More Than He Knew

Celestine started cooking at three in the afternoon, flour on her hands, music playing low from her phone and the smell of tomatoes and garlic filling the whole penthouse.

She made the sauce from scratch, the way her grandmother taught her when she was maybe ten years old. She rolled out the pasta into thin ribbons. She set the table with candles and the good plates and flowers she bought from the lady on the corner.

At five o'clock, she showered and put on a simple white dress. She looked at herself in the mirror and practiced saying the words out loud.

"I'm pregnant."

"We're going to have a baby."

"Kier, I'm pregnant."

Each time, her voice cracked a little. But she kept practicing until it sounded almost normal.

At six thirty, she texted him again since he didn't call her when she rang his office some hours ago: "Made your favorite. Coming home soon?"

No response.

At seven, she called. It went straight to voicemail.

She told herself he was busy. He would come. He always came eventually.

*

*

*

At seven thirty, someone knocked on the door.

Celestine's heart jumped. She ran to open it, smoothing her dress and smiling wide.

But it wasn't Kier.

It was Vivienne Thornwell. His mother. Standing in the hallway in a black dress that looked expensive. Her hair was perfect. Her smile was sharp like a blade.

"Darling," Vivienne said, walking past her into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd stop by."

Celestine closed the door slowly and her hands were shaking. "Kier isn't here."

"I know." Vivienne looked around the apartment, her eyes landing on the table set for two, the candles, the flowers. "Oh, how sweet. You made dinner. For yourself, I assume? Since my son is never home."

Celestine tucked her trembling hands behind her back. "He's running late. He'll be here."

Vivienne laughed. It was a dry sound, like paper tearing. "Celestine. Dear. Let's not pretend. We both know Kier married you because his father was dying and he felt guilty. We both know this marriage has been a disaster from the start. The only question is how long you're going to keep pretending otherwise."

Celestine felt something hot rise in her chest and she wanted to lash out at Vivienne out but then once again, she swallowed it. She always swallowed it.

"I'm not pretending," she said quietly. "I love him."

Vivienne's smile didn't waver. "Love. How quaint. Tell me, do you think love pays the bills? Do you think love keeps the Thornwell name respected? You're a sweet girl, Celestine. But you're not one of us. You never will be, you are not at our level. I wonder when you will see the handwriting on the wall to know you are a dirty smelly rat?"

Celestine didn't say anything to her.

Vivienne walked to the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. "Oh, and Celestine? Whatever news you were planning to share tonight with my son? Keep it to yourself. He's not in the mood."

Then she left.

The door clicked shut.