash behind your back."
"Daniel?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
Daniel set his mug down so hard that coffee sloshed over the rim, staining the white tablecloth. "It’s nothing, Em. Melissa doesn't know what she’s talking about."
"I know exactly what I’m talking about," Melissa crowed, leaning forward. "Scott plays tennis with Brad Jenkins over at the Scioto Country Club. Brad mentioned that Daniel just paid the full initiation fee last week. Three thousand dollars upfront, plus monthly dues. Funny thing is, Daniel told Scott he was saving up to help pay for our parents' anniversary trip to Napa Valley next month."
The room went dead silent again. This time, the silence didn't feel like a pause. It felt like the drop before a roller coaster plummets off the edge of a cliff.
I looked at Daniel. His eyes were wide, panicked, pleading with me not to make a scene in front of his mother and sister.
"Is that true, Daniel?" I asked. My voice wasn't angry. It was terrifyingly calm.
"Em, let me explain," Daniel stammered, holding his hands up defensively. "It was an investment! Brad said if I join the club, I can network with the senior partners at the firm—"
"You spent three thousand dollars of our savings," I said, every word crisp and measured, "without telling me. Money we’ve been setting aside for months for your parents' trip. Money we agreed was for family."
"It is for family! It's for our future!" Daniel shouted, finally cracking under the pressure. He glared across the table at his sister. "And you—you couldn't keep your mouth shut for five minutes, could you? You just had to blow up my life because you got humiliated over some stupid chicken!"
Melissa sat back, looking entirely unrepentant, dusting her hands together as if wiping away dirt. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger, D. Maybe you should communicate better with your wife. Oh wait—neither of you know how to do that."
May you like
I looked at the table. I looked at the apple pie sitting untouched in the center. I looked at Diane, whose face was now pale with shock and disappointment directed entirely at her son.
"Well," I said softly, standing up from my chair. "Thank you all for coming to dinner. I think it’s time for everyone to leave."
