9 | Whiskey Neat (Stonebridge-Flashback)

                                    

                                          
Charlotte cleared the dining room table, carrying the intricate crystal wine glasses, a long-ago wedding present, into the kitchen. He was leaning against the kitchen island, a glass of scotch in his hand, waiting for her. Charlotte tensed as she dutifully placed the glasses down, sensing the tight, carefully controlled anger coiling around his edges, ready to strike. Instinctively, she began to run over the evening, looking for a reason for it. 
 She had thought that the dinner party had gone off well. She had made a perfectly cooked bronzed salmon with an orange marmalade, straight from this month's cover of Martha Stewart Living. They had hosted dinner for his boss and wife, as well as a prospective new client and his fiance. She knew his boss, Clive, and his wife well; they had hosted and attended many dinner parties together over the years. Charlotte had a comfortable rhythm with them. She knew how Clive liked his drink, a whisky neat, knew how to keep him talking about his business accolades and enjoyed sharing recipes with his wife when they retreated to the kitchen to make another round of drinks. 
The new client, Henry, was charming and gregarious in his late 30s and was a pleasure to converse with. His partner, Caroline, was a little bit younger and so very sweet. Charlotte had been introduced to her previously through Martha's social circle and had prepared tea for migraines for her. Caroline suffered from debilitating migraines that would leave her bedridden for days. The episodes had become more frequent, and what should have been a vibrant life at 28 years young was one spent in bed, a far cry from the life she had envisioned, especially as a fiance with a wedding to plan. Things had become so bad that Caroline had quietly confessed to Charlotte at their first meeting that she was worried that Henry would call off the wedding. But tonight, Caroline had seemed alive and as gregarious and funny as her fiance. Wearing a cream-coloured body contour dress that made her porcelain skin shine and showed off her perfectly slim figure, she was a far cry from the parlour skin, dark-eyed shell she had first met. Caroline seemed genuinely happy, and they both seemed to be in love. Henry couldn't keep his eyes off his fiance that evening, to the point that Clive would tease him and even skirted the line once or twice with his complimentary comments toward Caroline. The room had gotten tense then, but Charlotte quickly deflected back to the upcoming success of the merger. 
The dinner was a flawless dance of witty conversation and seamlessly flowing libations. Charlotte's heart skipped a beat, waiting to find out why he was so visibly upset. 
He placed his glass of scotch on the counter with force, walked over to the cupboard housing her tea cups, and opened the door like the calm before the storm. "What kind of nonsense is this? And why did I hear about it from Henry first? Selling teas like some common MLA peddler, not even something established but some little dinky Hod Podge outfit." 
His voice was no longer that steady, cruel, calm but intense and angry, "I mean, it sounds crazy! Teas to cure migraines, and what else? Women's Hysteria!" 
He turned to face the cupboard, staring intensely, and very selectively took one of the teacups down from its shelf, the one with purple lupins. He carried it over to her and held it in front of her face, so very close to her face. Charlotte stood still, so still that her heart felt like it stilled, too.
 He lowered his voice to a cutting whisper, "Do you know how this makes me look? Do you know how important Henry is? I didn't even know. I looked like a fool." 
He dropped the teacup, the fragments falling in front of her feet. He turned quickly on his heel, walked by the cupboard, and pulled the entire first row out to crash onto the hard marble counter. "I want this cleaned up and out of my house by the time I return from New York." 
He straightened his shirt and walked quietly back toward her, placing a kiss on her cheek and whispering into her ear, "And that includes whatever nonsense you have in the basement." With that, he picked his glass back up and headed upstairs. 
Charlotte waited, listening to his footsteps climb the stairs and the bedroom door close before crouching down to start picking up the pieces of the teacup, tears falling silently to the ground. She picked up a large, jagged fragment with one perfectly painted lupin on it. Her mother had picked this tea cup out at a gift store on vacation that summer. Her mother had fallen ridiculously in love, as only she could, with all the paintings of lupins on the island. She had vowed that they would come back one spring to see them in real life. Only she never did make it back. None of them did. 
Charlotte felt a wetness growing on her hand. Thinking it was tears falling, she placed the fragment down and wiped her eyes, only to find blood on her hand. Her hands began to shake, the blood bringing back a memory that she had shut behind the doors in her memory—a memory of glass and blood. 
 A stray curl tickled her cheek, like a gentle caress, that familiar odd sensation of a breeze. She had stopped questioning it long ago; maybe her mind was playing tricks, but she had come to embrace its presence when it appeared. Perhaps it was just her mind playing tricks and helping her cope, but the warm caress calmed her breath and steadied her heart as she finished picking up the broken pieces.