My Husband Forced Me to Serve His Mistress at Dinner

Thursday morning, I was at the Queens location by six.

Mr. Alvarez had passed in his sleep. Eighty-one years old. His daughter wanted him in his blue suit, the one he wore to her wedding. I washed his hands first. I always start with the hands.

At 10:14, my phone buzzed on the steel counter. I peeled off one glove and answered.

"It's done," Rachel said.

"Tell me."

"My paralegal walked in during his slides. Q3 projections. A whole pie chart." I could hear her smiling. "She set the envelope right in front of him. Said, 'Julien Griffin, you've been served.' Twelve senior associates. Every head turned."

"What did he do?"

"He laughed. Tossed it in his briefcase like junk mail. Then he told the room, 'My wife is always dramatic.'" Rachel paused. "Did anyone laugh with him?"

"No?"

"No. And the rash came up. Red, all the way to his ear. Two board members looked at each other. Hartwell and Chen. The money men."

I looked down at Mr. Alvarez. His face was peaceful. Quiet. Nothing left to prove.

"Thank you, Rachel."

"He'll come at you tonight."

"I know."

I pulled the glove back on and picked up the comb.

* * *

The kitchen light was on when I got home. It was almost nine. Rain tapped the windows, soft and steady.

Julien stood by the island. His jacket was off. His tie hung loose. A glass of scotch sat in front of him, half gone. The envelope lay beside it. Torn open. Not torn up. That was new.

I heard music upstairs. Something soft and French. Estrella's door was closed.

"Do you know what you did today?" he said.

I set my bag on the counter. "I filed for divorce."

"In front of my board." His voice cracked on the last word. "In front of Hartwell. Do you know what Hartwell is worth to this company?"

"About forty percent of your next round."

He blinked. He didn't expect me to know that. He ran both hands through his hair and laughed. The same laugh he used on waiters. On doormen. On me, for eight years.

"Okay. Okay, darling. You made your point. You're angry. I get it." He came around the island. Slow. Like I was a skittish horse. "But think. Really think. What happens to you after this?"

"I keep working."

"Working." He said it like a dirty word. "Diana. Without my name, you have nothing. No invitations. No friends. No seat at any table in this city." He leaned in. Scotch on his breath. "You'll just be the daughter of a man who dressed corpses for a living."

The rain got louder for a second. Then it settled.

I thought of my father. His big gentle hands. The way he hummed while he worked. The last time I saw him, I told him I couldn't bring Julien to the shop. I said it was the smell. It wasn't the smell. He knew that. He nodded anyway.

He died while I was still in the hospital. I didn't get to say sorry.

I looked at Julien. I didn't look away. I didn't blink fast. I held still the way I hold still when a family screams at me in the viewing room. Grief makes people loud. So does fear.

"Bradley Funeral Services posted four point two million in revenue last fiscal year," I said.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"Three locations. Forty-one staff. A waitlist in Tribeca." I picked up my bag. "Google it."

"You're lying."

"Then it'll be a short search."

I walked past him. My shoulder didn't touch his. I was careful about that.

On the stairs, I stopped. Just for a moment. The hallway mirror at the landing showed the kitchen below.

Julien stood alone under the light. He looked at the stairs. Then at the dark window. Then he pulled out his phone.

The screen lit his face blue. His thumb moved. Stopped. Scrolled. Scrolled again.

I watched his jaw go tight. A muscle jumped near his ear. The red crept up his neck, the way Rachel said. He set the phone face down on the counter. Then he picked it up again.

He touched his watch. Turned it on his wrist. Once. Twice.

Above me, the French music stopped. A door creaked open an inch. I didn't need to look. I could smell the lavender.

I went up the last few steps and into my room. I closed the door. Soft click.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my hands in my lap. The calluses caught the lamplight. Yellow and hard, like old candle wax.

Once, on our honeymoon, Julien kissed my palms. He said, "These hands will never work a day in their life. I promise."

He was right about one thing. They never worked for him.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from my night manager in Queens.

*Upper East Side cardiac ward called. Asking about our availability this week. Wouldn't say who.*

I read it twice. Outside, the rain kept falling. Steady. Patient.

Like it was waiting for something too.