Chapter 6 - The Morning the Plates Went Missing
I woke before the light had finished filling the hallway, and the first thing I heard was the soft clink of china from downstairs.
For a second I thought it was still last night. The steak gone cold on the gold rims, Sofia's small weight on Alexander's lap, his voice low and strained. Then I rolled over and his side of the bed was already empty, the sheet pulled flat the way he always left it when he hadn't really slept in it, and I knew he'd been up for a while.
I was still in the white dress from dinner. I'd fallen asleep on top of the covers in it. The sleeves were wrinkled at the elbows and one of my pearl earrings was gone. I found it pinched in the pillowcase and put it back in with shaking hands.
That morning I told myself I could fix it with routine.
I changed into jeans and a gray sweater, brushed my hair back, and went downstairs. The dining room smelled like coffee and lemon cleaner. Morning light came thin through the tall windows and hit the wood panels differently than the sconces had — flatter, more honest. Marta was at the table with a bus tray, stacking the plates from last night. The gold-rimmed ones. The tomatoes had bled into the greens. The lemon wedges had dried out at the edges.
"Leave the coffee," I said. "I'll do breakfast."
She nodded and kept working. I could feel her not looking at us.
Alexander stood by the sideboard with Sofia on his hip. He was already dressed — dark pants, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, his watch catching the light. He wasn't holding a plate. He was watching Marta clear, then watching the window, then checking Sofia like he was counting her breaths.
"Hey," I said. "Did you guys sleep?"
Sofia tucked her face into his neck. Her bow from last night was gone and her curls were mashed on one side. She still wore the cream blouse, wrinkled now.
"She was up," Alexander said. He adjusted his hold on her without looking at me. "She's tired."
I went to the kitchen to make pancakes. That was our Saturday thing before all this. Pancakes, blueberries on the side because Sofia would only eat them one at a time if you lined them up. I told myself if I just put the plate down like normal, we could talk like normal.
The kitchen was already half-cleaned. Someone had soaked the knives from last night in the sink. I stood there a minute looking at them in the soapy water, then drained it and started the batter.
When I carried the plate in, Alexander was at the back door to the terrace. He turned the lock, pulled on it to test it, then moved to the front windows and checked those latches too. Sofia trailed right behind him, holding the back of his shirt with one fist.
"Can you check that after?" I said, keeping my voice light. "I made pancakes."
He glanced at the plate. "She already had toast."
"Oh." I set it down anyway. "I didn't know you ate."
"I made it an hour ago."
Marta finished with the last plate and wiped the dark wood where Alexander's place had been. The table looked too big without the settings. I sat down where I'd sat last night, across from his empty chair, and tried again.
"I'm sorry about last night," I said. "I hated that she had to hear it."
Alexander didn't sit. He poured coffee into a mug and stayed standing, one hand resting on Sofia's head where she leaned against his leg.
"You want a pancake, baby?" I asked her. "I put blueberries separate, just how you like."
Sofia looked at the plate, then up at him. "Can I stay with Dad?"
It wasn't whiny. It was quiet. That hurt more.
"You're with Dad," Alexander said immediately. "You can sit with me."
He pulled out his chair and lifted her into his lap like last night, settling her against his chest. She curled in instantly, her legs tucked up. He cut a small piece of toast she'd left and held it for her, and she took a bite while watching me.
I pushed the pancake plate a little closer. "Alexander, can we — after breakfast, can we just talk for five minutes? Without —" I nodded toward Sofia.
"No," he said. Not loud. Just flat. "Not in front of her. Not now."
Marta came back in with a caddy for the silverware. The knives clinked as she picked them up off the table. Alexander's eyes tracked her hands until every knife was off the wood and in the tray.
I watched him watch the doors again. He'd checked them twice now. He kept shifting Sofia a little tighter every time the house made a noise — the ice maker dropping, a truck going by out on the county road.
I reached across the table. "Let me take her to change her shirt while you drink your coffee. It'll take two minutes."
Sofia shook her head into his shirt. "No. Stay with Dad."
Alexander's hand came up to cover her back. Protective, automatic. "It's fine," he said to me. "I'll do it later."
We sat there like that. Me with cooling pancakes, him holding our daughter like someone might try to pull her out of his arms. Marta left with the tray and the room went quiet except for Sofia's breathing and the tick of the wall clock.
I realized I was waiting for the table to feel normal again once it was cleared. But the plates were gone, the knives were gone, and nothing had settled at all. The fight from last night was still sitting right there in the empty chairs.
Alexander stood, lifting Sofia with him. "I'm going to get her changed," he said. "Lock the terrace door behind me if you go out."
May you like
He walked out before I could answer, Sofia's head on his shoulder, her eyes on me over his back until they turned the corner.
I sat alone at the dark wood table and understood, finally, that no breakfast was going to cover what I'd hidden.
