At the head of the table sat his father, Sam, in a faded polo shirt. He didn’t say much, just gave a short nod—the kind men give when they’ve made up their mind. Marianne understood it immediately. As far as he was concerned, she was welcome.
Andrew’s sister, Tanya, had two kids climbing over her lap and was studying the guest carefully. Her eyes moved from Marianne’s braid to her plain dress to her unmanicured hands, as if assembling the picture. Then she gave a slight nod. No show, no fuss—fine by her.
“And where do you work, sweetheart?” Lydia asked, pushing another roll onto Marianne’s plate. “Eat. Really, eat. You look like a strong wind could carry you off.” “I’m a receptionist at a salon on the edge of town,” Marianne answered, even blushing a little, as if embarrassed by how ordinary the job sounded.
“And what do they pay you?” Lydia asked plainly, the way family people sometimes do. Marianne lowered her head a little more. “Around $3,000 a month. Sometimes a little more.”
A heavy sigh went around the kitchen. Lydia nearly dropped the serving spoon. “Goodness. How does anybody live on that around here?”
“You’d have to watch every penny. Rent, clothes, gas—everything.” “I rent a room out in the suburbs. About $900 goes to the landlady. It’s hard, but I get by,” Marianne said so convincingly that for a moment she almost believed her own story.
Lydia clutched her chest, then reached for Marianne’s hand. “Oh, honey. All alone in a big city.” Then she turned sharply to her son. “Andrew, do you hear this? You need to help her.”
“Once you two are married, she moves in with you. No more of this renting-a-room business. She should live like a normal person.” “Of course, Mom. I’ve thought about it. I’ll give her a key. And when I get my raise, if we need to, I’ll figure something out,” he said.
Marianne sat there with lowered lashes while a storm of feelings moved through her. Sympathy. Gratitude. Curiosity. Everything that had made her stage this little test in the first place. In another minute, she thought, it would become very clear who everyone really was.
And then the doorbell rang.
Three short chimes and one long one. “Oh, that must be Aunt Allison,” Lydia said, throwing up her hands. “She said she might stop by. Hold on, hold on, I’ll get it.” She hurried toward the door, her slippers slapping loudly against the floor, and everyone at the table fell quiet without meaning to. Someone stopped chewing. Someone set down a cup. Marianne realized she was gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
The front door opened with the familiar creak of old hinges. The sound seemed to go right through Marianne’s nerves. Standing there was a polished woman in her fifties wearing a long beige cashmere coat.
A large designer handbag hung from her arm, and her boots looked more expensive than half the furnishings in the apartment. Behind her stood a tall, well-dressed man in a navy suit with a neat haircut, holding a box of expensive chocolates as carefully as if it were fragile.
“Hello, everybody—we came straight from the road—” Aunt Allison began, not even having taken off her gloves yet. Then her bright voice stopped cold. Her eyes had landed directly on Marianne.
The smile slid off her face as if someone had erased it. Allison froze mid-sentence, and the room went so quiet that the hum of the aquarium in the corner became suddenly noticeable. In the kitchen, the faucet dripped steadily, counting off the seconds of that strange, ringing silence.
Marianne looked up and felt a chill spread through her chest while her palms went instantly damp. Because Aunt Allison was not just some distant relative of Andrew’s.
She was Marianne’s direct boss—the woman Marianne reported to, argued with in meetings, and worked with almost every day. And now that same Allison was standing in a modest apartment in the suburbs, staring at her as if she were looking at a stranger. A plain woman in a gray dress, with a braid and no makeup, was not a version of Marianne she had ever seen before…
