The beige makeup on the cosmetic sponge was three shades too light for my jawline, but the small mirror over the guest bathroom sink did not show the difference unless I leaned close to the bulb. I dabbed the thick foundation over the left side of my chin, pressing until the dull ache flared behind my teeth. It was my thirty-second birthday, and I wanted the morning to be quiet.
Derek was sitting at the pine table in the kitchen, his eyes fixed on the crust of the bread I had baked the night before. He was thirty-four, and when he was quiet like this, he looked exactly like the man I had married three years ago in the Presbyterian church.
“It is heavy,” he said, not looking up from his plate. “A loaf of bread should not feel like a brick, Emily.”
“I think I left it in the oven five minutes too long,” I said, my voice trailing off.
I pulled the sleeves of my yellow knit sweater down, stretching the wool until the cuffs covered my wrists completely. The skin there was still tender from Tuesday, but the long sleeves kept the dark marks out of sight. I believed that if I just kept the kitchen quiet enough, the anger would finally pass out of him for good and we would go back to the way we were in the spring. He had been under so much pressure at the office, and I knew he was capable of being the gentle man I loved.
“Your mother is coming in ten minutes,” Derek said, setting his mug down with a hard, sharp click against the wood.
The sound made me freeze for a second before I went back to dabbing the makeup. I knew how to blend it now, feathering the edges into my neck so the yellowing margins of the skin would disappear under the cream.
“She is bringing a pie,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.
“She does not know how to bake either,” Derek said, his voice a smooth, mocking drawl. “It runs in the family.”
I did not answer him, focusing instead on the way the light hit my cheek in the mirror.
The driveway outside gravel-crunched as a car pulled in, and I knew it was Linda arriving early. I put the little jar of foundation back into the drawer, sliding it behind the extra soap where Derek would not notice it.
Linda came through the back doorway without knocking, carrying a cardboard box that was taped shut on all four sides. She set it on the kitchen counter and immediately adjusted the thin gold necklace around her throat, her fingers twitching against the metal.
“I brought a pear tart from the market,” Linda said, her words running together in a quick, bright stream. “It is a bit dry, but the man at the counter said it was fresh this morning.”
“Thank you, Linda,” I said, keeping my head tilted toward the stove.
She did not look at my face, keeping her eyes strictly on the yellow kettle on the burner. Her hands stayed near her collar, adjusting the clasp of her necklace over and over while she talked about the heavy traffic near the municipal courthouse.
“We must keep things pleasant today,” Linda whispered, her voice dropping as Derek walked toward the pantry. “You know how he gets when the house feels cluttered, Emily.”
“I cleaned the hallway,” I said, pulling at my left cuff again.
“Just make sure there is no fuss,” she said, her fingers snapping back to her gold chain. “A good marriage requires a little silence now and then.”
She knew, of course, but we had an unspoken agreement that some things were simply never mentioned in this kitchen. Her own husband had possessed a quick temper, and Linda had spent thirty years pretending the walls of her home were soundproof.
“The kitchen looks fine,” Derek said, returning with a fresh bowl of sugar. “As long as Emily does not try to serve that bread.”
Linda laughed, a high, nervous sound that ended too quickly. “Oh, Derek, she tries her best. We all have our off days.”
“Her best is five minutes too long in the oven,” Derek said, sitting back down and tapping his spoon against the rim of his mug.
I kept my back to them, adjusting the burner under the kettle even though the water had not started to warm.
The sound of a heavy engine idling came from the street, and I looked through the small window above the sink. My father’s gray Buick, the one with one hundred ninety thousand miles on the odometer, was sitting by the curb.
My father, Richard, walked up the porch steps with a slow, deliberate pace that I could recognize from a mile away. He was sixty-one, and he carried himself with the heavy, quiet dignity of a man who spent his life working with his hands in his garage.
