Evelyn looked up from polishing serving utensils.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded expensive.”
Samantha sat.
For several seconds she watched Evelyn work.
Then:
“Why does she hate me?”
Evelyn stopped.
“You’ve asked that before.”
“I know.”
“And I answered.”
“You said she doesn’t know what to do with anything she can’t control.”
“That remains true.”
“That’s not a reason.”
Evelyn put down the cloth.
Samantha continued.
“She loves Olivia.”
“She loves Charlotte.”
“She can be cruel to them too, but she sees them.”
“With me…”
Her voice broke slightly.
“It’s like she decided what I was before I was old enough to speak.”
Evelyn stared toward the counter.
Something in her expression changed.
Samantha noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“So was your father.”
The mention of him quieted Samantha.
Richard Collins had died when she was fourteen.
A brain aneurysm.
One morning he left for work.
By dinner, the house was full of relatives.
By midnight, Samantha understood he was never returning.
Her memories of him were fragmented.
Coffee before dawn.
His hand on her shoulder while helping with math homework.
The smell of cedar from his office.
How he called her Sammy even after Victoria insisted the nickname sounded childish.
He traveled constantly.
Too constantly, Samantha sometimes thought.
But when he was home, the mansion felt different.
He noticed when she entered.
He asked questions and waited for answers.
After his death, Victoria changed.
Or perhaps became more fully what she had always been.
Evelyn said softly, “Your father saw more than you think.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means today may be longer than you expect.”
Samantha frowned.
“Why are you being cryptic?”
Evelyn resumed polishing the spoon.
“I’m old. We’re allowed.”
At four thirty, Samantha finally showered.
She stood in her small room in a towel and stared at the Berkeley letter.
Today.
If she did not tell Victoria today, she would keep delaying.
There would always be another dinner.
Another crisis.
Another reason her own life needed to wait.
She dressed in a simple pale green dress despite her mother’s instruction.
Not the Thanksgiving dress.
A different one.
It belonged to Samantha.
She had bought it herself at a consignment shop.
Then she walked downstairs.
Victoria was standing in the grand salon wearing champagne satin.
For a moment Samantha stopped.
Her mother was beautiful.
That complicated everything.
It would have been easier if cruelty looked ugly.
Victoria turned.
Her expression immediately hardened.
“What are you wearing?”
“A dress.”
“I told you to wear something appropriate for serving.”
“I’m not serving tonight.”
Silence.
Olivia, seated near the mirror while a stylist finished her hair, looked over.
Charlotte stood near the fireplace in a dark red gown.
Victoria approached Samantha.
“What did you say?”
Samantha’s pulse hammered.
“I’m not serving dinner tonight.”
“You are not a guest.”
“I know.”
“Then change.”
“No.”