Chapter 3: The Last Supper
I hung up and stared at my reflection in the side mirror. Seven years of Sunday dinners at the Blackwood house. Felt like another lifetime now.
Sunday rolled around gray and drizzly, but by evening the clouds had cleared. The Blackwood place sat right on the cliffs in Santa Monica, all modern glass and steel that somehow managed to feel warm. Eleanor's garden helped with that. Woman could make concrete bloom if she put her mind to it.
I pulled up at exactly six. Adrian's Porsche was already there, which meant he'd probably been inside for an hour, getting the full Robert Blackwood experience. Poor guy was probably half-drunk on expensive wine and stories about the good old days by now.
The front door swung open before I could knock.
"There's my girl!" Eleanor wrapped me up in one of those hugs that made everything else disappear for a second. She smelled like her fancy perfume and whatever herbs she'd been growing lately. "You're too skinny. Has my son been feeding you properly?"
Robert appeared behind her, grinning like he'd won the lottery. "Celeste! Perfect timing. I just picked up this incredible Diebenkorn sketch. Nothing huge, but the way he handles color..." He was already gesturing toward his study.
Adrian showed up right behind his dad, reaching for my jacket without thinking about it. For half a second, it felt normal. Like we were still us.
"He's been going on about that sketch all week," Adrian said, and his smile looked real. Not the fake business smile he'd been wearing lately.
This is so weird. Like nothing's changed. Like we're still playing house.
Eleanor looped her arm through mine. "You two still give each other those same looks," she said softly. "Like you're sharing some secret."
My chest tightened. If only you knew what kind of secret.
The dining room looked like something out of a magazine. Candles everywhere, good china, the works. Eleanor had gone all out with the lobster linguine, plus that Caesar salad she made better than any restaurant. Robert had opened some fancy French wine that probably cost more than my car payment.
"So how's the gallery?" Eleanor asked, twirling pasta like an expert. "That exhibit you were excited about—how'd it turn out?"
I felt Adrian go stiff next to me. "Still working on it. We're, uh, figuring out some stuff."
"Market strategy," Adrian jumped in way too fast. "Different approaches, you know?"
Robert nodded, swirling his wine. "Art and money. Never easy to balance. But you guys always figure it out."
Yeah, we're real good at figuring things out.
Eleanor launched into this story about her book club losing their minds over some romance novel. She was waving her fork around, doing voices for all the different women. Robert was cracking up, and even Adrian relaxed, slumping back in his chair like he used to.
For a few minutes, I almost forgot. Almost.
"Oh!" Eleanor suddenly turned to me. "How's your dad? Last time we talked, he was all excited about taking art classes."
The question hit like ice water. I put my fork down carefully.
"He's in rehab. Had a stroke last month. Physical therapy's going okay, though."
Dead silence. Adrian's wine glass stopped halfway to his mouth, his face going completely white.
"Stroke?" The word came out like he'd been punched. "When? You never... why didn't you tell me?"
I looked at him across the table. "You've been busy."
"Oh honey," Robert leaned forward, worry written all over his face. "Is he gonna be okay? Do you need help with anything? Doctors, money—"
"The doctors think he'll be fine. It's just gonna take time." His immediate concern made my throat tight. "Speech therapy's helping."
"I had no idea," Adrian was staring at me like I'd grown another head. "A whole month?"
Of course you didn't know. When's the last time you asked me about anything that wasn't gallery business?
Eleanor reached over and squeezed my hand. "Why didn't you say something? We could've sent flowers, visited—"
"I didn't wanna worry anyone."
But Adrian kept staring at me with this look like he was seeing me for the first time. One whole month his wife's father had been fighting to walk and talk again, and he'd been too wrapped up in his own world to notice.
After dinner, the guys went out to the deck with their fancy brandy. Another Blackwood tradition. Eleanor shooed me away from the dishes, so I ended up on their huge couch, watching the ocean through those floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Sweetie." Eleanor settled next to me with coffee. "Everything okay? You seem... I don't know. Like you're somewhere else tonight."
I wrapped my hands around the warm mug. "Just worried about Dad. And work's been crazy."
Eleanor studied my face with those sharp blue eyes. She'd raised three kids and been married for forty-five years. Woman didn't miss much.
"I can tell something's wrong. Adrian's been trying too hard all night, and you..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "You look like you're putting on a show."
Damn. She always could read me.
"Marriage is hard work," she said gently. "Robert and I went through some rough patches. That second year, I was convinced he loved his law firm more than me."
I almost laughed. These two were like something out of a fairy tale. "You guys are perfect together."
"Ha! Perfect." She tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, mom-style. "Whatever's going on, don't let it build up. Talk to each other. And if you need someone to listen, call me. I mean it."
If only talking could fix this.
The goodbyes took forever. Robert pressed some doctor's card into my hand, told me this guy had helped his golf buddy after a stroke. Eleanor held me close.
"Take care of yourself. And don't disappear on us, okay?"
Don't disappear. The words followed me to Adrian's car.
We drove without talking for ten minutes. Finally, Adrian cleared his throat.
"Your dad... I'm sorry. I should've known."
I kept watching the streetlights. "It's fine. We've both been distracted."
"No, it's not fine." His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "I've been a terrible husband."
Something in his voice made me look at him. Really look. He looked broken. Like the Adrian I'd married was trying to claw his way back to the surface.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "You have."
He winced. "Tomorrow, when we see the lawyers... maybe we could just talk first? Really talk?"
"We'll talk tomorrow. But not about fixing this, Adrian. About ending it."
Back home, I sat in the dark living room, still in my dress, thinking about Eleanor's hands and Robert's immediate worry about Dad.
Divorce doesn't just mean losing Adrian. It means losing them too.
My phone sat on the coffee table. Dad's rehab center was on speed dial. I picked it up, hesitated, set it back down. He was probably sleeping anyway. Tomorrow would bring enough hard conversations.
Some things you carry alone.