“Mom, let’s not do this today,” Mike muttered into his coffee, not looking up.
“This isn’t ‘doing something.’ This is concern for your future. You could have married someone from your own circle. A woman with polish, family money, and useful connections. Instead, you brought home… this.”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning hung in the air plainly enough. Regina quietly tightened the belt on her apron, a motion she had repeated so often it felt automatic. Eleanor moved on to complaining about the missing almond milk in the refrigerator, which had been sitting there untouched since her last health kick.
“Eleanor,” Regina said softly, and there was a dangerous kind of politeness in her voice. “You poured that almond milk down the sink yourself last night. You called it ‘watery nonsense,’ if we’re being exact. And around midnight, when I came downstairs for water, I also happened to see you eating cold crepes with a very generous amount of that same sour cream.”
Mike choked on his coffee and sprayed the white tablecloth. Eleanor’s face tightened for a second, but she quickly recovered.
“A late-night lapse brought on by stress is not the same thing as breakfast. Those are entirely different categories.”
“Of course,” Regina said with such sincere agreement that Mike hid behind his cup for a good thirty seconds.
“I’ve got to run,” he said, jumping up, kissing his wife quickly, and avoiding his mother’s eyes. “Reg, thanks for breakfast. Mom, please try not to start a war before I get back.”
“I never start wars. I simply try to improve the taste level of the people around me.”
After he left, the house went quiet except for the ticking clock and the feeling that the air itself was under strain. Around noon, Eleanor got a phone call and came sweeping into the room with the energy of someone who had just heard excellent news.
“Agnes, leave the pots for tomorrow,” she called to the housekeeper. “Elvira Monroe herself is coming here from the city. Do you understand what that could mean for my son’s business?”
Agnes came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron.
“Mrs. Eleanor, is that the woman from the magazine cover? The one with the giant brooch?”
“The very one,” Eleanor said impatiently. “Regina, listen carefully. Brew my special chamomile blend, order dessert from the bakery, and use the good china. Once the tea is on the table, you disappear. Sit in your room if you have to. There is no need for extra people in the living room. I am perfectly capable of handling a social visit.”
Regina folded her arms and felt that cold, stubborn part of herself wake up.
“I can help entertain her if needed. Or handle anything practical.”
“Absolutely not.” Eleanor smiled the way people do right before they say something cruel. “Michael needs to look like a serious businessman, not a teenager showing off an impulsive marriage. And please wear something decent, at least for the five minutes you’ll be pouring tea.”
“Eleanor, let me just make one thing clear…”
