"You've labeled these all wrong again," Marianne teased, holding up a jar with a barely legible scrawl on masking tape. "This one says 'apocalypse.'"
Martha didn't even glance up as she wiped down an already spotless corner of the counter. "It says 'apricot.' And you're lucky I label them at all."
Next to her time in the study with George, this was Marianne's second favorite place—annoying Martha in the kitchen. The older woman would deny it, of course, but even Marianne found comfort in their quiet routine. With Nillie and Jonah off somewhere, it felt familiar. Safe.
Sunlight streamed through the wide windows, casting golden streaks across the polished counters. The scent of fresh bread still lingered, mingling with warm afternoon air.
She leaned over the island, eyeing the fruit plate Martha had just arranged. She plucked a grape and popped it into her mouth, reaching for a strawberry as her gaze drifted toward the garden. Her thoughts, however, were miles away.
She unscrewed the lid of a jar and sniffed. "Well, regardless, 'apocalypse' smells amazing," she said, voice muffled with food.
Martha shot her a look—a perfect blend of fondness and exasperation. "Miss Marianne, you're not a child anymore. Don't talk with your mouth full."
Marianne grinned with puffed cheeks. "How I wish I could go back to being—" She broke off mid-sentence, catching the shift in Martha's expression.
She turned, and time froze.
Gregory stood in the doorway, his presence quiet but commanding. His brows lifted faintly, lips parted, and for once, something flickered across his usually unreadable face: surprise.
He wore a dress shirt, neatly tucked, sleeves unfastened at the cuffs, and his tie hung loose—an undone knot at his collar suggesting he was on his way out. But his gaze lingered on her, and in that moment, she felt exposed, caught doing something embarrassingly childish.
She quickly chewed and turned back toward the counter, heat rising to her cheeks.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Lawson," Martha said evenly, her tone clipped just enough to signal her disapproval of the tension that had crept in.
"Gregory," he corrected softly. His gaze lingered on his wife a beat longer before flicking to the older woman.
As if willing herself to be invisible, Marianne kept her eyes fixed on the label of the jam jar.
"I've got a meeting in an hour," he continued. "I've been trying to reach Jonah. He's not answering."
"He's out back," Martha replied. "Your mother asked him to check something on her car."
Gregory frowned. "What about Jack?"
"Helping Nillie with shopping."
He fell silent for a moment, hesitating. Marianne felt his eyes on her, and her shoulders tensed.
"You weren't at breakfast," Gregory said, his voice low.
"I wasn't hungry."
He raised a brow. "You seem hungry now."
She shrugged. Of all the things to bring up. Since when did he care?
He took a step closer, but the kitchen island was a welcome obstacle between them.
"My mother… I'm sorry for what she said yesterday."
"That I slept with your grandfather?" she gave a soft, bitter laugh. "I knew she hated me, but I didn't think she thought I was that desperate."
"She's still—"
"If I have to hear one more excuse for that woman…" she muttered, gripping the edge of the fruit platter. "I'll take this out."
"Wait," He stepped forward, hand rising briefly before dropping back to his pocket. "I wanted to ask you something."
She paused, just enough to lift a brow.
"At the funeral," he continued, "you said something about my grandfather making you a promise."
Her expression shifted—faint surprise, then wariness. "What?"
"What did you mean by that?"
She met his eyes, then looked away. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"I heard you."
"Gregory," she sighed, "I don't know what you think you heard—"
"You don't have to keep secrets from me, Marianne," he interjected, but gently. "I am your husband."
A dry laugh escaped her. "So, you do remember that."
He didn't answer. But something in his jaw tensed—quickly, faintly. She noticed.
She placed the platter back on the counter. "Don't worry. The Will said not to divorce me for selfish reasons. It didn't say you had to pretend to be a caring husband."
"I wasn't—"
"You don't want to be late for that meeting," she cut in smoothly, glancing at Martha. "I won't be joining them. I've lost my appetite."
The housekeeper watched her go, quiet concern shadowing her features.
Gregory stayed still, eyes on the door as Marianne exited. He looked like he had more to say—but didn't.
Martha stacked a few plates, speaking in a sympathetic tone, "She used to sit right there and cry, you know."
He inhaled sharply but said nothing.
"She doesn't cry anymore," she added, even softer now. "I'm not sure that's a good thing."
She followed Marianne out, leaving Gregory alone in the empty kitchen, the scent of jam and bread lingering behind her.