They pulled into my driveway at five minutes to ten.
I watched from behind the front curtain. Garrett got out of the driver’s side, heavy and stooped in a quarter-zip pullover, with his hands shoved in his pockets. Britney came around the car in a camel coat and big sunglasses, glossy and straight-backed.
And behind them, a white Lexus parked at the curb.
Loretta.
I hadn’t invited her. I’d asked for two. But standing there with my hand on the curtain, I realized I’d expected her.
I opened the front door before any of them could ring.
“Come in,” I said. “Wipe your feet.”
They filed into my front hallway. Nobody said a word. Garrett stared at the coat hooks. Britney looked at me, then at the floor, then at me again, with a careful blank face, like a woman waiting for a diagnosis. Loretta stood a step behind them in another cream pantsuit, with her chin raised high.
“Kitchen,” I said.
I’d set my kitchen table with my mother’s good china. Four places, with linen napkins, a pot of coffee and a plate of lemon bars. In the middle of the table sat a thick manila folder. Beside it, on a small silver tray, lay Marcy Dolan’s flyer.
They sat. I took my chair. The one by the kitchen door with the cracked left arm.
Nobody touched the coffee.
“I’d like to begin,” I said, “by telling you what I’ve learned.”
Britney lifted her chin. “Eleanor, if this is about Easter, I think we can explain…”
“I’d like to finish.”
She stopped.
It was the first time in eleven years I’d ever said that to her.
“On March the third,” I said, “a company called Loretta’s Kitchen was registered with the Ohio Secretary of State. Its business address is this house. On March the eighteenth, while I was at my book club, a photographer came into my home with a key and took pictures of my kitchen. On April the twentieth, nine of you came to Easter dinner. One of you set up a ring light. And the dinner I cooked was filmed and photographed to launch a business I had never heard of.”
I opened the folder.
“On April the twenty-first, while I was at the grocery store, the leftovers were sold out my front door.”
Loretta’s face went very still.
“I have the Secretary of State filing,” I said. “I have the Brand Hive contract, with a picture of my kitchen stapled to it. I have Marcy Dolan’s receipt. And I have a letter from the Montgomery County Health District informing me that I’m the subject of a complaint for running an unlicensed food business out of my own home.”
Garrett made a small, strangled sound.
“Eleanor,” Loretta said, with great dignity. “I think you’ll find that…”
“Please, Loretta.”
She closed her mouth.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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