Chapter 2 - The Empty Seat at Sunday Dinner
Ethan nodded eagerly, holding the drawing of the suspension bridge with both hands. "Yeah! Uncle Grant promised last week. He said he’d bring his drafting pens from his office and show me how real engineers calculate load stress."
Hannah looked down at the twelve-year-old’s hopeful face. She felt a sharp, familiar ache behind her ribs, but her voice didn't waver.
"Ethan, your uncle has to travel next week," she said softly, smoothing down the corner of his drawing. "He won't be here next Sunday."
Ethan’s smile faltered. "Oh. But he said..."
"I know," Hannah murmured. "He gets very busy."
In the kitchen, Margaret set the heavy cast-iron pot on the stove with a loud clatter. Her sharp blue eyes flicked over to Hannah, then toward the empty archway leading to the foyer.
"Where is he, Hannah?" Margaret asked, wiping her hands on an apron she’d brought from her own house. "It’s nearly five o'clock. Grant knows we eat at five."
"He had a meeting in Manhattan," Hannah said evenly. She walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea, her movement deliberate and calm.
Walter set the bread down on the counter and frowned, pulling out his reading glasses to check his watch. "He knew we were coming. He told me on Thursday he wanted to talk about the city zoning permits for the new harbor warehouse."
"He was delayed," Hannah said.
She didn't make an excuse for him. She didn't say traffic was bad on the bridge. She didn't say a emergency client had called. She simply stated that he wasn't there.
For eight years, Hannah would have filled that silence with a smooth, protective lie. She would have said, “You know how the city council is, Walter, they called an emergency session,” or “He felt terrible, Margaret, he insisted I make sure you took your physical therapy appointment first.” She had spent almost a decade weaving a velvet blanket over Grant’s sharp edges so his family only ever felt his warmth.
Today, she let the cold air in.
Rebecca walked into the kitchen, tossing her handbag onto the counter. She looked at Hannah’s ankles, which were noticeably swollen over her soft leather slippers. "Hannah, you look exhausted. Sit down. Where’s Grant? Why isn't he helping you carry things?"
"Grant is preparing for a trip to Italy," Hannah said clearly, taking a seat at the head of the long oak table.
The room went completely still.
Margaret paused with a ladle suspended over the pot. "Italy? What trip to Italy?"
"A seven-day trip to the Amalfi Coast," Hannah replied, her voice smooth and devoid of drama. "He leaves on Tuesday."
Walter looked puzzled. "A business trip? At seven months? Hannah, your doctor specifically told you no long-distance travel, and you shouldn't be left alone with your blood pressure spiking like it did last week."
"I'm not going," Hannah said.
Rebecca frowned, crossing her arms. "Wait. If you're not going, why is he going to the Amalfi Coast? You two have talked about going back to that resort for your ninth anniversary for three years!"
"He's taking Sloan Mercer," Hannah said.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush glass.
Margaret dropped the wooden spoon into the sauce. It splashed red against the white stove enamel. Walter stared at his daughter-in-law, his weathered face draining of color.
"What did you just say?" Margaret whispered, her voice dangerously low.
"He booked the oceanfront suite at the Grand Hotel in Positano," Hannah continued, looking directly at her mother-in-law. "The same suite where we spent our honeymoon. He booked it for himself and Sloan Mercer. They leave Tuesday morning."
"That bastard," Rebecca breathed out, her eyes wide with shock. "Tell me you're joking, Hannah. Please tell me this is some sick misunderstanding."
"It's not a misunderstanding," Hannah said. "I found the confirmation on his laptop on Thursday night. I asked him if he was sleeping with her. He couldn't say no."
Before anyone could speak, the heavy oak front door clicked open.
Boots echoed across the hardwood foyer. Grant walked in, tossing his leather jacket onto the entryway bench. He looked tired, his dark hair slightly rumpled, his jaw set in that tight, unyielding line he wore whenever he’d spent the afternoon dealing with rival bosses or union representatives.
He stepped into the kitchen, loosening his tie. "Sorry I'm late. The meeting on 42nd Street ran long, and the weather on the turnpike was—"
Grant stopped.
He looked at his mother, whose face was pale with fury. He looked at his father, whose hands were trembling as he gripped the edge of the counter. He looked at his sister, who was glaring at him with pure hatred.
Finally, Grant’s eyes landed on Hannah, who sat at the head of the table, calm, composed, and entirely distant.
"What's going on?" Grant asked, his voice hardening defensively.
"You tell us, Grant," Walter said, his voice shaking with a rage Grant hadn't heard since he was sixteen years old. "Are you taking another woman to Positano while your pregnant wife sits at home?"
Grant froze. His eyes snapped to Hannah, a sudden, dangerous fire igniting behind his irises. "Hannah... what did you tell them?"
May you like
Hannah picked up her glass of iced tea and took a slow sip.
"I told them the truth, Grant," she said softly. "I told you on Thursday... I'm finished fixing things for you."
