Chapter 4 - The Golden Child’s Feast
At 442 Crestview Terrace, the air smelled of bayberry candles, prime rib, and twenty-year-old scotch.
The dining room table, a twelve-foot expanse of polished mahogany that William Vance had imported from an estate in Hampshire, was laden with crystal decanters and heavy sterling silver. Eleanor Vance sat at the head of the table, her cheeks flushed with the second glass of vintage Pinot Noir, laughing at a joke her sister-in-law had just finished telling.
"Oh, Dana, stop," Eleanor trilled, her fingers lightly touching the pearl pendant at her throat. "You know perfectly well that the decorator had no idea what he was doing with that foyer. I had to tell him three times: eggshell, not alabaster. Alabaster looks like dried milk under chandelier light."
"Well, you saved it, Eleanor," Dana said, spearing a roasted asparagus spear. "The entrance looks like something out of *Architectural Digest*. Richard, doesn't it?"
Richard Vance sat at the foot of the table, cutting through his medium-rare beef with heavy, practiced motions. He was fifty-eight, with silver-threaded hair cut short at the temples and the beginnings of a double chin that he hid behind high-collared Egyptian cotton shirts.
"Eleanor knows what she’s doing with this place," Richard grunted, taking a swallow of red wine. "Takes a lot of work to keep up a property of this size. Most people couldn't handle the maintenance."
Down the table, fourteen-year-old Logan—Dana’s son—nudged his brother Toby. "Did you see Emma’s face when Mom said she looked like a curtain?"
Toby giggled into his linen napkin.
"Logan," Dana scolded mildly, though her eyes danced with entertainment. "Don't be unkind. The girl’s mother clearly shops at the clearance racks. It’s not Emma’s fault Kate has made such... unconventional lifestyle choices."
"I just don't understand why Kate didn't send a driver," Eleanor mused, setting her fork down with a delicate clatter. "Dropping a child off at the corner on a city bus on Christmas Day? It’s completely irresponsible. Honestly, Richard, sometimes I think your daughter does these things purely to antagonize us. She wanted Emma to show up here looking like a pauper just so we’d feel guilty."
"Well, it didn't work," Richard said smoothly. "We had ten people confirmed. The table seats ten comfortably. Putting an extra chair at the corner would have blocked the swing door to the butler’s pantry, and Maria was carrying out thirty-pound platters of beef. It was a safety issue as much as anything."
"Of course it was," Dana agreed immediately. "And besides, Emma is eleven. A mile walk across the northern parkway isn't going to kill her. When we were kids, we walked everywhere in the snow."
"Exactly," Eleanor said, signaling Maria, the housekeeper, to clear the plates. "Richard, did your mother call from the manor today?"
Richard paused, his knife hovering over his butter plate. "She left a voicemail on the landline around noon. Just wishing us a peaceful holiday. She sounded tired. The nurses say she barely leaves the library these days."
"Good," Eleanor murmured, smoothing her napkin over her lap. "She’s eighty-four, Richard. She needs to rest. I do wish she’d let us handle the estate accounts more directly, though. Arthur Vance is entirely too pedantic about every expense. He questioned the invoice for the conservatory roof last month."
"Arthur is William's dinosaur," Richard dismissively replied. "When Mother passes, Arthur goes. We’ll move everything over to Henderson & Cole. They know how to handle high-net-worth real estate without asking for a receipt every time we paint a gutter."
"Speaking of which," Dana piped up, "Richard, did you talk to the pool contractor about extending the stone patio toward the lower arbor in the spring?"
"We'll look at the estimates in February," Richard said, feeling the warm, expansive glow of a man whose domain was secure, whose belly was full, and whose authority was absolute. "We’ve got the equity reserve. We might as well enjoy the grounds while the market is high."
In the living room, the grandfather clock struck nine. A log settled in the massive fireplace, sending a shower of orange sparks against the black iron mesh.
Outside, on the long driveway that curved past the manicured boxwood hedges, the Christmas lights glowed in pristine lines of warm white—not a single bulb burned out, not a single cord out of place. It was the picture of suburban majesty, an unbroken fortress of taste and comfort.
May you like
Nobody at that table looked at their phones. Nobody checked the outdoor temperature, which had dropped to twenty-six degrees. And nobody gave a second thought to the four bags of presents that were currently sitting in the entryway of a cold kitchen four miles to the north, still tied with hand-curled ribbon.
***
