“Thank you, Monica,” she said, looking up from the stove. “The beef tenderloin is resting. I am about to start the glazed winter vegetables.”

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“You could check the table settings,” she suggested gently. “Derek always likes the silver polished a certain way, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said. “He does.”

I walked into the formal dining room, where the long mahogany table was already laid with a white linen runner.

I adjusted the heavy silver forks, aligning them perfectly with the edge of the placemats.

I wiped a microscopic speck of dust from the rim of a crystal water goblet.

Derek valued order above all things, especially when he was under pressure.

If a single spoon was out of place, he would view it as a personal insult, a sign of my failure to maintain his standards.

I looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the china cabinet.

My skin looked pale under the dining room chandelier.

I went into the powder room off the hallway and turned on the bright vanity lights.