Drawing the Final Line

The private dining room smelled of roasted duck and polished walnut, but Brooke’s voice reached the table before the brass latch clicked. She shoved through the heavy door, her purse swinging from her shoulder, with Mason two steps behind her.

David sat at the head of the table beside his fiancée. Uncle Greg and Aunt Clara froze over their bread plates, while Robert and Diane sat across from Jenna and Lily.

Brooke tossed her ponytail and pulled out an empty chair with a screech of wood.

“Glad to see the family budget stretched to cover thirty-dollar entrees,” Brooke said.

Mason tugged on her sleeve. “Brooke, please. Let’s just sit.”

She yanked her elbow away, her eyes fixed on Jenna.

“Or does David only get the silver treatment if Jenna signs off on the bill?” Brooke asked. She rolled her eyes toward Aunt Clara. “We couldn’t get twenty dollars for gas last week, but here we are in private dining.”

Lily shrank back in her seat, her lower lip trembling before she pressed her forehead against Jenna’s ribs. Jenna kept her hands flat on the table, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Robert did not look at his menu. His palms were planted flat on the white linen, his weight leaning forward over his water goblet.

“That is enough, Brooke,” Robert said.

Brooke scoffed, waving one hand as if brushing away smoke. “Oh, now you have an opinion? After she cut you off like a stray dog?”

Robert stood up. The heavy mahogany chair scraped back against the parquet floor. Both of his palms slammed down onto the linen, rattling the silverware and sending a tremor through the crystal stems.

“I said sit down, or get out through that door,” Robert said.

The room went still. Diane gripped her cloth napkin with both hands, twisting the fabric into a hard knot in her lap.

“You don’t talk to me like that,” Brooke said, her voice rising an octave. “Not for her.”

“She paid our gas bill,” Robert said. His voice was hoarse, but it filled every corner of the room. “She paid our electric. She put twelve hundred dollars a month into our account for nearly two years.”

Brooke blinked, her mouth opening, but no sound came out.

“And your car insurance,” Robert said. He leaned down, his knuckles white against the tablecloth. “Two hundred and fifty dollars every month came out of that cash to keep your sedan legal. Jenna paid for your tires while you took food off her daughter’s plate.”

Aunt Clara set her fork down with a sharp click against the rim of her plate. Uncle Greg turned his shoulder squarely away from Brooke, looking out the street-side window.

Brooke looked down the length of the table, searching for an ally. Her gaze landed on David, who rubbed the nape of his neck and stared back at her without blinking.

“Mom,” Brooke whispered.

Diane did not lift her eyes from the linen twisted in her fists.

“Take your coat, Brooke,” Diane said quietly.

Mason reached out and caught Brooke’s wrist, pulling her back two steps toward the doorway.

Brooke’s face flushed dark red. She yanked her wrist free, spun on her heels, and pulled the brass door open with enough force to rattle the glass insert. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, leaving Mason to follow in her wake.

Robert lowered himself back into his seat, his chest rising against his collar. Across the linen, he looked directly at Lily, whose fingers had loosened from Jenna’s sleeve.