He didn’t look at me when I placed the glass bowl of cranberry sauce on the table.
“It’s about time,” Sylvia said dismissively. She was wearing a red velvet dress that was far too tight for a sixty-year-old woman.
She picked up her fork and speared the turkey on her plate. “This bird is dry, Anna. Did you baste it every thirty minutes like I told you?”
“Yes, Sylvia,” I whispered hoarsely. “I basted it exactly as you said.”
“Well, you must have done it wrong,” she waved me off. “Go get the sauce. Maybe that’ll save it.”
I glanced at David. He was swirling his wine: an aged Bordeaux he’d decanted an hour ago.
“David,” I said quietly. “My back is killing me.” Can I… can I sit down for a minute? The baby’s kicking.
David stopped laughing. He looked at me with cold, annoyed eyes. “Anna, don’t be so dramatic. Mark’s telling us about the Henderson case. Don’t interrupt.”
