Chapter 3 - Ghosts at the Dinner Table
Greg Carter arrived exactly at 7:00 P.M., smelling of expensive cologne and the faint, ozone scent of a high-stakes corporate board meeting.
Greg was two years younger than Daniel, polished, smooth-talking, and entirely too comfortable in his older brother's shadow. He walked into the apartment like he owned it, dropping his designer overcoat onto the entryway bench.
“Dan! Look at you, man,” Greg grinned, clapping Daniel on the shoulder as they met in the foyer. “You look like you’ve been hauled out of a crypt. Are you actually eating? Please tell me you didn't hire another nervous wreck who cries when the babies burp.”
“She’s not a nervous wreck,” Daniel said curtly, leading the way toward the dining room.
“Oh? What is she then? A secret agent?” Greg laughed.
As they entered the dining room, Greg stopped dead in his tracks. The mahogany table—which hadn't been used for an actual seated meal since Rebecca’s memorial dinner eighteen months ago—was laid out with a steaming roasted chicken, roasted root vegetables, a vibrant green salad, and fresh dinner rolls. A soft jazz record played softly on the vintage turntable in the corner.
Standing by the sideboard, plating the food with quiet efficiency, was Elise. She wore a simple black midi dress that draped elegantly over her slender frame, her dark hair pinned up in a sophisticated twist.
Greg’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. He whistled low under his breath. “Well, well, well. Dan, old boy, you didn't tell me your nanny moonlights as a Michelin-star chef.”
Daniel glared at his brother. “Greg, this is Elise Navarro. Elise, my brother Gregory.”
Elise turned, setting a serving platter down on the table. She offered Greg a polite, professional smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Mr. Carter. Dinner is served whenever you’re ready.”
“Please, call me Greg,” the younger brother flashed a dazzling, practiced grin, stepping closer to Elise than professional courtesy strictly warranted. “And you must be a saint to put up with my brother. He’s about as warm and fuzzy as a Siberian winter.”
“I’ve survived worse winters, Mr. Carter,” Elise replied smoothly, untying her apron. “I’ll be in the nursery with the girls if you need anything else.”
“Wait, you’re not eating with us?” Greg asked, looking genuinely disappointed.
“Nannies eat in the kitchen, Greg,” Daniel snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Elise didn't blink. She offered a slight nod, picked up her apron, and slipped quietly out of the dining room, closing the pantry door behind her.
Greg watched her go, a speculative gleam in his eye. Once she was out of earshot, he pulled out a chair and sat down, pouring himself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.
“Damn, Dan. Where did you dig her up? She’s stunning. And she can cook? Rebecca would have burned that chicken to charcoal.”
The air in the room instantly dropped twenty degrees.
Daniel stopped pouring his wine. The crystal decanter trembled in his grip. He stared across the table at his brother, his eyes flashing with lethal intensity.
“Never say that again,” Daniel whispered, his voice dangerously low.
Greg held up his hands defensively, swirling his wine. “Relax, Dan! I’m just saying, it’s been a year and a half. You’re thirty-four years old. You live in a tomb. You think Becca would want you to rot away in this apartment like a hermit crab?”
“Rebecca is dead, Greg,” Daniel said, his voice hard as iron. “And I am not looking to replace her with a hired hand.”
“Right, right. Of course not,” Greg muttered, cutting into a piece of chicken. But the damage was done. The phantom of Rebecca sat between them at the table, heavy and suffocating, watching every move they made.
Down the hall, behind the closed door of the nursery, Elise sat in the dark rocking chair with Rosie asleep against her chest and Maisie playing quietly with a string of wooden beads. She could hear the muffled sound of the brothers arguing through the walls—harsh whispers, old resentments boiling over, the toxic legacy of a wealthy family built on emotional starvation.
May you like
Elise pressed her cheek against Rosie’s soft curls, closing her eyes. She knew what men like the Carters did: they broke things, they mourned them with money, and they expected everyone else to pick up the jagged pieces without bleeding.
Well, she wasn't going to bleed for them. Not anymore.
