The kitchen is a warm, safe refuge. I’m tempted to pour that cup of coffee for myself (no sugar, just half and half), sit at the kitchen table, and send Belinda eye messages while she prepares brunch with Jack.
She’s standing at the stove, clutching the spatula almost like a sword, as if she’s ready to do battle. But it’s Jack who speaks.
“Who the hell is that?” He’s at the kitchen sink. Plump raspberries sit in a colander, their juice staining the white porcelain. He looks as if he’s ready to charge into the living room, but his state of dress isn’t much better than Malcolm’s.
“That’s Malcolm’s father.”
Belinda exhales and swears. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
A sardonic smile twists Jack’s lips. “Well, that’s awkward.”
I spear him with a glare. “It’s been an awkward morning.”
